My Worst Holiday 01

 My Worst Holiday

By Chris Mathews

“This is the one for us!” Mabel said, rifling through the glossy magazines she pinched from the dentist’s waiting room. “Listen to this Arthur, Shore & Shanklin Holiday Tours of the Isle of Wight. Wonderful, two weeks on the sandy beaches of Shanklin or Ventnor.”

“Listen to this Arthur,” she read, “the coach picks us up from Chelmsford and takes us all the way there. Just think, you won't have the stress of driving, and for once, we won't have to start the holiday under a cloud because you lost your temper getting me lost in the middle of nowhere, just because you are too stingy to buy a new map. Those maps of your father’s are at least 20 years out of date.”

The 17^th of July 1964 came at last, and with their suitcases packed, they stood on the pavement waiting for the coach from Shore & Shanklin Holiday Tours.

“Arthur, are you sure this is where we board the coach, it seems a very odd pick up point, right outside the front gates of Chelmsford prison, of all places. I ask you couldn’t they have chosen somewhere else.”

“That's what the young lady at the travel agents said.” Arthur replied in a wearied, longsuffering tone.

An ancient, dilapidated coach pulled up in front of them after ten minutes, and Mable said “that's disgraceful, they promised us a new shiny sleek touring coach. Look at it, it's just an old grey bus. The travel agent will hear of this in a stiffly worded letter.”

As the doors slammed open a surly, grim faced man in a blue uniform stood before them with a clipboard in his hands, without meeting their gaze or any attempt at the usual pleasantries, he barked out “number.”

“it's Mr and Mrs Jones, I believe we are numbers 24 and 25, and, I do need a window seat, one can get rather bilious if one can't see out.

“Oh, certainly Madam, cocktails will be served at 11:00, and what time would you like lunch?”

His sarcasm was lost on her, and Mabel whispered under her breath,

“That's better, you see Arthur, a little courtesy goes a long way.”

“Thank you, my man, prepare luncheon whenever is convenient, we don’t want to put you out. Well, come along Arthur.”

Arthur was jabbed in the back with a stick the man was carrying, none too gently either, but he said nothing. Arthur was used to that sort of treatment, having been married to Mable for 40 years.

They climbed aboard and found their seats. Mabel sat next to a big burly man covered in tattoos. “How do you do,” she said we are the Joneses, but you must call us Arthur and Mable.” He simply grunted and looked away. And what is your name? Without looking at her he said,

“My cell mates call me knuckles and my enemies don't call me.”

“Lovely, but I hope our rooms are a little bigger than a cell, we have ordered a sea view and a connecting Avocado bathroom suite. “

“And are you looking forward to your holiday on the Isle of Wight?”

“Holiday, yeah, I suppose you could call it that, after Chelmsford and before that the Scrubs and Wakefield. though I don't suppose Parkhurst will be much better.

“Yes, but, think of those brisk early morning walks along wide empty sandy beaches and the bracing fresh air, that’s real freedom.” Mr Nuckles grunted at this, wiped the greasy mist from the window and turned away again.

“He does not seem to be looking forward to his holiday much does he Arthur,” she said under her breath.

“Perhaps he is recently widowed,” said Arthur longingly. 

“Oh yes and that’s why he is down in the dumps I expect, we will have to try to cheer him up a bit when we get to the hotel.”

“Best not Mable,” said Arthur looking across at Mr Nuckles. And he too turned away to take a nap.

“This holiday will be a chance to get away from the humdrum life chained to the kitchen sink all day.”

Mable chatted on to no one in particular at one point suggested a singsong. Arthur groaned as he pretended to sleep.

To Mables discussed, they were not allowed to take the bracing sea air during the crossing to Cows. This would no doubt be added to her stiff letter too.

“Look, look,” cried Mable, “the hotel is set in its own grounds with walls and gates, it must have been a grand country house once owned by... But yes, look look, Her Majesty’s something or other written above the gates. Oh, I do wish I had my spectacles.”

There was some confusion when they disembarked from the coach. With the Coach tour guide barking out numbers from a list, and they had to carry their own bags too, as they were briskly marched across the forecourt.

“I should like to see the hotel manager young man” demanded Mable. “This place has obviously been allowed to go to rack and ruin, it looks nothing like the photos in the brochure.”

“Certainly madam, I will show you to your suite and ask the manager to pop in an see you once you have had a chance to unpack. Perhaps he can bring you a small, sweet sherry too madam and how do you like your porridge in the morning.” The uniformed coach courier said sarcastically.

“That’s better, and be quick about it my man.”

“I’m going to find the bar,” Arthur said, seizing the opportunity for a peaceful half hour. It had dawned on Arthur that this would be a holiday unlike any other for Mable. And, whilst he was not a vindictive fellow, he felt that the experience may well do Mabel some good. He also felt that long sleeping boyish devilment which had been suppressed through 40 years of his own imprisonment of a very different sort.

He found his way to the games room where he played table tennis with a celebrated bank robber, lost a game of chess with a financial embezzler and even had a fascinating conversation with a murderer. Another prisoner offered him some prison moonshine.

“Only, keep it under your hat governor, don't let the screws know.”

“Prisoners get a really bad press”, he thought to himself “underneath they seem like really decent fellows, I could really fit in here.”

Several hours were spent in the company of some of the most notorious criminals in Britain. But eventually the prison governor called him to his office. He profusely offered his most humble apologies. And burbled on about no need to speak to the press about the unfortunate mix up. He offered him a glass of sherry and ordered a taxi to wherever he chose to go. Eventually, the governor himself escorted him to the prison gates still mumbling his apologies. Somehow, in all the fuss Arthur forgot to mention Mabel, and before he knew it, he was half a mile from the prison.

“No doubt they'll realise their mistake eventually, and I suppose I'll have to come back and pick her up, but in the meantime…” Arthur thought to himself, rubbing his hands in glee.

Arthur found a small B&B in a sleepy seaside town close to the railway. Steam trains were his long-neglected passion. It had slowly given way to tedious hours of bridge and cocktails with Mable’s friends under her persistent social climbing. “She could have been a mountaineer.” he thought with a wry smile.

He had a wonderful time touring round the Island making many railway enthusiast friends. No fancy pretentious dining, no expensive cocktails, no, “elbows off the table Arthur.” just pub lunches with his new mates. But after four days in which he thoroughly enjoyed himself, guilt began to nag away at his conscience like a storm cloud on a sunny day. But Arthur told himself:

“I suppose I really ought to... Eventually, they will realise won’t they though... I'll ring them tomorrow, or… maybe the day after. One excuse followed another, and so the days of peaceful freedom stretched on.

 

© Christopher Mathews - Aug 2023