Worst Holiday 02

 MY MUM’S WORST HOLIDAY   

By Bob French

(My Mum and Aunty Frances go to America)

Billy sat looking at the travel brochure of Cyprus.  “Nana, this place looks fabulous.  Is it where we are going on holiday?”

          “Maybe love. But Mummy is not coming with us.”

A frown crept across Billy’s face as he looked at his Aunty Frances, then at his sister, then back at his Aunty.

“Why.  Doesn’t Mum like going on holiday?”

Mary, Bill’s eldest sister nudged him in the side and gave him one of her fierce stares, telling him with her eyes ‘not to ask such questions.’

But Billy wanted his Mum to go on holiday with them.  He was aware that this September he would be going up to senior school and he would no longer be a little boy, but a ‘grown up,’ and according to his sister, who had turned eighteen and had already been on her first holiday with her friends, ‘it was only grown-ups who went on their holidays with their friends, not their parents.’  This bothered Billy.

“It’s a long story Billy and I don’t have time at the moment.”

“When will you have time then Aunty?”

Aunt Frances thought for a moment, then said in a quiet voice; “I will tell you both your Mum has gone out.

Three hours later, Billy heard his mother call from the front door. “OK, I’m off to keep fit class.  Be good for Aunty Frances. Love you.”

Billy and Mary were watching the TV when Aunty Frances came into the room with a tray of cocoa.  It was Mary who spoke first.

“Are you going to tell us why Mum doesn’t like going on holiday with us?”  Aunty Frances could sense the hurt in Mary’s voice and quickly put the tray down.

“Listen.  Your Mum loves you both very much.  No love, the reason she doesn’t go on holiday was because on my hen party, we got very drunk.  She saw the question in Billy’s eyes, then paused to explain what a hen party was.

“We were due to fly out to Philadelphia in Pennsylvania in good old US of A for a week packed full of fun, eating, drinking and sunshine. There were eight of us.”

“What happened?” Mary, leaned forward, eagerly wanting to compare her exploits of her holiday with her friends in Wales to her Mum’s.

“Well, the plan was that we all booked into the Three Willows Hotel, just on the outskirts of Stansted airport.  That night we partied until the early hours of the morning, then we had to make our way to the departure desk.  Because most flights to the east coast of America were busy, we were to purchase our tickets and get out to the States as best we could. Problem was Your Mum and I were very drunk and we slept in.

Needless to say, we were very late in getting to the airport.  Neither of us could think straight, let alone see straight.  Anyway.  Your Mum saw a sign for Philadelphia and dragged me along to a boarding desk where we purchased a return ticket to Philadelphia. 

As we sat in the cool of the cabin, feeling the gentle hum of its engines, we relaxed.  The worries of missing the flight to the USA were over, we could, and did, lean back and sleep off a huge hangover in comfort.

The jolt of the wheels hitting the runway brought us both out of our deep sleep and instantly we could feel the excitement around us.

We decided to wait until the rush to get out, had passed, then slowly rose, collected our bags from the overhead locker and made our way out to the door.

The first thing that hit us was a 120-degree blast of hot air rushing into the cabin.

I recall your mum saying; “Wow, boy am I going to get a suntan to die for.”

It was then things seemed to go wrong.  Firstly, we couldn’t find our luggage and when we started asking people at the various desks, no one seemed to understand us. 

We then found a British Airways desk and asked how we could find our luggage.  After an hour of filling out forms, we were both fed up and tired.  All we wanted to do was find a hotel, have a shower, then a drink, and not in that order. The gentleman on the desk pointed us to the taxi rank and said that we should look for the blue taxi service.

Once we managed to find one, your mum explained that they wanted to go to Philadelphia. As we sat back we both wondered why the driver was dressed as an Arab, but thought that due to the intense heat, everyone dressed that way to keep cool.  This was confirmed as we drove through the busy streets of the city

Our interest faded after the second hour as the buildup part of the city slowly faded behind us. 

I started to think that something was wrong and asked the taxi driver where we were going.

“Missy going to Philadelphia, no?”

“Yes, but this does not look like the brochures we were given back in England.”

“Yes Missy, we go to Philadelphia soon. Maybe in three hours, Inshallah.”

Your mum thought that America had been nuked and what we were seeing was the wasteland left after a nuclear strike.  Total destruction leaving nothing but burnt-out desert.

The taxi driver seeing the looks on our faces turned and asked if this was our first time in the beautiful country of Jordan?

We both said Jordan together.  “What do you mean, Jordan.  We are supposed to be in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in America.  Not in Jordan!”

“This is Philadelphia Missy. In city of Amman, the capital city of my country. Very nice here. What hotel you staying at.”

“We don’t have a hotel booked here, we…”

“No problem.  My brother Abdullah, owns a very nice hotel.  He give you good tourist rates.”

Things got decidedly worse when your mum asked where she could get a drink, to which the taxi driver frowned at her.

“No Missy, woman not permitted to drink in public and we do not drink alcohol in Joran.  It is forbidden,” then seemed to say a quick prayer to Allah above him.”

The cab fell into silence as we contemplated a week of no drink or entertainment for that fact and no escape from the stifling heat, dry humid air with a constant sweaty feeling.

Things started to look up as we slowly began to pass through built up areas and soon, we could see skyscrapers and wide avenues with palm trees and we even a few people dressed in European clothes.

The taxi driver pulled up outside a hotel in one of the back streets, jumped out and vanished in through the front door.  We just sat there sweating and disheartened for half an hour.

Suddenly, the door burst open and two young boys dressed in smart uniforms rushed down the steps to the taxi, opened the doors and assisted us out.  One had a large golf umbrella which he popped and we were ushered into a cool reception area.  Here we found our taxi driver and the hotel manager, Abdullah, sitting in the cool of the room drinking black coffee.

“Ah ladies, welcome to my humble hotel.  My brother tells me that you have chosen to holiday in Philadelphus in Jordan rather than America. A wise choice. Believe me, you will never forget your holiday.”

“I have to say the week’s holiday was a little unusual; no drink, no socializing or fraternizing in public, and the food was very spicey so we had to be careful. We did manage to meet up with a German couple who were out there digging up old relics for some museum back in Germany. We quickly learnt that during prayer times we had to be off the streets and we had to cover our heads, arms, and legs when we went walk-about.  Come the evenings, the temperature dropped down to 10 degrees. But felt like minus 20.

We spent most of the time just wandering around the town of Philadelphia carefully tasting the food, but never asking what was in it and trying to converse with the locals, who eagerly nodded and took our American dollars for souvenirs we didn’t need.

“What happened when your week was up?  How did you get back to England?”

“The kind taxi driver came and collected us and took us back to Amman International Airport and made sure that we were booked onto the flight to London Stansted.”

Mary, with a hundred questions in her eyes, looked carefully at Aunty Frances.

“So, what were the good things you both enjoyed on your holiday?”

“Well none of it really.  On the flight back we both swore an oath that we would never drink again and that we would never go on holiday where it meant catching a plane and lastly, we lost so much weight out there, we promised to keep fit.”

Billy jumped up.  Does that mean you and Mum can go on a walking holiday this summer?”

Thinking that Mary would go along with his idea, he turned to face her only to be met with one of her fierce stares.

Copyright Bob French

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Haibun ~ Long haul

By Rob Kingston

It‘s never easy shopping with one arm tied behind your back.

market day

The same can be said of competing in a three legged egg and spoon race.

between the oohs and ahhs

 

And then there’s the hop, skip, and jump to navigate through

her trapped nerve

 

 THE GUEST

By Peter Woodgate

Peaceful is a garden,

Especially with a glass of wine,

I’d finished a spot of pruning

And the sun began to shine.

I watched the birds begin to feed,

Some were there to drink,

A lovely sight for me to view

I think.

My eyes began to wander

at the colours now in view,

pots I’d planted in the spring

erupting now, on cue.

It was then I spied something odd

beneath the ivy tree,

a sort of brownish colour,

was there for me to see.

It was not a plant, I was certain of that,

and approached with minor caution,

upon identification,

my immediate thought was action.

My mobile phone was handy,

I snapped him there and then,

a fox, there, in my garden,

On day leave from his den.

Fox visits are quite common,

but this, I felt, was steep.

He wasn’t just in my garden,

the rascal was asleep.

I studied him, there, for a moment,

he awoke, shook his head, studied me,

I spoke to him softly, “Now look here mate,

stay there and I’ll charge B&B.

 

By Peter Woodgate

Wrong Time Wrong Place 

By Sis Unsworth 

“Are you sure you can’t find the ring?  I’m beginning to panic, I know I gave it to you at the stag night George.

“No, you didn’t, Bill, you were too busy chasing that girl.  My God the way you were acting, no one would think you were the one getting married. 

“Yes I do remember her, she was a bit of alright, she really did fancy me.  But I did give you the ring!” 

“No, you didn’t Bill, you were so into her you had no time to give me the ring.”

“I gave it to you just before we went on the Whiskey chasers when Bobby Smith tried to balance a glass of beer on the barman’s head and nearly got us thrown out…” 

 “No, you didn’t, you were kissing that girl when it happened.”

“No that was after, now for God's sake give me the ring!”

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen, can’t you borrow a ring just for the day and find it later?  How can you expect me to start this service while you are arguing all the time? Now can anyone lend us a ring?  Oh, too late the bride just ran out of the church!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

                                                                                       

 A Bouquet of Flowers 

By Jane Scoggins 

It had been a hot day, and even at 6pm, it was still very warm. He arrived at her flat hoping his best shirt still looked crisp and fresh and didn’t look sweaty. He was glad he had decided on the flowers and not the chocolates. The blooms were beautiful and expensive. He was sure she would love them. Their relationship was just taking shape and he hoped was becoming more serious. He wanted to continue to impress her. He had never had a girlfriend he felt so much for. The blinds were down at her downstairs apartment window keeping out the remaining heat of the day, and the window was open. He could hear her on the phone laughing and chatting to a girlfriend. He decided to wait a few minutes rather than ring the bell and have her tell her friend to hang on while she opened the door. He wanted to see her face when she saw the bouquet without any distractions to spoil the impact. He wasn’t much into girly stuff so was not interested in the content of their chat, but couldn't help hearing her say very animatedly

 “He is gorgeous. I wish he was mine. Eyes to die for. Snuggling up would be divine. No, you are right, my Mum probably wouldn't approve, so I won't tell her. It's time I had a bit of something to liven things up for me and keep me on my toes. What about John? I hadn't thought about him to be honest. Like it or not he will just have to accept any decision I make.  Yes, I do like him a lot but I wouldn't say we are a proper couple yet. I think it best I spend time with Ben first and get to know him better.”

  John wished he hadn't heard the conversation, It had made him realise his worst fears that Caroline was playing with his affections. He felt deflated, unworthy of her. Punching above his weight. Of course, he knew she was popular and had admirers. And he with his pebble spectacles and his less than trendy gear just couldn’t compete. He should have realised sooner he was on a fools errand. He turned to go with the sound of Caroline's lovely voice fading as he walked back down the path and towards the bus stop.

  So he didn't hear the remaining telephone conversation.

   “ I must go now Liz. John is coming round this evening and I need to freshen up, get changed, and put on a bit of makeup. He may not be my usual type, but he is growing on me. He is so kind, funny and intelligent. I didn't think we had much in common at first but the more I get to know him and his quirky self, the more I like him. I am beginning to realise that maybe all those other blokes I've been involved with were not for me after all. He said he was not really a doggy person but if I do decide to take on Ben, I'm sure he will be fine. Having a bouncy puppy to take on walks and cuddle up to on the sofa, may be what we both need to bring a bit of fun and zing to our budding relationship. So bye, for now. I will let you know how I get on”

   On the way home John made two decisions. To give the bouquet of flowers to his Gran, and to accept the offer of the job in Dubai after all. A fresh start for him and his heart.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

THE THREATENING LETTERS

By Bob French 

The afternoon light was beginning to fade and the calm wind, that had been throughout most of the day, had started to freshen.  Peter Harlesden, a thirty-five-year-old civil servant, working for the Ministry of Science was worried.  He had already received several threatening letters, which he had ignored, but now it appeared that ‘they’ were getting serious.

          Beside him, as he walked slowly along the deserted beach at Jaywick Sands in Clacton with Alex, his wife.  She had recently retired from the army as an Intelligence Corps officer.  They didn’t speak but walked silently along the beach subconsciously listening to the rhythm of the waves rushing up upon the sand and the screeching sound of the seagulls that circled above them, hoping for some discarded scraps of food.

          She knew they were heading towards the ‘Never Say Die’ pub, just off the beach.  He had taken her there once, many years ago when he had been threatened by ‘them’ and he had managed to satisfy their needs.  After that, he'd made a promise that he would never allow himself to get into that situation again.

          Alex slipped her arm through his and hugged him. “Let’s sit a while and see if we can put together a plan where you both can come out of this alive,” and nodded to the weather-beaten bench that faced the sea and distant horizon.

          Once they were comfortable, Peter took a deep breath, closed his eyes and slowly allowed his head to tilt back.  “All we know so far is that Jacobson, the head of the Science Secretariate at the Ministry of Defence has been compromised.”

          Alex didn’t face him but quietly spoke to the horizon. “Yes, and that he had bragged about his affair with a rather attractive woman he met on a package holiday to Turkey last summer, to Maurice White, after a game of squash.”

          She smiled to herself. “It appears that she had taught him things that weren’t even published in the Kama Sutra and because of his conduct, which would become a threat to the security of the project, Maurice White had discretely reported him to his security people and then of course, GCHQ started to take an interest in Jacobson.”

          Peter nodded. “But I know GCHQ.  They will only act if Jacobson is contacted by the person who set him up.  They won’t move to neutralize him until then.  Not their style.”

          Alex frowned and shook her head slowly.  “Knowing GCHQ, I’m inclined to think that they or MI6 will probably wait until they know who is behind this honey trap against Jacobson, then try to discover what they want. What will happen to Jacobson?  Will be he killed?”

          “Good heavens no.  We’re British, we don’t go around killing off our own.  No, he will be quietly retired with a D Notice slapped on him and his family.”

          They didn’t speak for a few minutes, then Alex took out a packet of cigarettes and lit up.  Blowing smoke into the air above her head she asked “Does his wife know about this holiday affair?”

          Peter thought for a minute, then shook his head.  “No, he would have worked out that if he told her, she’d walk out on him which would automatically alert the security services.”

          “What I don’t understand is that if it is the Russians behind this operation, why Jacobson?  He’s no big fry, in fact, he’s fairly junior really.  It doesn’t make sense.”

          “Good point.  He has only recently been appointed head of the secretariat from the Department of Agg and Fisheries.”  Peter thought for a minute. “Just thinking outside the box, what if it was someone with a grudge against him.  You know; found out that he was going on holiday by himself and set up a simple honey trap or sting.  Then when he returned to the UK, waited a month or two, then posted a couple of photographs of him with his fancy woman in compromising positions with the threat that the photographs would be sent to MI6, unless he resigned?”

          “Yes. That’s quite possible.  You can buy any sort of service you want in Turkey if you have the money.”

          Peter sat quietly looking out to sea then spoke.  “Three questions; who would undertake such a venture.  Who would gain from Jacobson’s demise and who would know Jacobson’s holiday plans?”

          “Harvey Sebastian Flood.”  They said his name together.

Peter turned to face Alex. “Flood; the man everyone thought would take over the secretariate after the sudden death of Billington.”

          Alex frowned at Peter’s suggestion.  “Flood is a fool.  He has only reached the position he is in now because his father is an MP who just happens to work in the treasury.  No, I am convinced that it’s not the Russians.  They are not interested in gathering intelligence about financial matters of the United Kingdom, they want information about Project 47.”

          “You may be right.  Remember last year.  Someone started that rumour about Flood and Jacobson’s wife at the Christmas Party.”  Peter paused to collect his thoughts. “But Billington had them investigated; nothing was proven.”  Peter shook his head slowly. “Several thought the whole thing was a whitewash, which was typical of the civil service.  You know the saying, one does not hang out one’s dirty washing in public.”

          Alex dropped her cigarette butt and ground it into the sand. “Do you think Flood had Billington murdered, or do you think there’s a Russian connection?”

          “Flood’s a mysterious character and also very ambitious, but I don’t think he would go as far as killing someone.  No there has to be something a little more simple, more sinister.”

“What do you mean?”

          “Let’s just say that Flood and Jacobson’s wife were having an affair.  Now the sudden death of Billington was put down to kidney failure.  If you factor in that Jacobson’s wife is one of the doctor’s receptionists at the surgery where Billington was a patient.  It is not beyond the realms to think that she could have easily altered a prescription, say increased the strength of one of his medicines and suddenly you have a perfect undetectable death.  Then Flood, who was expected to be appointed the next head of the science secretariate doesn’t get the job. Jacobson does.  So Flood, plans a double coup; he compromises Jacobson who is then removed by the security services and, being the unsuccessful choice as the next head of the secretariat he is given the job.”

          “That’s it! And as a result, Flood becomes the director of Project 47.  That’s clever, even for Flood, very clever.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “but it doesn’t end there.  Flood is not the problem.”

Alex sits forward on the bench and turns to faces Peter. “Then who is it?”

“Flood is married to a Ukrainian woman.  She came over in 1983 and has since taken British citizenship.  They were married in 1995 after a whirlwind courtship and if one believes the rumours, are still madly in love.  No children yet.”

“And you think she’s the mastermind behind this plan?  Is GCHQ aware of her?”

“Oh yes, but she’s as clean as a whistle.  She’s buried herself deep into her local community; started a mother and toddler group, sings in the local church choir, helps in the local primary school as a teaching assistant and is a Girl Guide leader. A pillar of respectability in every sense of the word, one may say.”

“And you suspect that Mrs Flood, after she has sucked every last detail out of Flood about Project 47, will quietly vanish back to where ever she came from, leaving Flood to face the music.”

Peter nods slowly, then stands up.  “Put my life’s savings on it, my dear.”

The light had started to fade and the gay promenade lights that lined the coast road suddenly came on and started swinging gently in the wind.

Alex hugged his arm as they walked slowly back along the beach. “I knew you would sort out the last chapter of your book.  You can now tell those beastly publishers to stop sending you threatening letters, and we can get back to looking after our garden.

Copyright Bob French