Out of Towners (9 page)

“Do you reckon?”

“Yeah. For definite.”

George still isn't convinced.

“And I didn't upset her, or make an idiot of myself?”

I shake my head.

George lets out a breath.

“Gemma,” he says quietly. “Gemma Franks.”

Saying Gemma's name a couple of times seems to perk him up. For the first time today, he looks more like his normal self. He stands and wanders over to the bathroom, leaving me and Robbie on our own.

After a while, it's getting obvious that neither of us is saying much. There's a slight atmosphere building. Robbie's got his nose out of joint because we both know he fancied his chances with Steph. Robbie's not used to rejection. In general he just has to flutter his eyelashes at girls and they come running. And because the girl he was after picked me, well, that's really needled him. It's made me feel pretty good though.

Robbie has a go at breaking the ice.

“Good night, last night.”

I don't know if he's making a statement or asking a question.

“Yeah,” I say, non-committal.

Robbie tries again.

“So what were you and Steph talking about then?”

I scratch my armpit.

“Not a lot. This and that.” I'm keeping quiet. I know Robbie's fishing. Seeing if he's still in with a shout.

It sounds like George is in the shower now. I look back at the TV, pretending to be interested in the showjumping that's come on after the news. Robbie picks his phone off the table and starts fiddling with it.

Dylan's finished exercising. He comes out of the bedroom in a pair of grey jogging bottoms, pushing his fists together and flexing his pecs. He's like a whippet on steroids. Dylan's not the world's most perceptive bloke, but he senses there's something going on straight away.

“What's up with you two?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him.

Robbie keeps quiet.

Dylan narrows his eyes.

“Come on. You can tell your uncle Dylan.”

“We're cool,” Robbie says, still looking at his mobile.

Dylan's not buying it. There's a lop-sided grin twisting his mouth up on one side.

“You can't fool me. It's Steph, isn't it?”

For once in his life, Dylan's hit the nail on the head. But Robbie's not going to let him congratulate himself.

“I've got to be honest,” he says. “I've got my eye on Nikita.”

Dylan's face drops.

“Don't even joke about that. Anyway, Nikita wouldn't be interested in a waster like you. She's too classy.”

“Too classy?” I say. “How come you were buying condoms in the toilets then?”

Dylan sniffs.

“I didn't get them in the end.” He looks like he's telling the truth.

I break into a smile. Robbie does too. It lifts some of the tension.

George takes about twenty minutes in the shower. When he's done, he looks ten times healthier than when he went in. Dylan's next up. He's fairly quick and so by half past twelve, it's just Robbie left needing to get ready. In true Robbie style, he seems to be taking ages. The showjumping is rambling on and on, but I still can't summon up the energy to find something else to watch.

As the time ticks towards one o'clock, Robbie comes out of the bathroom. He's showered and changed, but he doesn't look happy.

“What's up?” I ask.

He jabs his thumb over his shoulder.

“Which one of you left that huge crap in the toilet? It's the size of a piano leg.”

George shakes his head.

“Not me. I had one up at the Family Entertainment Centre last night.”

Robbie looks at me.

“You can count me out. I've not had one since we were in London yesterday.”

Dylan's looking shifty. All eyes turn in his direction.

“Well, I suppose it must have been me,” he says eventually. “What do you want me to do about it? I flushed it twice, but it wouldn't go. I'm not putting my hand down there.”

Robbie rolls his eyes.

“Well I'm not touching the thing. You'll have to see if you can get it moving with the bog brush. I told you last night. There's got to be absolutely no sign we've been here. And that means no skid marks.”

Dylan grunts. I'm waiting for him to spit his dummy. He usually does. But today he just gets up and heads for the bathroom. Thirty seconds of scrubbing and he's back out again.

“Mission accomplished,” he says.

I look at my watch. Five past one.

“Let's get shifting,” I say. “We're supposed to be meeting the girls at three-thirty. At this rate we're not going to make it.”

Robbie, Dylan and George go off to get the stuff they need. Two minutes later they're ready. George is fully recovered now and he's playing Mother Hen again. He's rolled up all our towels and put them in a bag to take down to the beach. We have a last look round, switching the TV off and making sure everything is how it should be. We get our sunglasses, then Robbie locks the caravan and we set off through Green Zone.

Everyone else at Wonderland has got a head start on us today. People are out and about, sunbathing, playing tennis, throwing Frisbees. Whitbourne is only down the hill, but it looks like most of the punters have opted for a day on the site. The kids from yesterday are still hanging around. They've got nothing to say to us now. They just nudge one another and giggle as we come past.

We're into Blue Zone. There's a bloke walking in our direction. Another late starter. He's got a bottle of milk in one hand and a copy of the
Daily Star
in the other. He's wearing a basketball vest and he's got little arms like pipecleaners, covered in tattoos. There's something familiar about him, but I can't put my finger on it. And then it hits me. The wispy facial hair. It's the fat woman's toyboy. As he comes past, he yawns and rubs the back of his neck. He looks knackered.

Robbie's seen him too.

“It must have been a hard night,” he says.

I start to laugh, but the sound gets cut off. Because there's someone else heading our way. A short woman in a sun top with a towel wrapped round her head. Bev. She's twenty metres away and closing. I keep walking, staring down at the ground. At the last second I glance up. Bev is looking right at me. I'm about to stammer out an apology for buggering off last night, but I don't need to bother. There's not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

When she's gone past us, George squeezes my elbow.

“You left a big impression on her,” he says.

We're coming to the end of Blue Zone, passing the swimming pool and the adventure playground. They're both full of kids. Robbie was right about Whitbourne livening up at the weekends. There's some movement in the Family Entertainment Centre, so we pop our heads round the door to have a look.

The place looks different in the daytime. The tables and chairs have been moved out of the middle of the floor and a bloke in a boiler suit is pushing a polisher round. Any broken glass and bloodstains are long gone. I didn't notice last night, but there are murals painted on the walls. Out-of-proportion Disney characters and a deformed Bart Simpson.

Two groups are up and running. Nearest to us, some old folks are sipping tea and complaining about the biscuit selection. Up at the far end, by the stage, it's some sort of playscheme. There's a vaguely Christian tone. The kids are standing in a circle singing a song about Jesus. Damaged, dangerous-looking toys are strewn about everywhere. According to a sign propped up on an easel it's
Benny the Bear's Kidz Klub
. Sure enough Benny's there, dancing around. I wonder if it's the same bloke as last night in the suit.

We watch for a few more seconds then we nip across the courtyard and go into the foyer. Tonight's bill is scrawled onto the cardboard Benny's placard.

TONITE IS PARTY NITE!!!

FAMILY ENTERTAINMENT CENTRE

BINGO WITH VIC WHITLEY

AWARD-WINNING PSYCHIC COLIN WELLS

LINE DANCING LATE BAR

“I think we'll give that a miss,” I say.

We push our way through the double doors into the car park and start the walk into town.

“Oh man,” George says. “I'm boiling.”

We all are.

It's mega-hot this afternoon. The wind that was blowing yesterday has completely died away. There's a haze shimmering over Whitbourne as we come down towards the town. The sky is a perfect blue, criss-crossed with white vapour trails. The walk can't be more than a mile, but by the time we're at the lifeboat station I'm sweating like I've run the London Marathon.

The beach is much busier today. It looks like a few sunbathers have already been out way too long. Two lads are lying on Liverpool towels at the point where the pebbles start sloping down to the sea. One of them is so red, he's blending into his towel like a chameleon. His mate is almost purple. On the bowling greens, old blokes in white caps are wandering around puffing on pipes and on the crazy golf there's a long line of people putting their way across humpback bridges, into clowns' mouths and under the sails of windmills.

As we pass along the seafront, my stomach is rumbling. We haven't eaten since about five o'clock last night. More than twenty hours.

“We going to get some food?” I ask.

There's a lot of head nodding.

“I saw a McDonald's in the town centre,” George says.

“We'd be better off getting some junk from a pound shop,” Dylan says. “Crisps and stuff. It'll save us money and it'll take less time. I want to get on the beach.”

There's some more head nodding.

We're almost at the pier. There's an open-topped bus parked by the main entrance. Discover Whitbourne is stencilled on the side. They don't seem to have any passengers. We cut through the traffic and hang a left, up the road we came down yesterday. The cafes and ice cream shops are buzzing. Old ladies and young families are sitting at tables on the pavements eating scones and fish and chips and sundaes. We keep going, passing all the souvenir shops with their Whitbourne tea towels and racks of postcards, until we find what we're looking for. Poundtastic.

The shop is packed. The place smells of deodorant and sun tan lotion. Tinkly lift music is playing on the PA. I push my sunglasses up on my head and try to take it all in.

Poundtastic seems to stock every item under the sun. Down the first aisle the shelves are filled with jars of bath crystals, shell sculptures and CDs of Irish folk songs. It's pretty random. Up at the end, bottles of cheap perfume are mixed in with tins of rust paint. Down the second aisle it's plastic sandwich boxes and out-of-date annuals and dust-covered statuettes of the Queen Mother.
Limited Edition of 1000
it says on the boxes. They've got about nine hundred and ninety-eight left to sell.

Robbie sighs.

“Who decided we should come in here?” he asks.

I look at Dylan, expecting him to get the huff, but he just shrugs. He seems a lot calmer than usual today. He cleaned his crap out of the toilet without complaining, and now this. Must be something to do with Nikita.

Heading into the next aisle, we're finally getting somewhere. I grab a Family Value Selection of biscuits and a twelve pack of assorted crisps. Robbie tops this up with some chocolate chip flapjacks, a box of Wine Gums and a bag of Haribos, and Dylan adds some Fig Rolls and Boost bars. I get four big bottles of water and we join the end of a queue.

George checks out the rubbish we're holding and grimaces.

“We can't eat this. Put it back and we'll go into town and get something proper.”

“Don't be soft,” Dylan says. “We've got all the major food groups covered here.”

George looks to me for support, but I'm not playing along. I'm so hungry I'd eat anything right now.

We're nearly at the front of the line. The geezer ahead of us is bagging up his bits and pieces. We put our dinner next to the till. The bloke behind the counter has got a big hairsprayed fringe and fingerless gloves. He's having a bad day by the looks of it. He puffs out his cheeks and pushes our shopping across the barcode reader.

“Nine pounds,” he says, letting out a long breath.

I hand over a tenner and wait for my change.

Outside, we walk down to the seafront again, darting over the road by the pier and on towards the bandstand. The prom is rammed. Dogs and kids are running riot and row after row of deckchairs is filled with old folks in sunhats. There's a massive group of English Language students, Spanish kids about our age with red and blue rucksacks, sitting along the low wall next to the ornamental flowerbeds. Some of the girls look a bit tasty.

We carry on up the prom until we get to the stretch of beach we were on last night. We cut across the stones and sit facing the sea. Lower down, the remains of our fire are still there, a black smudge in amongst the whites, reds, yellows and greys of the stones. Couples and families are spread out all around us, baking in the heat. Wobbling arses and orange peel thighs are everywhere. And that's just the blokes. Near the water there's a group of kids in Man Utd shirts. They're messing about, chucking tones at each other. It's going well until
ROONEY
hits
FLETCHER
right between the eyes and he crashes down in a heap. I shake my head and start unloading the food from the Poundtastic bags.

Fifteen minutes later I've worked my way through three bags of crisps, some custard creams, a big flapjack bar, a Boost and a handful of sweets. I've washed it all down with a litre of spring water. My stomach isn't complaining any more. I made the mistake of chucking some bits of Fig Roll for two seagulls who were looking sorry for themselves. Now there's about forty of them wandering up and down, tilting their heads to one side seeing if they can cadge something else. They're out of luck.

George gets the towels out and we lie back, letting the food go down.