Chapter 1

Nineteen fifty seven was not a particularly notable year for the world, or for the inhabitants of the United Kingdom. Of course there were quite a few people who would look back and say. "That was a good year, a very good year." But for many it was just another year. There were births quite a few into poverty and starvation and the law of averages dictated that an equal number died possibly from that same poverty and starvation. In October the Soviets would launch the first orbiting satellite and the word 'Sputnik' became part of every language. This was a shock for every developed nation, particularly the Americans, as no one thought that the Russians had the technology to achieve that feat. We all got a year older, although some, like my mother celebrated her birthday and resolutely remained thirty five, ignoring the fact that she was born in nineteen eleven. The Spartan existence we had known in these isles during WW2 and immediately after had relaxed and our family along with many others was enjoying a more comfortable life. Our Prime Minister had told us we were never having it so good. At that time, in our innocence we tended to believe the politicians, later the scales would drop from our eyes. For the moment we went along with this fantasy. Most families had a television now and a refrigerator and if those were the yardstick by which to judge then we were indeed better off. There were jobs for all those who wanted to work and State Benefits for those who declined that activity. The Unions flexed their muscles to introduce socialist principles into Industry. They battled for those whom they called 'the workers' implying by inference that anyone who wore a white collar to work was a shirker or a parasite or both. The 'workers' ironically spent more time on strike than actually making things. The conflict between the workers and the management was a running battle that went on and on, ensuring years later the almost complete demise of British industry. If we were having it so good it was a Fool's Paradise. However for the moment we basked in the sunshine.

It was a surprise therefore when my dad announced that the family were going away for a week's holiday. The surprise was that I was included. When I was young we had family holidays. A week or two in the West Country, travelling there by train with accommodation provided by the euphemistically described 'Guest House'. A Guest House was one very small step above a Boarding House. The furnishings were better, but the rules were the same, whatever the weather you had to leave during the day and not return before five o' clock. They provided bed, breakfast and evening meal. No early morning or afternoon tea. For me the journey by train was the highlight. We travelled by 'The Cornish Riviera Express', the crack train of the Great Western, later the Western Region of British Railways. In those days it was still hauled by a steam engine, either a 'King' or 'Castle', gleaming in Brunswick Green with brass and copper burnished to a high gleam. It was supposed to run non-stop to Truro in Cornwall, but it did stop at Plymouth. Not in the station but just outside so the engine could be changed. The 'Kings' and 'Castles' were too heavy for the Royal Albert Bridge over the Tamar so they were changed for another, lighter locomotive. It was only later that I understood that during the holiday season there were at least three or four trains that left Paddington in the space of an hour and a half, all called the 'Cornish Riviera'. That did mar a little the pride in travelling on that unique train.

For two or three years prior to this my parents had taken advantage of the burgeoning package holiday offers, and would go off to Spain or Italy with my younger sister. I was left at home with a cash bribe from my father to ensure that I would eat properly for the two weeks they were away. I don't think they were rejecting me; it was probably because they didn't know what to do with an early teenager at the time. Now it would seem that at seventeen I was acceptable company once more. Those last three years had transformed me from a gangling strip of a boy at five foot six, into a relatively decent looking man of five foot ten with dark brown hair and a face that could be described as reasonable rather than handsome.

The hotel was quite large with most of the amenities that you would expect. It was situated on a promontory overlooking the sweep of the bay. I assumed from the look of the place that it had once been the palatial home of some rich man and had been converted into a hotel with extensions for bedrooms and function rooms. The conversion had been done piecemeal so finding your way about was somewhat difficult as corridors seemingly leading in the right direction would take a sudden turn and take you to a place you didn't want to be. My parents and my sister had rooms on the first floor where the best rooms were. My sister got one of those so they could keep an eye on her she was only eleven at the time. I had a single room on the third floor. I got there by taking the main staircase up to the first floor, walking down the long corridor then climbing another, small staircase to the second where I had to reverse the walk on the first floor to yet another, even smaller staircase that would take me to my floor. The room had a quaint ceiling, sloping within the confines of a gable. From the window I had an interesting view over roofs and back gardens, but not a glimpse of anything remotely like a beach or sea. There was a wash basin with hot and cold running in the room, but for any other needs I would have to go down the corridor. The idea of en-suite facilities was unknown to the majority of hotels in the UK. That changed eventually with disastrous consequences for those hotels that didn't adapt. I didn't mind the disparity in accommodation; I got some privacy to indulge whatever my teenage hormones could discover for me. As it happened I didn't have to go looking; adventure in the shape of the female variety came looking for me.

We had not been booked in more than three hours when exploring the hotel I was approached by two young, good-looking girls. One was I suppose in her early twenties, dark haired, slim and dressed in the uniform of a hotel maid. She had a mischievous manner about her, flirty and teasing. The other was younger more my age, still carrying a little puppy fat, but nonetheless very attractive. Her hair was quite long and that shade that was sometimes referred to as dirty blonde. Whilst lacking the wiles of the maid her smile was very agreeable. The older girl addressed me.

"Hello, you have just booked in. How old are you?" I was taken aback by the direct question so much so that I answered without thought.

"I am Seventeen." Did I see disappointment in her eyes? Possibly but the younger girl looked pleased. It was the older who told me my fate.

"Oh. Well you are hers." She told me bluntly. I was taken aback by this bold statement yet not given time to consider. Over the next few hours I came to understand that they had an arrangement concerning any young, single man who came to the hotel. This was unusual for that time when young ladies were a lot shyer than now. I learned later the watershed was twenty. Older than that and it was the maid, Lisa who would become your friend; younger than twenty and it would be Marilyn who kept you company. So it was that I was left in the care of Marilyn for the duration of my stay. I was quite happy with the arrangement. Initially there was hesitancy on both our parts as we fumbled through the first steps of getting to know each other, she didn't have the bold attitude of Lisa, neither did I at that, but once that had been completed we would chat happily and plan our times together. It was then that she told me that they didn't approach every single young man who came to the hotel; only the good looking ones. Lisa it appeared was the leader and Marilyn followed. I was flattered. One of the first things she wanted to know was my name.

"I heard your Dad call you Dal, but surely that's not your real name?"

"It isn't." I replied. "My name is spelled D a l z e i l. pronounced Dayeel with a very soft 'Y' and Mum chose it because it couldn't be shortened easily. Funnily enough she was the first one to shorten it calling me just Dal. That's what everyone calls me now." Marilyn thought about that.

"Well I quite like Dalzeil, it sounds quite romantic, and so if you don't mind I will call you that. I quite like my boyfriend having a romantic name." Boyfriend already I thought? We had only just been introduced! If I thought that this was an unusual way to arrange things it didn't occur to me, what I did think was that as her boyfriend albeit temporary, I would have rights of exploration and discovering or even uncovering her breasts was the object of that exploration. Yes I was seventeen and my priorities then were of a very basic nature. Marilyn, it turned out was fifteen the daughter of the owner of the hotel, and had lived in Torquay all her life consequently she knew the area well. We went to the cinema a couple of times, walked the front hand in hand, drank dubious cups of coffee in various cafés and even went swimming in the sea one exceptional warm day. Viewing her in a bathing costume particularly when it was wet was very arousing necessitating another dip in the cold water. It wasn't too long before I was allowed a kiss and we both found that to be a very pleasant occupation, therefore we kissed a lot and those kisses became quite heated. I am sure that most young men then would remember the first time they caressed a breast, I certainly did when Marilyn allowed me the liberty. It was a heady experience and my body reacted as you would expect. It was always outside her clothes though. Well brought up girls in those days were indoctrinated with warnings about being 'fast' or 'loose' and the terrible consequences of letting a boy go too far. I didn't stop to ask if this was normal for her 'friendships' I was too busy enjoying the experience.