Part One: A Chance Meeting

Note: British petrol prices when this story took place were approx. 56 old pence (4s 9d) per gallon in pre-decimal currency. This is the equivalent of about 23 pence in 2018, which will buy you about 1/5 of a litre (1 UK gallon = 4.546 litres).

By the summer of 1959 Britain had continued its steady climb out of the austerity that followed on from the end of the Second World War. Food rationing had only ended five years earlier in July 1954, and although it was unlikely that the nation would completely re-emerge from the ashes for some time to come, enough changes had occurred by then to suggest that the country had justifiable cause for continuing optimism.

Britain being an island means that in theory no-one is far from the coast, in relative terms, although that by no means suggests that all of its inhabitants had access to it, and many of its citizens had at this time rarely if ever had the wherewithal to travel from either their crowded urban or isolated rural homes to the expanse of water that surrounded their nation. Prior to the war few of the members of the economic working classes would be able to afford to take a charabanc or even buy a cheap ticket on steam train to the seaside for a day’s excursion, and the notion of taking a whole week or more away from one’s home and employment was limited solely to those sectors of society that had both the leisure time and the money to enjoy it. The war had largely changed this state of affairs, and with the post-war recovery under way, employment was now both plentiful and relatively well paid, and so more and more of the population were looking to take one or sometimes even two weeks paid annual vacation, as it was now widely seen as being their just reward for working hard the rest of the year.

The establishment of places where people could spend extended periods of leisure time at a reasonable cost was not a particularly new idea, however; several family-centred holiday ‘camps’ had been established at the beginning of the nineteen-thirties, but of course the outbreak of war had affected these and many of the sites were turned over to the military for housing troops or commandeered for use as internment camps. Some of these were returned to their original use after the war and expanded and modernised, but together with the larger multi-location groups of camps that were owned and run by a handful of entrepreneurial businessmen, many smaller, independent camps also appeared in order to cater for this new leisure industry. It is at one such fictional camp in the south-west of England that this story takes place.

Ronald Thompson was a widower. In 1959 he was still only forty-three years old, his young wife and daughter having been killed in the blitz in 1941 while he was serving with the Royal Engineers. For several years after their untimely deaths he carried a picture of Maggie and little Shirley on his person until time and wear and tear took its toll on the monochrome image and it was now kept in a place of safety in his home. Eighteen years after their passing, Ron now had to think hard to picture his two girls in his mind, and it seemed inconceivable to him that the little child that he barely remembered from so long ago would be a grown woman of twenty-one now had she lived.

Like thousands of other servicemen and women, Ron had been demobbed when peace was declared in 1945 and he was able to return to the street where he had lived with his family until he was called up in 1940. He and Maggie had rented the small house from the time that they were married, but the thoroughfare where it stood was now unrecognisable, as were several of the other streets in the surrounding area, so with no real reason to stay any longer, he headed for the home of his sister Katherine who had married and moved from London to Surrey. The only thing that Ronald Thompson had to do before he left his home town was to visit the final resting place of his family. Having done so, however, a part of him wished that he never had, as the only reminder that they had ever existed was the memorial stone erected at the head of a communal grave. His initial feelings upon discovering this were a mixture of sadness, anger and resentment, as he placed the small bunch of flowers that he’d bought onto the barren earth that covered the remains of all of the bodies that they had recovered from the bomb site.

Saturday

I had bought my pride and joy, a Mk 1 Jaguar saloon, in 1957. I had been interested in motorised transport since before my call up, but my army training had given me the necessary skills to start my own business in peace time. With no family to take care of and make demands on my time, I was able to channel most of my resources into building my business; part of the fruits of my success at this venture was what had carried me towards a well-deserved holiday, safe in the knowledge that I could leave my small work-force to keep everything ticking over nicely while I was away.

Although I suppose that I am now a relatively successful businessman in my own right, in my heart I am still working-class to the core, so I eschewed the idea of staying in a hotel or boarding house in favour of something befitting my tradesman sensibilities. Several of my acquaintances had told me about the holiday camp on the south Devon coast that will be my temporary home away from home for the next seven days. I had toyed with the idea of taking twice that much time, but as much as I trust my brother-in-law, Billy Marshall, and the other lads, I didn’t trust himself to not begin to fret about my livelihood if I stayed away for too long.

After a comfortable drive down to the west country, the 2.4 litre engine in the Jag positively purred as I slowed down to turn into the entrance to the camp. It is now July and the height of the season and the sun is shining overhead and is being reflected off of the shiny, brightly painted surfaces of all the low-level buildings that comprise the well laid out administration and entertainment area. I confess that upon seeing the camp for the first time I was struck by how much its layout reminded me of the army camps that I had known during my brief time in training with the Sappers before being posted overseas and then after our return to Britain after the war. It is much more colourful and welcoming, of course, but there is something about the sense of regularity that I somehow find very reassuring.

Leaving my luggage in the back of the car, I put my navy-coloured blazer back on, smoothed out the creases, imaginary and otherwise, and strode purposely towards what I assumed was the camp office to announce my arrival and collect the keys.

The office was fairly small and there was only one woman who was doing the necessary job of checking the new visitors in and directing them to their accommodation. Being British, I took my place in the line as I waited patiently for my turn. Directly in front of me was a woman with two suitcases, both of which were now resting on the floor on either side of her. I could only see her back as we queued, but she seemed pleasantly proportioned. The man at the front of the line having completed his check-in turned and smiled as he left the office, while the lady in front of me picked up her luggage, took a step forward, then lowered it to the ground again.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

“Yes, good morning! I made a booking in the name of Armitage, Mrs Beryl Armitage.”

The woman behind the counter checked the list of names contained in a ledger. I watched as she traced the names with her finger, starting at the top and working her way to the bottom, then after quickly looking up at the waiting lady she repeated the process once again.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Armitage, but we don’t appear to have you on our list for today!” The waiting lady looked flustered.

“What do you mean, I don’t understand? I sent off my money in the post several months ago and my cheque has been cleared by the bank. Isn’t there somewhere else you can check?” It was the check-in lady’s turn to look flustered.

“Well, I can check our filing system, I suppose. When did you say that you sent us your money, Mrs Armitage?”

“It would have been at around the beginning of May.”

“Thank you! I’ll be as quick as I can!” The woman that I now knew as Beryl Armitage turned to me:

“I do hope that she can sort this out. I had to save for a long time to pay for this holiday and I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks!” I smiled: “I’m sure that it is just a simple oversight on somebody’s part.” The woman smiled for the first time: “Yes, I hope so, too!”

The camp employee returned, holding something in her hand.

“I think I owe you an apology, Mrs Armitage, I have found your letter and it’s attached to your booking form. As you can see it’s been processed and marked ‘Paid in full’.” The lady in front of me smiled again, but her relief was to be short lived. “There is a problem, however: unfortunately, although we have received your fee, for some reason your booking form was filed but you were not allocated any accommodation, and because this is our busiest period I have nothing available to offer you at the moment, I’m afraid! The best I can do is to offer you a full refund, or alternately offer you a later booking and a partial refund—sorry!”

At one point I thought that this Mrs Armitage might cry, as her chest appeared to heave, but she quickly regained her composure, straightened her back and pulled back her shoulders.

“It appears that you leave me no choice: I will just have to accept a refund and turn around and go back home again. I am very disappointed, however!”

“Er, excuse me for butting in, but I think that I may have another suggestion!” Both women looked at me. “My name is Ronald Thompson, and unless you have mislaid my booking as well, I would like to offer Mrs Armitage the chance to share my chalet. It may not be exactly what she imagined that her holiday would be like, but we are both adults and I’m sure that we can come to some arrangement. You have my word that there will be no impropriety, Mrs Armitage, and at least this way we will both get a holiday.” She looked at me intently as if she was trying to read my mind.

“I don’t know what to think, Mr—Thompson, was it?” I nodded. “—But I suppose that we could give it a try to see how it goes.” The check-in clerk also looked relieved.

“If you would like to call back in a day or two, Mrs Armitage, I’ll arrange to have your refund ready for you.” She turned to me: “You are on field two, chalet twenty-two, Mr Thompson; and thank you for helping us resolve this difficult situation!” I smiled and placed the key in my pocket: “Let me take your cases, Mrs Armitage; I have my car parked nearby, and I think you should call me Ron now.” She returned my smile: “And you can call me Beryl, Ron!”

The camp was laid out on a grid system and there were plenty of signposts to help us find our way. The chalets, as they called them, were single-storey rectangular buildings made of wood. They were arranged in such a way that there was ample room between them, which allowed me to park my car right outside the door to number twenty-two. They were all painted a uniform green colour and a quick look around me seemed to indicate that everything on the site was being well-maintained. I opened the Jaguar’s front passenger side door for Beryl; diplomatically turning my head away as she manoeuvred herself off of the leather seat. My thanks for doing so took the form of another nice smile.

“This doesn’t look at all bad, Ron!”

“Yes, I’ve heard positive things from several people who said that it was quite good.” Opening the chalet’s mortice lock, I engaged the hook that held the door open while Beryl stepped inside our new accommodation; I followed behind her. The first thing that I noticed was the heat and the odour permeating the air that had been trapped inside the unventilated interior. Beryl commented: “Phew, Ron, let’s get some fresh air in here!” I nodded, and then between us we went around and opened all the windows. It was still warm inside but less stuffy.

Each chalet had an identical interior layout: it was divided into three sections of roughly equal size; at one end there was bench seating arranged in a U-shape, which could also serve as single beds; at the other end was an area that was closed-off to form a bedroom with a double-size bed and closets for clothing; the mid-section contained the cooking area. The kitchen had a sink for food preparation and washing up, but there was no running water; this was obtained from one of the several standpipes on the site and was collected in a large jug-type container. There were a few electrical outlets provided and electric lighting, but bottled gas was used for cooking. Each chalet also came equipped with blankets and sheets, pillows and pillow cases, cutlery, cups, plates, pots and pans, etc. It was all very utilitarian but it was all that we needed.

“You must take the bedroom of course, Beryl.”

“No, really, Ron, I couldn’t! You have already done so much for me, I can’t take your bedroom as well!” I shook my head.

“No, I’m only being practical: you need a bit of privacy more than I do. I spent the war living in conditions much more primitive than these, and sharing them with all the other lads in the regiment. I don’t think that there’s a lock on the bedroom door, but at least you can close it at night and that should make you feel a bit more secure.” Beryl hesitated.

“Well, I still think that it’s an imposition on my part—but if you’ve made up your mind—thank you, Ron!” I smiled.

“I have—now let me get the luggage in and we can get settled. I didn’t bring much in the way of groceries, so once we’ve unpacked I suggest that we pop out and do a bit of shopping.” She grinned: “I agree; but it’s fifty-fifty from now on, okay?” I nodded and smiled: “Whatever you say, Beryl!”

Since we weren’t exactly spoilt for storage space, we shared the biggest closet for those things that needed to be hung up and used whatever other space was available for everything else. Beryl kept her two suitcases in the bedroom and I put mine back into the car. After that, our next priority was to get some water and explore the toilet and washing facilities.

The men’s toilets were again quite basic, with the emphasis on functionality rather than décor, but apart from the usual shared urinal aroma that most men who have used public lavatories are familiar with, they weren’t that bad and were much as I expected them to be; again, if you can get used to an army latrine you can get used to anything! Bathing was confined to half a dozen partitioned shower stalls and the same number of wash hand basins. I assumed that the women’s facilities mirrored the men’s. Each subsection of the campsite had its own copies of these.

It was while Beryl and I were walking the short distance to the nearest of these facilities that I got a chance to really see her in the daylight for the first time. I would say that she was an attractive woman about my age. She wasn’t tall, maybe only five-foot two or three, compared to my five-foot nine. She was a little broad of beam and her thighs although not chubby were thickening. There was a distinct definition between her hips and her waist and she had what I would call a generous bosom. Her hair was a straw-blonde colour and she wore it short, about jawline length, in a style which framed her face. There were a few care lines around her eyes and mouth, but overall I’d say that it was a nice face, a kindly, caring face. She wore a sleeveless summer dress that was belted at the waist which accentuated the shape of her upper and lower body, and which had a knee-length pleated skirt which I assume was worn over an under-slip. Almost flat shoes completed her outfit.

I have always found it difficult to describe myself as anything other than ‘average’. I have a fairly physical job which on occasion involves quite a lot of bending and sometimes moderately heavy lifting, so I think that I am in quite good shape for my age; apart from that I have light-brown wavy hair and brown eyes—as I said, just average.

When Beryl returned from the ladies I carried the water pitcher, which must have held at least a gallon of liquid, back to the chalet and we made ready to walk to the on-site shop. It was glorious weather so we didn’t need coats. We chatted as we walked and Beryl told me that she was a few years younger than me at forty-one and that she had also been widowed during the war. Her late-husband, Albert, was serving in the Royal Navy and was aboard the HMS Warwick when it was sunk in the Atlantic by a U-boat in 1944. Beryl was only twenty-one when Albert went to war and she was twenty-six when he was killed in action, which meant that like a lot of young couples, for most of her brief married life she was apart from her husband; something that I knew all too well myself.