All over the holiday camp the young 'uns were making a lot of noise—it was the '60s, the charts were fizzing with the excitement of Motown, the Beatles, Stones and Animals and my instinct was to hide. Though I was a young 'un myself and the resort was full of coffee bars, talent contests, discotheques, good-looking girls in miniskirts, long-haired friendly blokes from all over the country, all I was interested in was checking out the Tarzan and Martian novels the newsagents had on their racks. These I'd read in the chalet or in a quiet corner of one of the coffee lounges. These books were, it's true, 2/6d each, but the three or four I could afford should take me through the week. What I liked most about Butlin's was the boating lake. You could get a rowing boat at no charge and go out to weird little secluded islands and corners. As for the town, the most interesting part was a square near the market where knock-down auctions were held. A shilling bought a huge box of liquorice allsorts. The box was only half full, but it was still a good deal. I'd have bought more than two boxes if I hadn't got my eye on Tarzan at the Earth's Core. Along with Mum and Dad and myself were Aunt Maudie and Uncle Jock. They had Jock's stepson Brian with them. Brian was in his early twenties and had paid most of the week's rent on the chalet the three were sharing. Brian worked as a window dresser at Footman's department store. He claimed to be in charge of the menswear side. On the train he'd confided to me that he'd had the longest eyelashes in his class at school, including the girls. Mind you, some of the girls resorted to false ones, which of course was totally BEYOND. While my parents and Maudie and Jock were at the nightly Show—which from what I saw of it resembled the Black and White Minstrel extravaganzas crossed with Sing Something Simple--Brian and I had taken to swallowing a few beers in the Pig & Whistle. The place had a good juke box with some progressive folk rock tunes including Donovan, the Mamas and Papas and the Spoonful. When the place filled up a bit later on I'd leave, even when Brian offered to take care of setting up the drinks for the rest of the night. Our two chalets were among the rows allotted to First Sitting Campers and if we hadn't finished breakfast by 7:30 there'd be other people waiting beside our table. On the Monday morning Brian seemed in a good mood, and sort of inquisitive. "Teddy," he said, "I've been wondering about these books of yours. That Tarzan stuff now, it's just a lot of fiction, isn't it?" "Yeah." "Well, why don't you read something about the real world? Couldn't you prepare for a career or something? I mean, in Welding or something like that?" "You talk about real, this does describe the real world. In the real world Tarzan is Lord Greystoke, see." "Very funny. I know books are not just for study," he said quietly, looking at my Mum who was eating her cornflakes. To her reading a book was being idle. She thought it was preposterous to suppose bits of paper could lead to money. "At your age though," continued Brian lamely, "don't you think you ought to get out more?" "It's like this, Brian," I replied. "I've found that these book by Edgar Rice Burroughs and others like him might be fiction but--well, fact can be born out of fiction." Brian considered this as he put marmalade on a piece of toast. "You know, that's true. Very true." Later that day he asked me to lend him Tarzan the Terrible. I don't think he read more than ten pages. He kept forgetting to return it as well. (I made sure to remind about it when we all got home, going round to Maudie's once or twice just for that express purpose, until I got it back. I didn't have any half-crown for another copy.) Brian hit it off with one of the kitchen supervisors, an older chap with slicked back hair over a bald patch. This fellow, Maurice, used to send us treats like extra trays of cheese and biscuits and slices of gateau. When we decided to leave the camp, and in fact the whole resort, for a day and go by taxi to Jaywick this Maurice arranged a hamper containing various delicacies including two bottles of port with crystal glasses fitted into the basket. There were also two aluminium thermos flasks filled with ground coffee. Brian and Maurice fell out once though—there sat Brian scarlet-faced over the evening meal while through the swinging kitchen door we could see Maurice grinning sourly. "What did he just shout out?" I asked. "Something about the Madonna, or prima donna, was it?" "Shut up for Chrissake!" hissed Mum, juggling a chicken leg between knife and fork. She sneaked a look at Brian who was chewing mournfully, his ears looking as if they were about to catch fire. Brian certainly rallied after that though, and for the rest of the night, as if in defiance, was buying rounds and holding court in the Rain in the Face Bar & Casino. Maurice was nowhere in sight. Someone had signed in a couple of soldiers in uniform as guests and they had plenty of money to throw around. At closing time they organised a party of three or four cars to go to an all-night dive in town. Brian and Mum and Dad didn't go but Maudie and Jock did. As we walked back to the chalet (Mum and Dad were quite a way in front, laughing and joking), Brian said, "Did you see those waitresses done up like dog food?" "Oh yeah," I replied. (One of them worked on the row next to ours and just didn't seem the waitress type at all—she looked like she ought to be waited ON.) "Well, they say what they like, Teddy, but I tell you this—both those squaddies in there tonight, if there was a choice between me and those cheap tarts they'd dump those bitches in the gutter like sacks of mouldy potatoes." He giggled, but I could tell by the way he carried his head that he really believed it. Maurice soon patched things up, and in the end he wangled the draw on the last night so we got a bottle of Champagne which was brought over on a trolley while all the other campers clapped in time. It was an undeniably moving experiece—especially for me as I didn't find out it was a done job until we were on our way home the next morning. That last night saw some sort of consummation between Brian and Maurice. After midnight there was a bustling and jostling outside next door's chalet door, with bursts of repressed and asthmatic laughter. Who it was I didn't realise at first. There were some long and ominous silences and sighs. I peered out and a bloke seemed to be stooped over Brian who had his hands on the bloke's hips. As they separated with a few last whispered endearments I knew it was Maurice by the way he pushed his hair back behind his ears.