This is a story of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or institutions is coincidence.
*
CHAPTER ONE
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 wasn't unionized was a shirker or a parasite or both. The 'workers' ironically spent more time not working; as their shop stewards frequently called them out on strike for the flimsiest of reasons. 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. You were provided with 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, which, in nineteen forty-eight became 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 trim and copper burnished all glittering in the light. 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 Express'. That did mar a little the pride in travelling on that special train. In the mid-fifties my dad took a new job; moving the whole family from the London area to the Midlands. His position also allowed him a company car for private as well as business use. So as a car-owning family the thrill of the Cornish Riviera Express was now history.
For three or four 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 didn'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 eighteen 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 called Daddyhole Plain. It overlooked the sweep of the bay and the town. 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, less grand 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?"
