From the 'It's the Holidays' Story anthology my story;
Running in the Sun
When that bell went we ran, we ran as fast as we could, ignoring the stitches in our sides, swinging our bags through the air…
Panting excitedly at the door.
‘Mum! It’s…the…holidays! No…more…school!’
The summer holidays had begun in 1960’s Birmingham.
Our dads’ only had two weeks off from the factories so it was up to our mums’ to entertain us. We were about 60 miles from the sea so it was easy to get to, though the Wales and nearby coast was freezing and we always wanted to go further south to warmer waters. But that cost money. So, Wales or Weston-Super-Mare it was.
Wales was known for its terrible weather; wind that blew sand to scrub your face, and sometimes days of lashing rain.
I remember one morning on Shell Island; I dozed and rocked in a floating dreamy feeling. I woke and was rocking, as my blow-up bed floated on a foot of floodwater.
So we preferred Weston. Though it was a poor first choice.
Weston was famous for the sea not being around much. You had to catch it. Be there at the right time. But most days all you saw was a vast expanse of dirty sand, the sea a dot on the horizon. Still, we enjoyed playing in the mud, digging for shells or worms.
The deal was that the whole family went for two weeks then the fathers returned home. This was good for everyone. The fathers were free from kids and wives back home for 5 days until returning at the weekends. We don’t know what they got up to, but we guessed it involved a lot of drinking. They looked worn out when they pitched up late Friday night.
The mums were left at the campsite with all the other mums and kids. We kids amused ourselves mainly; huge football games of thirty or more, exploring old war bunkers that smelled of piss and had ripped pieces of porn mags strewn about. We were a bit far from the beach, so we only went there once or twice a week. So we messed around in the camp pool, which never got hot and the number of blooded heads on the kids testified to the care they had taken in building the concrete minefield surrounding the water.
The mums’ of course were happy; no men around. We kids came back to be fed usually with a stew and then went off again. Appearing now and then for cash for an ice lolly or some sweets. So, the women lay around, grabbing some rays and smoking and drinking a lot. They gathered in big packs on various sunbeds or camping seats and smoked and drank and bitched; but mostly we noticed they laughed. They didn’t seem to do that much at home. And when I say laugh, I mean howls of laughter. We didn’t know what they were laughing at and when we tried to sneak up and listen we were sent away with a swear word warning or a stick flung at your head.
Most summers went on like this, eight weeks camping, and we loved it because we were basically left to do what we wanted; we smoked and showed off our private parts to each other in the bunkers. We only saw our mums to be fed or for money, and then to go to bed, happy to go to sleep after an exhausting day. We lay on the camp beds and listened to the crickets and the gangs of women still laughing their heads off.
Our dad's visits involved a dads vs. kids game of footy or cricket, some swimming then off to the clubhouse at night, bingo and some jiving for the grown-ups, and crisps and pop for the kids sat in a long line on the wall outside swinging their legs happily.
But some summers we went on a family journey. This involved Grandparents and uncles, aunts and cousins, all in a long caravan of second-hand cars towing trailers of camping gear. These I loved the best as we ventured into deepest Devon and farthest Cornwall. Interesting fishing villages with tiny lanes and gorgeous fish and chip suppers and tasty pasties.
We stayed on campsites for about two days then moved on. We stopped at places on the way. Hills to climb, views to be seen, ruins to be explored. We ventured into pastures unknown. I remember one time we had to go through field after field with signs warning of bulls and threats to close the gates. I was pushed out to open the gates and every car that passed me paid through the window for the favour and my valour.
The one year they decided to go on a big trip, through France to Spain. This was unheard of in those days. Working-class people never went abroad; this was back before the mass package holidays and flights. I don’t remember France much, we raced on through. But we arrived in Barcelona and when you look at the pictures and old cine films they took they looked like a group of bohemians. All dressed in their finery on the Ramblas…the working class of Brum, living the good life. One photo has my nan looking like Sophia Loren in pink sunglasses and a flowing flowery dress sat on a bench in Parc Guel; behind her, my granddad stands proudly looking like Rudolph Valentino in his suit trousers and open-necked shirt, greased back hair and pencil moustache. The campsite was not too far from the city. So we explored the lanes and avenues experiencing new smells and sounds; we felt like in a kid’s adventure book.
And the sea! The sea was warm! And the sand was too hot for your feet, so we bought flip-flops and felt elegant. The food was weird. Rice with seafood, which we hesitantly picked at, at first, but grew to love, and meat on sticks from smoking grills, which we wolfed down. Our parents drank wine in the circle of chairs in the middle of the tents into the dark of night. I got ill, some bug or something. And I had a fever and felt like I was in a dream I was carried into a hospital and remember this doctor with some metal thing on his head evilly grinning at me muttering in words like Tolkien’s elves and his gold tooth sparkling in my dreary eyes as he bore down on me with a huge needle; then I floated off into a world of seas, ice-creams and running…I saw myself running and laughing in the sun; never-ending running on the sand…until I woke.
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