Holiday From Hell - Conclusion

Then we faced the customs. Did we have anything to declare? Apart from the usual souvenirs - no. "Are you sure you have nothing to declare?" I was asked by a customs official. I assured him I was quite sure. They have to pick one. They picked me. I was instructed to open my case. I could feel my face burning. Why do you feel guilty when you know you have nothing to hide? Anyway, he made a thorough job of it, out came all my clothes and toiletries, my bras and briefs were flung everywhere (I wore quite skimpy underwear in those times) I could hear tutting behind me - I think partly because of the underwear and also because everyone was impatient to get home. It seemed to take forever. He gave me a beaming smile, told me everything was in order and left me to put everything back in again. I am sure he did it deliberately. Of course, this set the red-headed league off again moaning even louder.

The coach trip back to London was completed with a real air of hostility between myself and the D family. We parted in London. They lived in another county so had to go in a completely different direction. I faced a journey on the underground and then a main line trip to my home at least another hour and a half depending on how the trains were running. It was very late evening now. "Well goodbye then," they said. "Goodbye" I muttered (holding back good riddance). "See you at work on Monday then" - GD glared at me. "Yes," I managed to get out but wishing I never had to clap eyes on her again. They turned and walked off into the distance, chatting happily between themselves.

I set off, eager to be home, back in the bosom of my family. I was still not over the shock of the plane journey. I was also very worried. I was many hours late. In those days my family did not have a telephone, I knew they would be getting very alarmed that I had not appeared and, oh, how I wanted my own bed.

The underground journey was completed relatively easily although I hated being on those tube trains late with mainly men around, it always made me feel uneasy. I mean you are pretty well stuck when you are underground. All went well however and I reached Liverpool Street station. I had to go up quite a long flight of stairs to the booking office to get my ticket.

I purchased the required piece of card, went to go back down the stairs. At the very top I was left all of a sudden with my suitcase handle in my hand whilst my heavy suitcase, as if it had a life all of its own, did a descent without me, bouncing from step to step all the way down to the bottom where it came to rest with a resounding thud.

To what people there were on the station it must have been hysterical. I must have stood, mouth agape, looking from my hand to the case so far below,  not believing that this could happen - not now, not on top of everything else. Thankfully the case did not burst open, enough people had some my lingerie already that day. I hurried down to retrieve it. Have you ever tried to pick up a suitcase that has no handle? I already had a camera around my neck plus a shoulder bag. I had to cross a wide area to reach the platform and onto the train that would finally get me home. I tried to pick the case up lengthwise, my arms would not reach around to hold it securely. I tried to pick it up vertically, I could not see where I was going. I must have been stumbling around like a blind-folded person in a maze. Luckily,a very kind porter came to my rescue. There was no way he could re-attach the handle but he disappeared and came back with some sturdy twine which he wound round and round the case and then made a thick loop to serve as a handle. He was good enough to get the offending case onto the train for me. At last I could sit back and relax in familiar surroundings, close my eyes and look forward to reaching my station.

The train pulled in, I opened the carriage door, tried to lift the case by its man-made loop but I just could not do it, the twine cut deeply into my hand so I resorted to pushing the damned case out onto the platform. I started to drag it towards yet another long flight of steps that would take me to the station entrance and out into the night. Have you heard a heavy suitcase being dragged on concrete? The metal bindings made sparks, the few other passengers turned in surprise and turned away grinning. Not one person offered to help me. So bit by bit I dragged it up the platform and to the bottom of the stairs. No way was I going to get it up there. I was exhausted, emotionally wrecked and by now I was coming up with every profanity I could think of. The train had pulled away, the passengers had gone, there were no staff, I was alone. There was nothing for it. I had to sit with my bum on the steps , about three steps at a time, and haul the case up. It banged my knees and my shins bringing up bruises , my stockings were torn, my skirt was filthy but it had to be done.

At the top I rested for a few minutes then left the station feeling that I was towing a dead horse behind me. I had to cross the main road which luckily for me, was quiet as it was late. Then to the top of my street. To get down into my street I had to go down two flights of steps, spaced apart by a kind of landing. By this time I just did not give a s..t anymore . Holding onto the handrail I just launched the suitcase on its way with a heavy push. When it hit the landing it was like an explosion. I completed the second flight in the same way. Just for good measure, I gave the case a mighty kick when I got down myself, letting out a string of expletives - not that it did any good, I only hurt my foot. Then it was just manually hauling it again down that long long road, sitting every now and then on somebody’s front wall to get my breath. My muscles were screaming, my shoulder felt like it was dislocated , lights were coming on in windows at the horrendous sound of dragging outside. The suitcase was never usable again as you can imagine.

At last my home was in sight. My father was at the front gate, he had been nearly going out of his mind wondering where the hell I was. I do not know what he must have thought when he saw me. I must have looked as though I had been in a fight. He took the case inside for me, whilst I slowly tottered behind . My mother was standing in the doorway, obviously relieved." Hello darling, did you have a nice time? "My reply - I burst into tears and said “Oh, Mum, it was so awful, I need a holiday!”

That, dear readers, is the story of my holiday from hell. I can look back now and really see the funny side of everything.  I hope you have  enjoyed sharing it with me.

 

Postscript. The following Monday morning I had to face GD at work. She was cold but her usual efficient self and no mention of the holiday was made. A couple of weeks later I gave in my notice and moved on to pastures new. For a while she did send Birthday and Christmas cards and I reciprocated. The last I heard of her was in 1965 when she sent me a short note saying something that hurt me so much I did not dignify it with a reply.