The View From The...

The View From The Club House

Pete peered out the windscreen trying to tie up the road ahead with the Sat Nav map on the dashboard. He shook his head. There was no doubt about it. They were lost. Pete and his wife Emma had booked a week’s stay at the Starr Hill campsite. They would be staying in a caravan. Pete had tried to persuade Emma to try camping in a tent, but she had insisted her camping days had ended when she stopped going to music festivals in her twenties. While Emma drove, Pete gave her directions. She could concentrate on the road, and Pete would call out instructions, left and right or straight on.

According to the map they should be coming across the campsite any moment now, but there did not seem to be anything but fields for miles around. They peered out the window, craning to see further, looking out for anything that could resemble a holiday park. There was nothing but fields of grass and crops, and a few sheep. It was a lovely countryside backdrop, but they didn’t seem anywhere near their destination. 

They were driving in what they hoped was roughly the right area, still following the Sat Nav, when the message popped up on the small screen. No signal. Pete swore.

‘What does that mean?’ Emma asked.

‘It means that we are well and truly lost. We were up the creek and that was our paddle.’ He said.

‘What do we do now?’ She asked.

‘I dunno, I suppose we just keep on going.’

Emma shrugged and put her foot on the accelerator. Pete checked his mobile phone. No signal. He knew that Emma’s mobile phone would be the same. They really were out in the sticks. He wasn’t expecting to be able to watch online videos out here, but he’d have thought mobile phone reception wouldn’t be too much to ask for.

After over an hour of driving aimlessly through miles of empty countryside, they spotted a campsite. The faded painted sign by the road-side declared Green Pastures Holiday Park.

‘Is this it?’ Emma asked.

‘It’s not the place we’ve booked; goodness knows where that is, but at least it’s something. We might as well see if they can put us up.’ Pete said.

‘And if they can’t?’ Emma said.

‘I don’t want to think about that.’ He replied.

Emma turned off the main road and drove through the gates into the park. As they headed slowly into the holiday park, tyres crunching on the gravel path, they took in their surroundings. The place looked so very dated, the caravans and chalets lining the path were so old-fashioned, all beige and cream coloured with net curtains in the windows. It was the kind of pace you’d see on classic television shows. Back in its heyday, the place would have boasted that it was fun for all the family and held sports days and beauty pageants and had an entertainment team to keep the guests occupied for the duration of their stay. The lay out of the caravans and chalets reminded Pete of a film he’d seen about a Prisoner of War camp. Maybe he and Emma would have to tunnel out to make their escape. 

Emma pulled up outside a small reception building. The building looked like a chalet that had been converted into the park office. As they entered, Emma whispered, I just hope they’ve got a vacancy. Peter responded, fingers crossed.

The man behind the counter looked up from his paperwork as the bell over the door jangled.

‘Good afternoon, guys. How are we today?’ He asked, straightening his tie. 

The name badge on his shirt said his name was Bernard and that he was the site manager. 

‘Afternoon, I don’t suppose you’ve got any spaces? Any chance of us stopping for a few nights?’ Pete asked. 

‘And does sir have a reservation?’ Bernard said. 

‘I’m afraid ‘sir’ does not.’ Emma said. ‘We got lost and stumbled on this place quite by accident.’

‘In that case, let’s see what I can do.’ Bernard said.

He flicked through the pages of the ledger, mumbling to himself, before tapping a finger. 

‘I’ll put you in Redwood 7.’ Bernard said.

As Pete and Emma thanked him, he reached under the counter for the keys. 

‘Your caravan is straight down the road, on the left. If you reach the site bar, the Club House, you’ve gone too far.’

‘That’s great. Thanks for fitting us in.’

‘Since the new bypass opened, we don’t get that much passing trade. Queen Elizabeth opened the new road last year, but she may as well have closed this place down.’

Pete did not point out that Bernard must have his dates wrong, as King Charles had been on the throne for over four years. 

‘Can you put us down for two nights? We’ll stay a couple of nights and then be on our way.’ Pete said. 

‘One night, two nights, or forever, it’s all good. When you’re departing, just leave your caravan unlocked and the keys on the table.’ Bernard said.

The caravan was big enough for two people, but just barely. Technically it was a two-berth caravan, but there was hardly any room. It was a good job he was staying with his wife as whoever you’d share this small caravan with, you’d be more closely acquainted with by the time your stay was over. And the interior was just as old fashioned as the rest of the park. The three-bar electric fire and the shire horse ornaments reminded Pete of his grandparents’ flat from when he was a child.

‘Geez, it’s tiny.’ He said.

‘It’s cosy, love. Chill out, we’re on our holidays.’ Emma said.

‘I say we quickly unpack and freshen up and then head to the onsite bar.’ Pete said.

The Club House reminded Pete of the caravan holiday sites of his childhood. He had no idea people were still holidaying like this. Surely things had moved on since then. These days there were lots of nice modern holiday spots to take the family. Why would anyone actually choose a place like this? This place seemed stuck in the 1980s. In fact, to this place, the 80s seemed quite modern. There was a guy dressed in a dinosaur outfit entertaining a group of small children on the dance floor while the DJ played cheesy pop music and the lights flashed from his music system. It had the air of a naff children’s birthday party about it. Pete smiled. There would probably be a buffet later, serving sandwiches that were older than some of the kids on the dance floor. 

At the bar, they order two pints of lager. As the barman pulled their drinks, he spoke.

‘Have you guys just arrived?’

‘Yes, we got lost and ended up here.’ Emma said.

‘Don’t we all?’ The barman replied. ‘I’m Callum, by the way. If you need anything just give me a shout. And there’s the beer garden through those doors. It’s lovely out there this time of year. You’d think you were in Spain.’ 

Pete thanked him and they took their drinks and headed out through the double-doors to check out the beer garden. The beer garden was rather impressive. The paved terrace overlooked the beach. It was a lovely spot. For the first time since setting off on their trip, they felt they were on holiday, as they sipped their cold beers on a wooden bench, taking in the beach view, with the bay stretching away under blue skies. 

‘He was right about the view. It’s beautiful.’ Emma said. 

Pete headed back to the bar for another round of drinks. He had been too busy chatting to Callum earlier to notice, but the drinks were unbelievably cheap. When he was handed his change, he was surprised at the amount he’d been given. That was less than two pounds a pint. He handed Callum a couple of pounds coins as a tip, there you go, mate.

As he handed over the coins, the barman grabbed his wrist.

‘Whatever you do, don’t drink the water.’ He said, his voice an urgent whisper. 

Before Pete could reply, Callum released his grip and turned away to serve another customer. Pete joined Emma back out on the terrace. He didn’t say anything about the barman’s strange comment. He didn’t want to worry her. Instead he asked, we did bring the bottled water with us, didn’t we?

‘Oh yes, we’ve got lots of it in the car. You always say that tap water tastes funny outside of Manchester.’

‘That’s good. We’ll stick to the bottled stuff.’ He nodded, making a mental note to put the bottles in the fridge when they got back to the caravan. 

The following morning, Pete popped across the park grounds to the small shop onsite. The bell on the door jangled as he entered. The store was a small supermarket, selling necessary provisions. He looked around the store. It was basic, but did seem to have all the essentials, washing up liquid, plasters, tins of baked beans, tea bags. 

‘Have you got the morning papers?’ He asked.

‘Sorry?’ The woman behind the counter said, removing the glasses on a chain round her neck.

‘Today’s newspapers?’ Pete said.

‘No, we haven’t had the delivery yet. They are all we have.’

She pointed to a stack of newspapers on a low shelf by the window. The yellowing editions looked like they had been there for decades. Pete had a look at the newspaper on top of the pile. It was dated 1987 and the front page declared Margaret Thatcher wins Third Term! Regardless of your politics, that was hardly breaking news. The pile of papers was like something from a documentary about hoarders. 

There was something odd about the shopkeeper, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was a bit like when one of your friends changes something, maybe tries contact lenses rather than glasses, or shaves their beard off. For a moment, you know something is different, but you can’t quite spot exactly what it is.

‘I’ll just have a packet of cigarettes, please.’ He said.

The shopkeeper slid a pack of twenty across the counter. 

‘Strand cigarettes? I didn’t think they still made these.’ Pete said.

‘That’ll be one pound, please.’ She said.

Pete smiled and handed over a pound coin. In Manchester a pack of twenty cigarettes would cost you over ten pounds. Who cared if the brand was out dated if they cost you a fraction of the price? 

Back at the caravan, Pete took a seat at the small table in the dining area.

‘No morning papers. They say no delivery yet.’ He said. 

‘This place is off the beaten track The delivery trucks would probably never find us.’ Emma said.

She placed mugs of tea and plates of hot-buttered toast on the table and joined him.

After breakfast, Pete and Emma explored the holiday park. The place was so old-fashioned that it had almost come back into fashion. The place was what Pete would call Retro. It felt like they’d gone on holiday to the 1970s or ‘80s. As if to prove his point, at that moment a little boy on a BMX bike rode by wearing a t-shirt with the face of Worzel Gummidge. Pete smiled. He had loved that TV show when he was a kid. 

On the far side of the site, there was a stone path that wound down to the beach. The park has its own secluded bay, a pebble beach This was just wonderful. The holiday park may have been past its best, but the scenery was magical. Pete and Emma paused, taking in the view. It was idyllic. The blue skies overhead, the waves lapping against the shore. 

Pete and Emma headed out along the promenade that ran along the beach. The path was busy with other holiday-makers. Parents struggled to keep up with kids as they whizzed along on scooters. The kids pushed themselves down the path, laughing in delight. 

‘That’s good to see, isn’t it? Nobody is on their mobile phone.’ Pete said.

Emma noticed he was right. There wasn’t a single person using a mobile phone. In this day and age, that was unheard of. Wherever you went, you’d find someone on their phone. You could climb to the highest peak of the Himalayas, and you’d find someone taking selfie at the summit. And yet, here, nobody was using their mobile phone at all. 

‘Mind you, there’s no phone signal around here. Not a lot you can do on your mobile with no signal.’ He added. 

‘Imagine asking that creepy site manager for the Wi-Fi code!’ Emma said.

As they walked along, passing the other tourists, Emma leaned into him and whispered.

‘Have you noticed their eyes?’ She asked.

‘Whose eyes? What are you talking about?’ Pete said.

‘Everyone has this weird colouring to their eyes.’

Pete looked around, paying particular attention to the eyes of the families passing by. The whites of their eyes all had this pale green tint, like they were wearing coloured contact lenses. It was just a slight colouring but once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop seeing it. In fact, now that he thought about it, that was what had been striking about the shop keeper. It had been the green colouring of her eyes. A woman walking her dog passed them on the promenade. Pete and Emma said good morning. The woman muttered hello, before hurrying away. 

At a picnic table, a family are eating sandwiches from tin-foil and sipping cans of fizzy pop. The little girl, her hair in pigtails, reached out for a can of Cola. The drink was out of her reach, at the end of the table. She pointed a finger and the can of Cola slid across the table and into her hand. Pete was stunned. The tin can had moved as though it was on strings. 

The next morning, they strolled along the beach. They spotted the woman with the dog from the day before. Pete bid her good morning and in an automatic gesture, he bent down to pet the dog. Suddenly the dog snarled and snapped at Pete’s offered hand. Pete felt sharp pain shooting through his hand. Pete winced and snatched his bloody hand away from the snarling dog. Rather than apologise or chastise her dog, the woman simply shook her head and walked away.

Emma ushered her wounded husband back to the caravan. She found the first aid kit under the sink and then ran Pete’s hand under the cold tap before cleaning and patching up the wound. The cut was deep but not too serious. In a few days it would heal, he would probably have a scar, but it could have been worse. There was no need for hospital treatment or stitches. She wrapped the bandages around his hand like she was a trainer preparing a boxer for a fight. 

‘How’s that?’ She asked when she had finished.

‘That’s lots better, thanks, love.’ He said.

Pete made a fist, and then slowly opened his hand, wiggling his fingers. The bite still hurt, but he hoped that the pain would soon fade. At least the wound was dressed and would heal, that was the main thing.

The next morning, as they breakfasted on tea and toast, Emma asked how his hand was. Pete put his mug of tea down. He gingerly moved his hand around.

‘It doesn’t feel too bad actually. And I slept well.’ He said.

‘That’s good. I’ve been sleeping really well while we’ve been here. I’ve been having the best nights’ sleep I’ve had for years. I’ve not been dreaming, though. I usually have these mad dreams and wake up full of the stuff I’ve been dreaming about. While we’ve been staying here, I can’t recall dreaming about anything.’

‘Maybe it’s the sea air relaxing you. Back home, maybe you can’t switch off and so you have all these crazy dreams.’ Pete suggested.

‘Yes, maybe that’s it.’ Emma said, sounding unconvinced.

That afternoon, they stopped off at the Club House for a couple of drinks. There was something so lovely about having a few cheeky drinks in the pub of an afternoon. That was part of their holiday. During the normal working week, you couldn’t stop for a pint and watch the world go by for a couple of hours, but on holiday, that was almost compulsory. 

Callum, the barman handed him their drinks. 

‘Are you coming in for the England game tonight?’ Callum asked.

‘I didn’t even realise they were playing.’ 

‘Yes, kick-off 8 o’clock.’ Callum said.

‘Nice one, I’ll see you then.’

When Pete mentioned the football game that evening, Emma rolled her eyes. Pete laughed, knowing what was coming.

‘Football, love? We’re on our holidays. Can’t we have a break from the game?’ She said.

‘It’s only one night, hun.’ 

‘Go on then. I’ll stay here and read my book.’

‘You don’t fancy coming and having a few beers?’ Pete said.

‘I’ll have a few beers here. There’s plenty in the fridge. It’s packed with cans of beer and bottles of water. A cold beer and a good book. That’s my idea of a perfect night.’ She said.  

Before he left for to watch the game, he decided to check how his wounded hand was bearing up. At the bathroom sink, Pete unwrapped the bandages and peeled away the plasters. He tried to ready himself for seeing the injury. He just hoped it was healing okay and wouldn’t need a trip to hospital. He stared in bewilderment at his hand. There was nothing, no injury, no wound, no sign of the bite mark. 

He went through to find Emma on the sofa. He waved his once-injured hand.

‘Have you seen my hand now?’ He said.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Emma asked.

‘That’s just it. It’s fine.’ Pete said. 

‘Sorry, Pete, I don’t follow.’

‘The injury from the dog bite, it’s gone.’ He said.

‘Wait, you were bit by a dog? When did this happen?’ She said.

‘Yes, yesterday. You were with me. You patched my hand up last night.’ Pete insisted.

‘That never happened. Are you sure you didn’t dream it?’ 

With confusion and bewilderment bubbling up inside him, Pete simply kissed his wife on the cheek and said he’d be home after the football match. Emma raised her glass of beer and told him to have a good time.  

The Club House was packed with people, all there to watch the big football match. The chalkboard outside declared England v Argentina, 8pm! 

The people in the pub were glued to the screen. They hollered and shouted at the TV as though the players could hear them. Pass it! Man on! Good ball! Well played! 

Pete looked to the screen. The match on screen was decades old. The players who were in their prime on the TV, had retired from the game years ago. A few had gone on to be television pundits when their playing careers had ended. Nowadays, they would all be in their eighties at least. And yet everyone around him was watching the old game as though it was happening right now.

‘Is this a repeat? A classic match?’ Pete asked the guy next to him.

‘It’s England against Argentina.’ The guy said.

That didn’t answer his question. The match was from a tournament sixty years ago so why was everyone watching and cheering like it was just happening?

Even less sure of what was going on at this eerie holiday park, Pete headed outside for a smoke. 

As he perched on the brick wall out front, he lit a cigarette. He stared out across the holiday park, the rows of caravans, the grass and the trees. It was then he noticed the people. The other holiday-makers were standing around, all perfectly still, motionless, as though they were manikins in a shop window. It was like a pause button had been pressed. There was a couple in their twenties, walking along holding hands. Their front feet were a few of inches off the ground, mid-pace. Some kids playing football on the grass, were frozen stiff, like it was a photograph of a game, rather than real-life. 

Pete stared on in terror. What was happening? Had the world stopped? Was he the only one still moving? He glanced over his shoulder. Through the window, he could see the revellers in the pub. They too, were paused, mid-action. One woman held a glass of wine to her lips, a couple of lads raised their beer glasses in a toast, all stock still. The world was still and silent. 

Pete was about to call out, to shout, asking what is going on with everyone, when suddenly, as though a spell has been broken, everyone burst into life again.

As the couple neared, Pete called out to them.

‘Everything okay, guys?’

‘Yes, all good. We’re having a lovely time.’ She said, with a smile.

Back at the caravan, the glow of the lamps against the thick curtains now seemed sinister rather than cosy, and the darkness outside seemed foreboding. Pete was still unsettled by the strange occurrence outside the Club House. He couldn’t explain to Emma that everything, everyone had stopped. He knew how crazy that would sound. Emma would no doubt insist he had imagined it. Maybe he had. Maybe the creepy holiday park was getting to him. 

As they sipped mugs of tea on the sofa, Pete chose his words carefully. 

‘This whole place has got a weird vibe. I don’t like it.’ He said.

‘It’s just old-fashioned, that’s all. It reminds me of the caravan holidays we went on as kids.’ Emma insisted.

The next morning as he is brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he mulled things over. He swigged from the bottled water and thought things through, trying to make some kind of sense of everything. He really didn’t like this place. There was something not right about it, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. There was so much that could not be explained, and things seemed to be getting weirder. Feeling panic grip him, he went through to the living room. Emma was simply standing there, motionless, a blank expression on her face, like a television set on standby. It was just like those outside the pub.

‘What are you doing, love?’ He asked.

Emma turned to face him, the spell broken.

‘Hm? Oh, nothing.’ She said.

‘Come on, love. We need to leave. We have to go home now.’ Pete said.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘I just don’t like it. I can’t stay here a moment longer. Can we just go, please?’ Pete said.

Hearing the desperation and panic in her voice, Emma nodded. They hurriedly packed all their belongings in the suitcase and dashed out to the car. Pete tossed the suitcase in the boot and climbed behind the wheel. Once Emma was in the seat next to him, and glad to be leaving this strange place, Pete drove towards the gates. He knew he would feel much better when they were on the road home. 

As they neared the gate, Peter was struck by a blinding headache. He slammed on the brakes, the car juddering to a stop. Bright lights flashed in front of his eyes like a thousand camera flashes, high-pitched piecing sounds rang in his ears. Beside him, Emma screamed, clutching her head, clearly suffering from the same strange affliction. He yanked the car in reverse and backed away from the gates. As soon as they were a short distance from the gates, the pain cleared. The pain stopped as soon as it had started. He pulled the car over to the kerb, a few feet away from the gates.

‘Are you okay, love?’ He asked his wife.

‘I think so.’ Emma said.

Still reeling, they climbed out of the car and drifted back to the caravan, quite unsure what was going on and what to do about it. Pete flopped on the sofa and sighed heavily. He covered his face with his hands. He just wanted to be away from here. He wanted to be anywhere but this creepy little campsite. Emma grabbed the kettle and turned to the kitchen tap. Pete looked on as she filled the kettle from the tap.

‘What are you doing?’ He asked.

‘What does it look like?’ Emma replied.

‘We use the bottled water, don’t we?’

‘For drinking water and brushing our teeth, but not for the tea. I’ve been filling the kettle from the tap. Boiling the water makes it safe, that’s what they say.’

Peter felt the panic take over, consume him fully. They had been drinking the water in their tea, all this time. They had consumed countless cups of tea while they had been staying here. This couldn’t be happening.

‘We’re not supposed to drink the water, boiled or not. We have to get out of here right now. We tried driving but that didn’t work. We’ll run, we’ll walk. We’ll crawl if we have to, but we have to leave. We’ll drag each other through that gate.’ He said, pointing in the direction of the entrance.

He flung open the door, and they rushed down the steps. Pete and Emma stopped. They were not alone. The residents of the campsite were standing in front of them, in a line, blocking their way, like a row of riot police officers at a protest. They were all there, the woman with the dog, the girl with pigtails, the couple who had frozen outside the pub. Everyone was here. Their faces were expressionless, blank. Bernard, the site manager, stepped forward. 

‘Is there a problem, guys?’ Bernard asked, his tone flat. 

Pete went to speak, to tell him that he didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it. He would tell Bernard and the rest, that they wouldn’t be held prisoner. They were leaving right now, and woe betide anyone who got in their way. He was about to say that when his wife spoke.

‘No, Bernard. No problem at all. We are having a lovely time. Aren’t we, Pete?’ Emma said, her tone surprisingly upbeat.

Pete turned to Emma. He gasped. She looked back at him, a broad, beaming smile on her face. And there it was, the green tint in her eyes.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom