Page 72 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

‘There must be a comfortable sort of lounge where they can go and sit when it rains, and read the paper or play cards or board games. Perhaps with a piano – there’s always someone who can play.

A billiard room. A cinema. And there will be entertainments laid on – little competitions and quizzes, dances, organised games, races for the children, perhaps music-hall performances or something of the sort.

And,’ he finished with emphasis before Samuel could say anything, ‘my principal idea is that there is one flat charge per person per week. Once they get there on the train or motorbus and enter the camp, everything is covered. Food, entertainments – they don’t have to pay for anything more.

No need to carry money with them. Think how comfortable that would be after the struggle of their everyday life. ’

‘What’s to stop everyone for miles around coming in without paying?’

‘Oh, that’s easily arranged. There’ll be a fence around the perimeter and a gate, and our visitors will be issued with an identification of some kind – a token or badge they have to show.’ He stopped talking to let it sink in.

Samuel pondered. ‘You think there’s land to be had at the right price, do you?’ was his first question.

‘I know there is. Agriculture is so depressed at the moment that farmers will be glad to sell their land. And local authorities will welcome us for bringing business and employment to the area – builders in the initial stages, then cooks, cleaners, laundresses, suppliers of all sorts once we’re up and running.

Everyone will love this idea, sir. You’ll be a popular hero! ’

Samuel stared into the fire. ‘Nevinson’s Holiday Camp?’ he mused. ‘I don’t like the sound of Camp. Makes me think of soldiers. Tents. Latrines with buckets.’

‘Resort?’

He shook his head. ‘Village,’ he decided at length. ‘Nevinson’s Holiday Village.’

Richard smiled with relief. ‘You like the idea, then?’

‘It will take some thinking out. And, by God, a lot of money to set up.’

‘But if we get it right—’

‘It’ll be big – the biggest thing ever. We could have them all over the country. Like you say, there’s a lot of decent working folk out there, millions of ’em, and if you treat them right, they’ll come back year after year. By God, Richard, I think you’ve come up with something!’

‘I’ve been working on it for some time – I’ve got a lot of the details settled in my mind.

I’ve even identified the right place to start: the east coast. The land’s flat there, which will make building easier, and it’s cheaper – most people head west when they go on holiday.

Land in Devon and Cornwall would be much more expensive. ’

‘Hmm,’ said Samuel. ‘But the North Sea? Doesn’t sound all that attractive.’

‘Sir, they’ll find so much to enjoy about the holiday camp—’

‘Village.’

‘—village, they won’t care where it is.’

Samuel gave a slight smile. ‘Holiday villages on the moon, eh?’

‘Not yet, but in the future – who knows?’

‘I like ambition in a man! But let’s get the foundation right first. We’ll have to run it past Hannah. I never embark on any new venture without my Hannah’s say-so. And Cynthia’s head is screwed on the right way. You’re lucky to have her.’

‘I know that, sir,’ Richard said humbly.

Basil’s hand healed quickly after the operation, and apart from some stiffness, he had full use of it.

The Spanish doctor had either lacked expertise or, more likely, had been trying to scare him away.

His mother was eager for him to have the cosmetic treatment Oliver had suggested, and he said he would think about it, but for the moment it didn’t bother him.

It seemed a small matter in the scale of things.

Going back to work only made him think more often of Zennor, and the terrible waste of his death.

It irked him to be surrounded by people so enthusiastic for the Communist cause in Spain, who spoke so blithely of sacrifices being worth while.

He didn’t want to talk about it but, of course, he had to, since that was his job – and keeping his job depended on it. Dickins liked his first draft, but seemed doubtful that Mr Comstock would. ‘I don’t think this is what he was thinking of when he sent you out there,’ Dickins said.

‘It wasn’t what I was thinking of either,’ Basil muttered. ‘If I’d known what it was like—’

‘You wouldn’t have gone? That’s not the line to take with Mr Comstock. Or with me. A reporter has to face up to unpleasant facts when he’s on the track of a story. If you don’t know that, Compton, you might be in the wrong job.’

Mr Comstock, it transpired, liked it ‘as far as it went’.

‘Lots of colour,’ he said. ‘You write well, Compton. But where’s the political analysis?

The horrors of war are all very well, and we can use so much of it, but we need the political context to make sense of it all.

Otherwise all we have is a bunch of men kicking their heels in the trenches.

Luckily, we’ve got Bob Zennor’s accounts as well. ’

‘You have?’ Basil said stupidly.

‘You brought his kitbag back with you. It was full of his notebooks. Didn’t you look?’

‘I didn’t think it was my place to, sir.’

In the end, a series of articles was published, and Basil could tell they were a mixture of his accounts, with commentary from inside the office – written by Dickins or one of the others, probably Digbeth who was a senior reporter – and what he assumed must be Zennor’s work.

It seemed that Zennor had found time while out there to talk to officers and the better-educated volunteers, and assemble a great deal of their political thinking.

He had talked to officials in Barcelona and Tarragona, too, while Basil was otherwise occupied.

It was obvious that he had thought about things a lot less viscerally than had Basil, who felt rather a fool now.

He had allowed himself to be bowled over emotionally by the whole thing, while Zennor, whom he had always thought of as rather a pudding, had dealt with it all far more professionally.

And yet he couldn’t help thinking, a little resentfully, that his account was just as much the truth.

He thought of the waste and the muddle, the dead and the wounded: all those cheerful boys, like faithful, dog-like Javier, and little Jorge facing an uncertain future walking for ever with a crutch.

What did that have to do with Fascism or Communism or any other ism, with governments and coups and shirtsleeved men making deals in smoky rooms?

It was a little galling, when the articles came out, to see them headed ‘View from the Spanish Front by Bob Zennor’, and to have his name only at the bottom as ‘additional material by’, with Basil Compton coming after Bill Dickins and Arthur Digbeth, but he supposed it was fair.

And Zennor needed a memorial, because that was all he would ever have.

However, it did get Basil a promotion, from junior reporter to reporter, and a rise in salary that allowed him to move into better accommodation.

It was in Chancery Lane, which was closer to work, just one room on the first floor with a bed in one corner and a kitchen – double gas ring, marble-topped cupboard and sink with hot-water geyser – in another.

He had to share the bathroom and lavatory with the rest of the house; but there was no landlady on the premises, no-one watching him or checking up on him.

He let himself in with his own key at whatever time suited him, and cooked for himself when he ran out of funds to eat out.

Too bruised to seek pleasure, he decided to buckle down at work and concentrate on his job.

He took Dickins’s corrections seriously, asked his advice, studied the other men’s reports to learn how better to use the language and get the story across.

He read not just the things that interested him but everything, and followed up stories and lines in other places – rival newspapers and books.

When Dickins praised a piece of his work, and gave it back with so few blue-pencil corrections the original black was still visible, he felt his effort was paying off, that he could make a career in journalism.

He went home one Sunday to his parents and told them he had turned over a new leaf, and was now virtuous, diligent, happy and productive, all the things they had ever wanted for him.

He could hardly blame them for looking sceptical, though it hurt a little.

Cynthia took to the holiday-village idea at once. ‘We must paint the cabins in cheerful colours – nice pastels – pale blue, pale green, pale yellow. And we shouldn’t call them cabins. We should call them chalets. That sounds much better.’

‘Go on,’ Richard said, amused.

‘You’re laughing at me,’ she said suspiciously.

‘No, I think it’s a very good idea. What else?’

‘You’ll need a manager to oversee everything,’ she said.

‘Someone experienced in running a big hotel. He’ll have the same sorts of things to deal with – cleaning, catering, maintenance.

He’ll have to deal with the staff and the guests.

People will want a lot of telling to begin with, because this is something new and they won’t know what to expect.

’ She pressed a finger to her lips while she thought, and he actually saw the idea come to her.

‘There should be guides, like the couriers on our tours abroad – nice, cheerful young people who patrol the camp—’

‘Village,’ he corrected.

‘—answer their questions and make them feel welcome. And they can keep an eye open for repairs that need doing, or dropped litter – it’s best to keep on top of such things or the place will start to look shabby.’

‘How will the customers know who the couriers are?’

‘We’ll put them in uniform. Oh, not military uniform, don’t be silly,’ she said, when he made a face. ‘Just something neat, like flannel trousers and a blazer, with a badge to identify them.’