Wendy, on the other hand, out of respect to the unborn baby, had only sipped one glass of champagne during the whole function and nothing else. She had been up bright and early, packing for their honeymoon and raring to go.
Mr and Mrs Bristow had kindly rented the couple a caravan for a week at Clacton-on-Sea. That, plus the whip-round from the boys at the boxing club totalling a generous twenty-one pounds and ten shillings, meant the honeymooners had a week of leisure ahead of them and money in their pockets to spend.
Gingerly washing and shaving, Danny thought about the events of the previous day. It had gone well, he thought, but he still had Albert and his absence nagging at the back of his mind.
There wouldn’t be time to talk to Albert before he left for his honeymoon. It would have to wait till he got back. Any liaison with Cohen and Costa would have to wait too.
Wendy banged on the bathroom door. “Danny, hurry up, we’ll miss the train!”
“Won’t be long!” he called back, and quickly got dressed.
The honeymoon was an exciting prospect. A train ride and a week by the sea, a welcome change from the East End streets.
“It would be nice to bring up the baby in the fresh country air, wouldn’t it?” said Wendy as they watched the countryside roll by out of the train window. “Now Mr Cohen and Mr Costa are going to help you make all that money, Danny, we could buy a nice house with a garden.”
“We don’t want the baby talking like a country bumpkin,” Danny joked, still trying to circumnavigate the Albert conundrum in his head.
Rolling down to the Essex coast, the train pulled into Clacton-on-Sea station. Baskets of flowers hung along the platform.
“Ain’t it nice!” cooed Wendy.
There was the smell of the sea in the air and seagulls circled noisily in search of any fish or chip they could nick from a unsuspecting holidaymaker.
All was right in the world as Danny and Wendy found the bus to the Happy Valley holiday camp and climbed aboard.
The camp wasn’t quite as impressive as the station. Dragging their suitcase into the wooden cabin marked, Wendy and Danny found a surly man with long sideburns waiting inside.
“Name?”
“Mr and Mrs Watson,” Wendy proudly announced.
Danny grinned at her. It felt good to hear her say that.
“One week,” stated their host. He handed Danny the key. “Row four, third berth down.”
Wendy and Danny tracked down their love nest after about ten minutes: an ancient caravan called “Dream Days” which had obviously seen better days.
“Ready, Mrs Watson?” said Danny, determined not to show a glimmer of disappointment.
Wendy smiled up at him as he carried her over the threshold. There was an almost reassuring smell of mustiness and past fry-ups inside.
“Oh it’s lovely,” Wendy said. “Look, if you stand on the sofa, you can see the sea.”
There was a moment of silence, followed by uncontrollable laughter.
“Mum’s hop-picking cow shed was better than this,” said Danny, grinning.
He and Wendy were in love, and the run-down honeymoon suite was going to be a comical experience. Now they were alone together, the surroundings didn’t matter. They would be content in a cave.
After unpacking, they decided to do a recce of the Happy Valley holiday camp and its facilities. There wasn’t that much to see: rows of caravans, a couple of tents, the com-munal washrooms and, the cherry on the sundae, a social club.
Wendy and Danny watched all the toddlers tottering about and talked about the forthcoming baby. A few names were suggested, but nothing settled on.
“Look!” Wendy pointed out a poster heralding the Knobbly Knee Contest the following afternoon. “You should enter, you’ll definitely win that.”
“Oi!” said Danny, laughing.
They were both anxious to get to the beach, so Wendy packed a few things in a bag and Danny sought directions from a jolly caravan neighbour.
The weather for September was decent and the sun glistened on the calm grey ocean. Danny splashed out on a bag of chips, and they found a spot they liked near the pier where they sat side by side to watch the never-ending motion of the waves, kissed by the seahorses.
“Why do they call them seahorses?” Wendy asked.
“I didn’t know they did,” Danny replied, putting his arm around her.
Sand castles were built and then washed away by the gentle never-ending waves. Children played, while grandparents slept in rented deck chairs. It was a typical English bucket-and-spade seaside scene, and Danny and Wendy were happy to be a part of it.
After a stroll down the pier, a cheeky look at the “What the Butler Saw” machine and a couple of goes on the pin tables, they decided to head back and get ready for a night out at the social club.
Wendy didn’t think much of the communal washroom, although for Danny, it was not unlike the many changing rooms he had spent hours in at boxing tournaments.
Ready for the night and dressed to kill, with Wendy looking lovely in a dress with pink roses on it and Danny in a smart blue jacket and black shirt, they made their way to the club. The early-evening bingo session was reaching its climax, and the concentration of the participants was tangible as they waited, pencils poised, holding their breath and listening intently for that elusive winning number.
The Master of Ceremonies looked slightly bored, with his hair parted in the middle and the look of a nineteen twenties movie star about him.
“Two fat ladies, eighty-eight!” he announced. “On its own number eight, see you at the garden gate!”
“House! Over here!” rang out from a hysterically excited fat lady in the corner. Making her way to the stage through the groans of the losers, arms raised in celebration, she collected her prize bottle of sherry and returned to her table like the conquering hero.
“I don’t much fancy this, Wend,” said Danny, eyeing the door.
Wendy held on to his arm as the tables and chairs were cleared for the shindig ahead. “Come on Danny,” she said, “it’s our holiday. We should have fun. There’s an empty table over there, look.”
After settling Wendy down, Danny went off to the busy bar to purchase a couple of lemonades and a bag of crisps. After fighting to be served and with his purchases in hand, he made his way back to their table.
Wendy had been joined by a group of other campers there for the beer and entertainment. Danny squeezed his way to his seat. Introductions were more of a middle-class thing; working-class folk tended not to do them.
“How long you down for?” asked one of their new neighbours.
“Me and my husband are down for a week,” answered Wendy with a smile.
Danny loved hearing her say that. It felt good every time, proper and as it should be.
The three-piece resident band struck up with a vengeance. This seemed to be a signal for every child in the room to head for the cleared dance floor. They ran, they slid, they chased each other, they fell over. Amidst the chaos, two very well turned-out ballroom dancers held their heads high and moved like stately galleons to the band’s rendition of Let’s Face the Music and Dance.
Most of the kids had vented their spleen by now, and the dance floor was starting to feature more grown-ups. The ballroom dancers were still at it, ranging from cha cha to foxtrot for anyone that was interested, but most of the other couples were content enough to just shuffle round. Two little girls danced on their dads’ toes and loved it.
“Dance with me,” said Wendy as the band launched into a suitably slow tune.
Danny was reluctant at first, but it felt good to be swaying to the music with Wendy in his arms.
“These are the good times and this is us having ’em,” he whispered in Wendy’s ear.
“I love you,” said Wendy and kissed Danny gently on the cheek.
“I love you too,” said Danny.
The Romeo on the drums gave all the girls the once-over as the band took a break and the raffle was drawn. Danny watched him eye up Wendy, but decided not to react. The drummer winked at another girl sitting close to the stage, and Danny saw him furtively disappear backstage with the girl in tow. Both of them returned after about fifteen minutes, looking flushed but happy.