if the bidet in Mr Betts’s room had not cracked under the heat. He tried to put the fire out by turning on the taps and then the whole thing fell apart. Inferior foreign workmanship, you see. There was a terrible flood but fortunately Mrs Lapes was sleeping in the room underneath, so we were able to keep it in the family, so to speak. I believe that the Second Mate of the SS Foreskeen was very grateful for the commotion because it allowed him to escape from Mrs Lapes’s over-zealous attentions. She is certainly revealing a different side to her nature since tasting foreign climes.
One couple who have reverted to their old selves are our newlyweds, Tyrone and Deirdre Thoroughgood. They had a little tiff on the cattle boat coming over but have now made the back seat of the coach their own again – frankly I don’t think that anyone else would want the back seat now. I do wish they would not behave like that. Especially when people are trying to eat their Germütletoasties.
‘Hi there, gorgeous. What happened to you last night?’ The husky voice trying over-hard to be sexy belongs to the odious Jimmy Wilson. I wonder whether it would put him off if I told him that I had sexual relations with fifteen men, give or take half a dozen, and decide that it probably wouldn’t. Quite the reverse in fact. ‘I looked for you everywhere. Out on the tiles, were you?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say, wishing that I smoked so that I could apply the end of a cigarette to the hand that is surreptitiously stroking my bottom. ‘I had an early night.’
‘Good idea.’ Wilson tries to tuck his fingers underneath my skirt and I dig my nails into the back of his wrist. ‘That means that we can make a little whoopee tonight. Let’s get sloshed at the Schloss.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ I say. ‘Did you think of that all by yourself?’
Wilson is obviously a slouch when it comes to perceiving sarcasm. ‘Do you think so?’ he says. ‘People used to say I was very funny at school.’
‘They were right,’ I say. ‘Do you think you could move your right hand? I think it might go to sleep if I hit you over the head with my bag.’
‘What do you mean?’ says Wilson. ‘Are you trying to get a rise out of me? We had a date last night, remember? You made me a promise.’
‘That promise isn’t worth a plugged pickle!’ I say. ‘You were blackmailing me. I only played with your balls – I mean, I only played ball with you because I wanted to spare my parents pain and distress. Anybody who would take advantage of an innocent girl in that situation doesn’t deserve to be allowed to take advantage of her again. Now, if you’ll excuse me –’ I have just seen Hammerchick and Mrs Lapes disappearing behind a pile of coal. I remember them saying that they were going to look for Edelweiss. This is ridiculous! I cannot think of a worse combination than Jaroslov Hammerchick and Mrs Lapes in her present mood. Nations may crumble if I don’t get there in time.
I detach myself from Jimmy Wilson – by hand – and clamber over the low fence. There is no immediate sign of our driver and Mrs Lapes but I soon hear the familiar sound of his guttural utterances. ‘… So I get the Focker in my sights and Boom! Boom! Boom!’ Oh dear, there he goes, boring everybody to death with his experiences as a thirteen-year-old boy in the Polish Air Force – or Polish Air Violence as I believe they were known.
‘Oh,’ says Mrs Lapes – then ‘Oh!’ A thin trickle of coal dust begins to run down one of the stacks and I know that I have found my man.
‘Ah hem,’ I say. ‘I think we’d better get back on the job, Jaroslov. May I remind you that this stop is supposed to be for food and drink?’
‘This is foodski and drinkski for me,’ says the licentious Latvian, sulkily.
Mrs Lapes pulls down her skirt and glares at me with hate in her eyes. ‘Fancy him yourself, do you?’ she says accusingly.
I pretend I do not hear her ridiculous remark and make my way back to the coach. Readers of Lady Courier will not need to be reminded of the exceptionally distressing incident at a garage in Neasden which makes a mockery of her jibe. As I climb into the coach I feel glad that I left her to pick the pieces of coke out of her own knickers.
Morning gives way to afternoon as is its wont and our coach points its steaming nose southwards. It is noticeable that the terrain is getting hillier and the passengers begin to respond with excitement to the sight of the occasional castle guarding some seemingly remote hilltop. The only depressing feature is the weather. As we leave the autobahn, the sky darkens and it seems likely that we are in for a storm.
‘Gosh! It is spooky, isn’t it?’ says Penny as we stare out of the window. ‘Rather impressive though. I think the gloom suits this place. How much further to Bad-schweinfart?’
‘Over there on hillski.’ We follow Hammerchick’s stubby black finger and see an intimidating structure dominating the summit of a steep escarpment. The walls are high and drawn in like the waist of a dress and there is a confusing jumble of towers and spires.
‘Blimey!’ says Sid Betts. ‘Colditz!’
‘It is a bit grim, isn’t it?’ echoes Penny. ‘What are those birds circling over the battlements?’
‘They must be eagles,’ I say. It is funny but, though I don’t like to say anything, they look rather like giant bats to me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ I say, turning to the passengers. I sense that some of the weaker spirits may share my forebodings and need reassurance.
‘Are we staying there?’ says Janine Arkwright, sounding less than one hundred per cent enthusiastic. ‘It looks very old-fashioned.’
‘That’s part of its charm, isn’t it?’ says Penny. ‘Like that old gibbet by the roadside.’
‘Yes, but did you see?’ says a worried Mrs Arkwright. ‘There was a skeleton hanging from it.’
‘I don’t expect that it’s a real one,’ soothes Penny. ‘It’s probably there to attract tourists.’
Something in Janine Arkright’s eyes suggests to me that the German Tourist Board may be failing in its objective and I draw Penny to one side. ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t seem like a hotel to me.’
‘We’re a bit far away to be certain,’ says Penny. ‘But I know what you mean. Let’s go and have a look anyway. We’ll soon know when we ask.’
‘It doesn’t seem likely that there are two castles, does it?’ I say. I know I am sounding worried but I have just seen a signpost to ‘Schloss Badschweinfart’ made from what looks like the headboard of a coffin. I know that the German sense of humour is supposed to be a trifle heavy-handed but this seems to be going too far.
The road zig-zags up the side of the cliff and a sinister wind rattles the windows of the coach. I look down and see a silver ribbon of water winding hundreds of feet below. That must be the Rhine. And to think that I thought this place was romantic when I first saw a photograph of it. Whoever said that the camera cannot lie must be a terrible fibber. I have seen photographs of holiday camps that looked more attractive.
‘The view’s nice, isn’t it?’ I say, remembering Reggy’s instructions to keep cheerful at all times.
‘Not if you’re facing the castle,’ says tactless Penny – honestly, I could give her wrist a stinging slap sometimes.
We have pulled up outside two huge wooden doors studded with nails and Penny and I look at each other. ‘Are you going to ask?’ I say.
‘We’ll do it together,’ says Penny.
I am loath to set foot outside the coach and the cold feeling that creeps into my bones is not caused only by the tetchy wind that rattles the rusty chain hanging beside the heavy doors. Penny gives the chain a tug and after what seems like several seconds’ silence we hear a bell ringing in a distant part of the castle.
‘This must be the wrong place,’ says Penny.
‘Just what I was thinking,’