Ollie Gilmartin wasn’t the type of man to display excessive emotion, but giving the grass at Beachfield Caravan Park its final cut for the year always pleased him. It was part of his caretaker job, but he never liked doing it; still, whether he liked it or not, it needed to be done. When he did the last cut before winter, he thoroughly enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing it was over and done with for another year.
The weather over the past few days had been dry, so that in itself was a blessing. Not that Ollie cared much about how neat the grass would look at the end of it, but dry grass was a hell of a lot easier to cut than the wet stuff. He had got most of the end-of-season jobs done, even with the stragglers still on site up until the day before. There were always a couple of occupants who insisted on hanging on until the arse end of the season, usually those without kids, the ‘DIY enthusiasts’ who did their own fair share of battening down the hatches for the winter months.
He had switched off the mains power yesterday, and the water supply, as soon as the last of them had left. It was with a certain kind of satisfaction that he pulled over the large blots on the entrance gates for the end of the season, glad that it was over. After nearly twenty years of working there, he was well used to closing up and looked forward to the colder months. Ollie wasn’t a sun or beach lover, which was why his mobile home was located well beneath the trees, ensuring that even on the brightest of days, he was shaded. He had his own private water and electricity supply too. All in all he had managed to set things up at Beachfield to his own liking. His pigeon loft was a little farther out, seeing as the birds needed a clear view of the loft for their return, but the winter was a quiet time for the pigeons. That meant he could treat the cold season as a time for peaceful hibernation, which suited him perfectly.
Being the caretaker of a caravan park didn’t pay well, but the place was dry and he could do most things his own way, and in his own good time. Some of the kids could prove to be a nuisance during the summer, but a good roar usually sent the little feckers running. Ollie liked the feeling of being the master of his small kingdom. Throughout the season, nothing happened unless he gave it the okay and, even then, he set about doing his odd jobs in accordance with how the mood took him. He got most of his tips at the height of the season when things were at their busiest, and the size of the tip generally had a positive effect on both his mood and co-operation.
He made his mind up pretty quickly about people. Many of the visitors to Beachfield were regular punters, returning year on year. But all of the visitors quickly learned the fastest way to Ollie’s heart was by sending something extra his way. If you were a ‘regular’ and a ‘regular tipper’, you earned the privilege of calling him ‘Ollie’; if not, you called him Oliver. He knew the ones to mind on site and the ones who were best ignored. They all went through the same vetting process. Before he’d let any of them past the gate, they underwent his specific form of ‘welcome meeting’. With the newer ones, he made a special point of chatting as soon as they arrived. He wasn’t much of a talker, but it was important to set down your mark, make an impression, and even more important to gauge their worth. There was no point being rude at the beginning, never knowing which ones would turn out to be the better tippers.