‘Put your fork in,’ instructed Nancy, ‘and just twist it a little, and hook it up like that.’
I did as she instructed. I lifted the shell high, almost to my lips, my fork poised. With a twisting, scooping motion I shovelled the contents into my mouth. And shuddered as I swallowed. Ugh. One was more than enough. How could Graham eat three? It was horrid, slimy tasteless, leaving just an impression of salty seawater. I shivered with distaste and quickly drained my glass of wine to wash the experience away.
‘What do you think?’ asked Keith, ever the innocent and missing my reaction. ‘Not sure if I like it or not. Might have to have another one to decide,’ he announced and off he trotted back to the dining room to collect more oysters.
I waved away his suggestion he bring me back another one. I could not trust myself to open my mouth at present, I was still trying to rid myself of the unpleasant taste sensations of the last one. I refilled my wine glass and proceed to gulp it back in an unladylike manner. Diane, sat on Keith’s left, of course, had called after him to bring her back a couple.
I noticed that at times during the meal they were quite chatty. I wondered what they found to talk about, what they had in common, if anything. Well they say opposites attract.
I am not sure how he had the nerve, but Keith returned not with a few oysters but with the whole plate, which he placed in the centre of our table as if we were the only diners in the restaurant that evening. I wondered what, and how much, he had had to drink in the bar earlier to give him that much Dutch courage. I thought I preferred my usual slightly shy, slightly embarrassed by situations Keith.
As he sat back down he moved his chair nearer in my direction, forcing me to shift my own chair slightly for comfort.
Diane brushed her arm against his as she reached towards the plate for an oyster. She murmured an apology and he laughed. I wondered if Keith was aware of the reputation of oysters. Diane moved closer towards him and whispered something. Again, he shifted his chair a fraction my way. I attempted to move my chair a little once more but my right leg was up against the table leg; there was no way for me to move further. Was he completely unaware, in his innocent childlike way, that he was encouraging her?
I wandered about Larry – was he as oblivious to the situation as he seemed? Was he perhaps proud that his wife could attract the attention of a much younger man but still stayed with him? Or was Larry unable, unwilling or incapable due to illness or a medical condition to please his wife and was only too grateful if she looked elsewhere for someone else to perform that function for him? Was Diane purely just his glamorous trophy wife?
Keith’s smiles were becoming a little strained and he looked nervously in my direction. It must have appeared a little odd, a huddle of chairs all at one end of the table when there was plenty of room to spread out.
‘I’m not sure if I want any dessert,’ he announced. ‘I might just go straight up to bed.’
‘I’m feeling a little tired myself,’ Diane purred, leaning towards him.
Keith jumped nervously. ‘How about you, Carrie?’ He prodded. ‘Have you got room for any pudding, or are you feeling tired? It’s been a long first day.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely having a sweet,’ I announced, enjoying his discomfort. It was his own fault. And I rose, extricating myself from table legs and the tablecloth that was wrapping itself around me, and headed off in the direction of the sweet table.
‘Er…maybe I’ll have some too.’ Keith hurried after me, leaving Diane pondering over whether to have yet another oyster.
‘She keeps kicking me under the table,’ he hissed in my ear as I contemplated the array of pastries on offer. ‘Rubbing her leg against mine,’ he complained.
‘Well you should not encourage her,’ I told him. ‘She’s old enough to be your mother.’
He stared at me.
‘Is she?’
I stared back, my fork poised in mid-air in the motion of transferring a little something with pineapple onto my plate.
‘Keith, of course she is,’ I confirmed. ‘You obviously have a thing about older women,’ I told him.
‘Do I?’
I moved on to the fresh fruit platter, mentally adding up my five a day and deciding I might as well eat another slice of melon, just to be on the safe side. Keith continued to follow me, his plate empty, so I served him a slice as well.
‘I don’t have a thing about older women, do I?’ he repeated anxiously. ‘Do I?’
I decided he needed to keep his strength up and added a banana to his plate; they are full of vitamins and goodness.
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I’m older than you are and she is way older than me.’
He was still disgruntled and absentmindedly added some grapes to his plate.
‘Maybe you should not encourage her,’ I advised again.
‘I was just being friendly,’ he hissed as an aside, as we returned to our seats. ‘You keep telling me to be friendly, to mingle.’
I looked at him down my nose. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘with everyone,’ and left the implied notion that he was paying too much attention to one person unspoken.
I finished my melon and helped myself to a couple of his grapes, as he did not seem to be eating them himself. Around us most people seemed to have finished; Hugh produced his packet of cigarettes. That was Diane’s cue to turn to Keith with a winning smile and invite him back to the bar for a nightcap. Keith declined, saying he had not finished his fruit, but added he might be along later.
I decided it was my turn to kick him for such a stupid comment. Keith stifled an oath and glared at me, as he reached down to rub his ankle. I helped myself to another grape. As soon as Diane and Larry had disappeared to the bar with Ann and Phil, Keith stuffed his uneaten banana in his pocket, took two large bites out of his slice of melon, then turned to me saying, ’Quick, let’s go.’
Keith grabbed my arm and ushered me in the direction of our rooms. As we hurried past the pool area I thought I spied a man lurking in the shadows.
Keith followed me to my room and fidgeted while I found my key – plastic card – and inserted it. He unceremoniously bundled me inside, as if I was the person who had embarrassed him. His discomfiture made me smile. While I sat on the bed he paced the room.
‘How long do you think they will stay in the bar?’ he asked, running his hand through his hair and making little tufts stand up.
‘How the hell do I know?’ I argued. ‘They have only just gone there,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ve had more drinks in the bar with Larry and Diane than I have. You know more than I as to how much they are likely to drink. However,’ I attempted to be reasonable, ‘I doubt that they will be really late as we have a full day of touring tomorrow, and its packing and cases out in the morning.’ I did not add that I had once personally stayed up until 2 am in the morning the last time I was in Egypt, a time confirmed by the receipt for my room and bar bill, when we had cases out at 5.30 am and breakfast at 6am…
I started to gather together what little of my belongings I had unpacked.
‘Either sit down,’ I urged, ‘Or go and do your own packing.’
‘I’ve done it.’
So, Keith sat on the bed and watched while I folded shirts and skirts and laid out my clothes (underwear discretely hidden under the shirt) for the next day. Then I repacked my rucksack and checked the day’s photos on my camera. Keith decided to check his photos and we compared shots.
When I could no longer stifle my yawns, I decided to shoo him out. He checked his watch and I could almost see him mentally calculating the time; it had been about forty-five minutes. I looked out the window when I heard footsteps approaching but decided it could not be Diane as she would be chatting to announce her presence; I doubted she did anything in silence.
‘If you go to your room, keep the lights low and be quiet; everyone will think you are asleep,’ I advised. ‘What do you think will happen? That Diane will force her way into your room and ravish you?’ He had t
he grace to look put out by such a suggestion and it did the trick. He decided to leave. At least, I think he decided to go as it was such an absurd idea that she would attempt to visit his room at this time of night, and not because of any faint hope that she just might.
Chapter Five – Tuesday – Casablanca
I was up almost as soon as my alarm went off; I did not want to risk putting it on to “snooze.” I quickly showered and packed the last of my toiletries in my case with my night things, and placed it outside the door ready for collection. I made one last check around the room lest I had missed anything and, reassured, headed for breakfast.
Hugh and Nancy, despite their hippyish appearance which seemed to give the impression of casualness, were early birds, as was Carole. Phil and Ann appeared not long after I did and took a table nearby. I noticed Keith breakfasting with Graham and Karen; safety in numbers I speculated. Larry and Diane ambled in as if they had all the time in the world, whereas Bob appeared and made little hasty visits to the food tables as if he barely had time to eat anything before we were due to depart. Gordon arrived last as if reluctant to eat anything and mooched around, a glass of orange juice in his hand, contemplating the laid-out fare but selecting little.
After breakfast, whilst we were waiting for the driver to finish loading our suitcases into the coach, I nipped into the ladies to ensure I was prepared for the long drive. On my way out I bumped into Carole, almost literally. As I put my hand out in apology I noticed a small brooch pinned to her lightweight jacket. I leant forward for a closer look.
‘That’s lovely,’ I complimented her. ‘It’s an ammonite, isn’t it?’ It was only about an inch in diameter, maybe less, but it was cut and polished perfectly so that each individual internal chamber showed clearly.
‘Oh, do you like it?’ she preened.
Keith appeared from out of the gents. I was relieved to see he was wearing what appeared to be a slightly more demure pair of only moderately baggy “shorts,” which covered his knees and reached to about mid-calf in deference to our forthcoming visit to the mosque.
‘That’s just like your necklace, Carrie,’ he commented.
‘Oh,’ Carole said again. She raised her voice somewhat unnecessarily loud and Graham, who was standing nearby waiting for his wife, turned around startled. ‘You have an ammonite necklace? Are you interested in such things?’
She appeared to be looking over my head and I realised Gordon was standing behind me. I noticed with surprise that he was leaning a little on a walking stick, which I was sure he had not used the day before. Perhaps, I surmised, he only needed it occasionally; although there had been plenty of steps at the ruined palace he had managed them without any aid; possibly a case of the day after with muscles and joints aching from unaccustomed exercise.
‘Carrie’s into such things,’ Keith informed her. ‘Goes on amateur digs and is always in museums.’
‘I see,’ Carole muttered, ‘yes, I see. Well, that’s very nice, I’m sure.’ Then she barked at her husband, ‘Gordon! Have you got my bag?’ and before I could make another comment they had moved over to some chairs, where she proceeded to tip out the contents of her bag in search of something before repacking it. As she leant over her fringe of hair covered her face like a curtain, hiding her expression.
We left Marrakesh, driving down the Mohammed VI Road. Gazing out the windows I noticed how clean the main street was. Men armed with brooms were busily brushing away dirt; there appeared to be no litter, and gardeners were pruning shrubs and bushes that had been planted between the divisions of the two lanes of the road. I have never seen such care and attention taken in the appearance and upkeep of a major city before. It was a touching as well as an impressionable sight to behold as we drove north towards Casablanca.
I don’t know much about Casablanca. Abdul kindly informed us, using the tour bus’s microphone, the name is derived from the Portuguese, meaning “white house,” while much of Marrakesh, on the other hand, is constructed from red sandstone giving it a pink appearance, which I had read in my guide book, does not reflect the sun.
Despite Casablanca being the largest city in Morocco, we were due to make only a fleeting visit – to view the Hassan II Mosque, that edifice our taxi driver had been so keen to inform us about and although that had only been a few days ago, on another continent, it seemed much longer.
Built relatively recently towards the end of the twentieth century, close to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, when viewed from a certain angle, the mosque appears to be floating on the water. It boasts the tallest minaret in the world, with a light at the top directed towards Mecca. It is the largest mosque in North Africa; it can hold not only several thousand worshippers inside but also many thousand outside in its courtyard. Several coach loads of tour groups can be accommodated at the same time and not feel cramped. It is just massive.
In fact, there were several other coaches similar to ours parked in the area and as yet another drew up Abdul warned us when we returned to ensure that we boarded the correct vehicle. I turned around and contemplated the new arrivals.
‘No,’ I commented, ‘their driver is not as handsome.’
‘The driver?’ Abdul queried, with mock offence.
‘And the tour leader,’ supplied Bob.
‘Of course,’ I agreed, although actually the other tour manager was rather easy on the eye I noted, as we walked the short distance across to the mosque entrance.
Each tour group was led by a smiling young man in a smart, dark suit. Our guide even wore dark sunglasses despite the fact that we were going inside the building. For a moment I thought he bore a distinct resemblance to the man guarding the pool at the hotel we had just left.
Unlike other mosques I have visited there were no racks in which to place footwear, however on entry we were given plastic bags to hold our removed shoes whilst we were inside. I decided to wear my thin cardi, not only to ensure that my shoulders were covered but just in case it was cooler inside the marble building; also, it gave me one less thing to worry about carrying.
We were taken first to the main prayer area and stood beneath its retractable roof that was open to the skies – just like the one over the Centre Court at Wimbledon. It lets in light and fresh air – and also pigeons who unfortunately had left their traces. Then we trooped down to the area where believers wash themselves, primarily their feet, before heading back upstairs and outside, where we were free to wander around for a few minutes and take photographs, or just sit and relax.
The weather had deteriorated whilst we had been touring inside the building; it was now overcast and grey. My heart sank a little – I wanted constant sun on my summer holiday! I crossed my fingers that it was just a temporary aberration in the weather, sure that it would not reflect in our moods, determined to enjoy myself whether or not the sun shone.
On the rocky beach to the left-hand side, as spray from surging waves splashed on the boulders, youths played football in the restricted space available, whilst others swam in the sea after first jumping off high vantage points close to the mosque. Showing off, they encouraged each other to jump further, higher off the low wall bordering the mosque and the beach, evading a man whose job appeared to be that of trying unsuccessfully to stop them. Gradually our little group gravitated over to watch, drawn by their shouts and joyous shrieks. At least they were having a good time.
When we returned to our coach it became apparent, however that the tour manager of the other vehicle had forgotten to remind his passengers to take care when reboarding, as there was a strange man sitting in the third row. He appeared comfortably settled, perusing a magazine, and not in the least bit perturbed when our group appeared to take our seats.
‘Makes a change to gain an extra person, rather than someone disappearing,’ commented Graham, making us smile. All except Abdul who was attempting to explain his mistake to the newcomer. The man, however simply stared blankly at our leader before resuming his reading. Abdul scratched his head in co
nsternation before turning to our driver and there followed a heated exchange between them in somewhat loud whispers; as if we could understand their native tongue!
‘I think he is asking the driver why he let him on the bus,’ said Hugh. ‘Presumably drivers are expected to recognise their passengers; otherwise anyone can get on the bus.’
‘Looks like anyone has!’ Larry quipped.
‘But what is to stop anyone then leaving the bus, having first rifled through any bags left on here?’ Hugh continued. ‘Abdul is forever saying we can safely leave our belongings on the bus.’
‘What’s to say that this is the first wrong person the driver has admitted?’ Karen pointed out. ‘Someone else could have entered and left, and we would not know anything about it until an item was discovered missing. And then we would only suspect one of us.’ We looked at each other in dismay before turning back to the man.
He looked to be aged about thirty with a Mediterranean complexion and was casually, but cleanly dressed. He was obviously not a homeless person who had taken the opportunity of a soft seat on which to rest for a while, nor did he give the appearance of someone who might be involved in some sort of sleight of hand thieving scam – or was that the point; that such people exude an aura of innocence?
Meanwhile, he was still reading his magazine seemingly without a care in the world. The fact that he had never seen any of us before did not seem to bother him; he was not worried that he was on the wrong coach. I looked out the window at the other vehicles parked nearby; the similar looking bus had already driven away.
Abdul had tried to explain to the stowaway his error in universal English. When that had no effect he switched to what I presumed was Arabic. Still the stranger gave no sign that he understood a single word.
Hugh decided to help out our beleaguered leader and stepped forward saying, ‘Por favor, senor.’ The stranger briefly raised his head, glanced at Hugh then continued reading.
Thirteen in the Medina Page 6
