Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  Keith must have had an eye out for me as he rose from his stool to greet me as I approached.

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t find your room,’ he apologised whilst urging me onto his vacated stool. For once our rooms were in different parts of the hotel. I pointed out the corridor down which my extremely spacious ground floor room was situated.

  ‘I’ve got a huge double bed,’ I said, then felt myself flushing as Bob was giving me a searching look over the top of his spectacles. If Bob thought that I was propositioning Keith that lad in question had not noticed.

  ‘I’m up on the fourth floor with a view of the sea,’ Keith said. I nodded; I could sort of see the sea from my room as well, glimpsed through tall trees that swayed in the strengthening breeze. We turned to Bob ready for a comment on his room. Sensing he was keeping his audience waiting he coughed as he quickly swallowed his mouthful of beer.

  ‘Yes, yes’ he stuttered, ‘very nice room, very.. er… large bed.’

  We were saved an embarrassing lull in the conversation by the arrival of Graham and Karen. Graham’s normally genial features were still marred by a frown and Karen raised an eyebrow when he ordered whiskey. However, after savouring a sip for several seconds he turned to us and commented, ‘Very nice place, very large bed.” Keith, Bob and I nodded and agreed and Karen raised her eyebrow again. I exchanged a wry smile with Karen as the men continued to discuss the merits or otherwise of their various beds, the pillows, the duvets. Presumably the first thing they had each done on entering their respective room was to bounce on the bed and test it out for comfort.

  Overriding the dissertation on hotel rooms I could hear the gradual crescendo of a sharp, raucous voice that heralded the approach of Carole, with Gordon in tow nodding in acknowledgement of her stream of complaints about the change in accommodation. Since they are normally first in to dinner, possibly to obtain the most favourable table or to help themselves liberally from the buffets or perhaps they just like to retire early to their room afterwards, I checked my watch in surprise, overcome by a sudden feeling of holiday alcohol dependency. But no, I was not turning into a barfly; they were late.

  Carole and Gordon did not stop at the bar but continued directly to the dining room, which was situated down an elegantly curved staircase on the lower ground floor. Suddenly feeling peckish the rest of us followed and thus we ended up being seated by the maître d’hôtel together on a rectangular table with Carole, Karen and myself on one side and Gordon, Graham and Keith along the other with Bob at the top end.

  While Carole and Gordon may not be the best dinning companions I was secretly pleased not to be sharing with Larry and Diane and, as if by magic and the power of thought, that couple appeared at the entrance. Diane was resplendent in another long expensive looking dress, but this time, one with a more demure neckline and, as if to draw attention to that fact, a necklace of stones, which I could see from across the room, that twinkled and sparkled.

  There was a slightly sticky moment when Diane tried to seat herself on our table, as Carole and her husband had vacated their seats to peruse the starters, but the maître d who had been trying to usher her to a table across the room calmly stated that the seats were already taken and no, the table was not large enough to squeeze another couple on the end. Luckily the timely arrival of Hugh and Nancy ended the debate, as that lady swept Diane and her protestations to one side and, with a wink in my direction, towards the proffered table across the room where they were joined a few minutes later by the remaining couple from our party, Phil and Ann.

  However, my glee was short lived, when I glanced up a short while later wondering why Keith was taking so long to select his starters and saw him deep in conversation with Diane, her blonde head close to his as she pointed out items and even went so far as to serve him a spoonful of this and then some of that onto his already overladen plate. Knowing Keith, he would eat it all.

  Keith was a little pink when he resumed his seat at our table, as the conversation had suddenly ceased and he became aware that he was, momentarily at least, the centre of attention.

  ‘Diane being Mother, was she?’ Carole asked, a little acidly. ‘Helping you to get your dinner?’

  Keith gave a small, little self-conscience smile. ‘I’ve never been on holiday before,’ he explained. ‘I’m not used to all this foreign food, I don’t know what it all is.’

  Our companions seemed to find this a reasonable explanation and nodded agreement that unusual food could be quite tricky.

  ‘Your first holiday eh?’ Bob commented. ‘So, what made you pick Morocco?’

  ‘Well, Keith replied between mouthfuls, ‘It was all Carrie’s idea really. She booked her holiday first and I just decided to tag along.’

  ‘Oooh, could not bear to be apart then?’ Carole queried. ‘Didn’t want to leave Carrie to the clutches of some dashing desert sheik?’

  I paused with my fork of salad halfway to my mouth, awaiting Keith’s reply.

  ‘Not really,’ Keith replied and I almost lost my appetite there and then. ‘It was just that we had had a trying summer and I wanted to get away. When I read Carrie’s holiday details it sounded such a good idea that I thought “I want some of that” so I booked my place and was lucky to get it.’

  ‘You did not book together then?’ Carole enquired, to which I replied, ‘No,’ as Graham was asking Keith why he was lucky. As Keith relayed the tale of his last minute decision and phone call to join the trip I thanked God that Diane was sat at a table across the room and therefore did not hear that Keith and I had booked our trips separately and not as a couple; although of course Keith could have already informed her of that fact during one of their cosy nightcap drinks in the bar.

  ‘So, although at first when I phoned the man said I was too late to join the tour unless I paid an extra administrative fee,’ Keith was saying, ‘it then turned out that just literally minutes before someone – another man travelling on his own – had phoned and cancelled, and they had not had time to process everything. So, all they had to do was transfer his holiday to my name,’ Keith beamed at his audience. ‘I still had to pay an administrative fee but it was less than if it had involved booking the holiday from scratch. So that,’ he concluded his story at the same time as he had finished the huge mound of salad, ‘is how I was lucky enough to join this trip.’

  ‘So, you weren’t originally booked on this tour?’ queried Gordon.

  ‘No Gordon, he has just explained that, weren’t you listening?’ berated his wife, crashing her cutlery loudly on her plate as she rose from the table.

  ‘Hmm, a last minute cancellation,’ murmured Graham thoughtfully, ‘I wonder who it was?’ His eyes followed Carole’s progress across the dining room as she made her way to the serving dishes containing the main courses, her husband following in her wake.

  ‘What does it matter?’ Karen commented. ‘Someone changed their mind, was taken ill, it happens all the time. Come on,’ she urged, ‘are you ready for the next course?’

  Keith, his five minutes of fame already over, raised his eyebrows in query at me and we joined the queue at the covered serving dishes. More than once, as Carole served her husband from the selection, I noticed that she would glance across at Keith and that Graham in turn was watching Carole.

  Chapter Seven – Thursday – into the Rif Mountains

  I spent the night in my huge, comfortable double bed alone. I tried to stop my mind straying to thoughts of Keith (and Bob) in their respective large beds. Had Keith been on his own, my fevered brain asked?

  As I made my way back down to the restaurant on the lower ground floor for breakfast, my thoughts still focused on what felt like abandonment. I replayed in my mind the events from the previous evening, in particular Keith bidding me goodnight at the lifts, instead of escorting me back to my room.

  The reason he gave was the distance between our respective rooms, as mine was located along a back corridor on the ground floor, whilst his was located on the fourth. With ano
ther early morning start and cases needing to be outside our respective rooms at 8.30 in the morning in preparation for our departure, he claimed he did not really have time to repack his bags and come to my room for just a few minutes. But my suspicious mind considered whether when Diane had been helping him to select his food, they had also been making arrangements for a late night tryst in the bar for a night cap.

  Keith, it appeared, had decided it was time to change the style of his beard – instead of a free-flowing design he had tied it up, wrapped around with a leather thong like an Egyptian mummy, giving the impression of a handle extending down under his chin. He explained over breakfast that it is quite cool compared to other styles, just like when I tie my long hair back in a pony tail, to keep my neck cool in the heat. It looked a bit odd on first glance but I soon got used to it and it detracted from yet another pair of his bright, multi coloured shorts. His case may not have held much in the way of other items, I concluded, but he certainly had copious pairs of Bermuda shorts.

  As Keith took his seat beside me on the coach ready for our journey into the Rif mountains he nudged me playfully and in a loud stage whisper commented, ‘The Rif Mountains, isn’t that where our guide Hamish said was cannabis growing country?’

  I corrected him on the guide’s name and allowed him his little joke and smiled. Despite at times a slightly grungy appearance, Keith is one of the cleanest living young men I think I have ever met and I don’t think all of that is down to his having to spend an awful lot of time babysitting his young nephew. He drinks moderately, although at the moment he seemed to have figuratively let his hair down in that department, but that’s all part of being on holiday. I have never seen him smoke and I am sure if he indulged in that vice I would have at some point smelt it on his clothes or his breath. So, he was unlikely to indulge in drugs.

  Granted as Pat, my friend and work colleague, is at pains to point out to me, he must have a social life, friends I know nothing about, but I doubted he indulged in anything faintly immoral. Although given his present behaviour, perhaps his secret was a penchant for the more mature woman. Previously, if anyone had asked me, I would have said his foible was his facial hair.

  Our first port of call, other than a quick stop at a local bank to enable those of us who were in need to withdraw money from the ATM – and luckily, Graham was on hand to translate the French instructions as neither Keith nor I could manage that - was Tetouan, the old Spanish colonial capital at the foot of the Rif mountains, in order to visit its ancient medina, which is a UNESCO world heritage site. As medinas go, it is on the small side but offers a view of an authentic traditional town that has not changed in several hundred years.

  Due to the nature of its tiny alleyways and the likelihood for tourists to get lost (especially us) we had an extra member in our group – a plain clothes policeman- to act as extra security and to guard against pickpockets, and also to bring up the rear, whilst Abdul forged the way ahead, ensuring there were no stragglers.

  And it was a quick visit – Abdul was not taking any chances; he strode off, setting quite a strict pace and the young policeman had his work cut out, ushering us before him and ensuring no-one lagged behind; there was absolutely no browsing or shopping for souvenirs in this medina. I am sure when we reached the exit archway Abdul mopped his brow in relief that we had all safely made it through.

  We stopped for lunch in the “white town” of Chefchaouen, where it seems all the houses are painted white or shades of pale blue. And not just the houses – driving along we passed a man painting a tree white. Not the whole tree, just about the first four feet from the ground.

  Before we alighted, Abdul gave us a little talk. He reminded us to keep together as a group, not to wonder off and not to be tempted to buy any drugs that might be on offer. As he looked around the bus his eyes paused for a second on Keith, who I felt instantly bristle beside me in indignation.

  Then in an abrupt change of topic, Abdul informed us that we would walk a little way to our restaurant and in doing so, pass a square where the local tradesmen would gather. We could see them with the tools of their trades spread out on the ground in front of them. Any resident needing a workman could come to the square and hire whomsoever they desired. There was no waiting, no sorting of available dates, just terms of payment to agree. If you needed a plumber, you just went out and hired one. An electrician, no problem, you had the choice of whomsoever was there.

  So, Abdul warned us, do not stare or look directly at the tradesmen, as they might take that as a sign that we were looking to hire help, and not, repeat not, to take any photographs.

  We duly kept together as bade for the short walk through the town. I sneaked a couple of peeks at the gathered group of tradesmen in the square, their tools laid out neatly (or not) in front of them indicating their craft. Then we proceeded towards our restaurant. At one point I saw a man sidle up next to Hugh and whisper something, which Hugh pretended not to understand as he strode onwards without a falter in his step. Abdul meanwhile was keeping a wary eye out in all directions, earning his fee as a reputable tour leader.

  Our “restaurant” for lunch held more than a passing resemblance to a tawdry café from an old 1970’s sitcom, with dented pine tables and striped curtains in pastel yellow shades gracing the windows. We were ushered upstairs and seated four to a rather small table. Bob hovered uncertainly until Hugh removed all extraneous items from his table top, dragged an extra chair over and urged him to take a seat.

  A burley waiter, with none too clean finger nails, passed around baskets of bread and took our drinks orders. More baskets appeared containing the usual starter of cold mixed vegetables and I felt my stomach begin to contract.

  When the main course was served I had to think twice as to whether it was in fact Friday and I had somewhere missed a day. Laid out on each plate were strips of fish, delicately coated in breadcrumbs and served with chunky chipped potatoes and sliced green beans. It was delicious and I tucked in suddenly ravenous.

  Keith had steadily eaten the cold vegetables and now continued to eat in a solid fashion but somehow without his usual enthusiasm. I could understand a loss of appetite with the inevitable beetroot and sliced carrot but I expected a little more fervour at the sight, if not the taste, of the fish and chips. Even Graham and Karen seemed to note his unusual silence and I noticed them exchange worried glances. Perhaps they thought we had had a tiff (and for once they would be wrong).

  Inevitably, to break the ice they turned the conversation to the food.

  ‘Hmm, good fish,’ commented Graham.

  ‘Very nice fish,’ agreed his wife.

  ‘And chips,’ continued Graham. ‘Carrie, how’s your fish?’

  ‘Very nice,’ I played along.

  ‘Keith, how’s your fish?’

  ‘Nice.’

  Karen frowned at this uncharacteristic monosyllabic reply, exchanged another glance with her husband and asked Keith if he could pass the salt, despite the table being so small it was hardly necessary. Keith obliged and continued to eat in silence.

  Around us I could hear the shrill voice of Carole berating Gordon over not being able to open her bottle of mineral water, Diane debating on whether the chipped potatoes had been fried in vegetable oil or virgin olive oil and whether she should eat them, when all we seemed to be doing today was sitting on the bus, and they would only go straight to her hips; and Phil was wondering where on earth the waiter had disappeared to, as he wanted another beer.

  Suddenly grateful that we were sat with two reasonable people I said, ‘That’s a good idea, having available workmen on offer. If you need someone in an emergency there would be no delay. Though I did smile at Abdul’s suggestion that a person could hire a workman he liked the look of!’

  My co-conspirators in raising Keith’s spirits nodded eagerly.

  ‘No having to take the day off work, only to find the man you had booked weeks ago doesn’t turn up, as he has double booked himself with a higher pa
ying job,’ Karen glared accusingly at her husband. ‘Presumably, though, you would have to get there early if you wanted to hire a particular person. I imagine the best workmen would be snapped up quickly; reputations and word of mouth must be much the same here as back home.’

  She laid her cutlery neatly together on her cleared plate before continuing, ‘I mean if I am pleased with an electrician I tell everyone I know and the same must be true here, so if you say, needed to do some re-wiring or something, you would get to the market early to pick the best tradesman, before anyone else had the chance to snap him up. What do you think Keith?’

  This direct approach did not have quite the effect she had expected. Keith also laid down his cutlery across his plate, dabbed his moustache with his napkin and then said a little petulantly, ‘I don’t see why Abdul had to look at me like that when he was advising us not to buy any drugs!’ He flung the soiled napkin onto his plate. ‘Do I look like a user?’

  With his eyes glittering with suppressed anger, and possibly an unshed tear, and two spots of red highlighting his outraged expression, he looked in need of something to calm him down.

  After a momentary stunned silence both Graham and Karen spoke at once, trying to mollify him.

  ‘It wasn’t just you,’ said Karen, her words not quite having the desired effects as they implied that our guide had indeed been singling out Keith, ‘Abdul also stared at Nancy.’

  ‘It must be hard for Abdul,’ added her husband. ‘I mean we are only a small group but imagine being a tour leader in charge of a large group, twenty, thirty people, and trying to keep them altogether,’ which raised a smile from Karen and I, remembering how various people had managed to wonder off and get lost on our very first sightseeing tour.

  ‘Keep them happy, put up with the grumblers who are never happy, watch those who are always lagging behind, those with poor time-keeping, those who continuously lose things and claim they have been stolen, people getting ill. We seem quite lucky with our little select band, but very often despite, all the warnings, there are usually at least one or two who cannot walk the small distances involved,’ Graham slapped his stomach to help illustrate his point. ‘Those who are unfit, those who moan about the food, the flies, the heat.