Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  For the ride back I wore my cardi as the early morning sun had disappeared. This time I noticed the driver did not shun contact with my arm when we went around corners and I concluded that it must have been the touch of bare skin that he had been keen to avoid. Back at our hotel I thanked the driver and gave him an extra tip. He had been a very gentlemanly driver and I thought that we could do with people like him driving our local buses.

  After a quick comfort break we transferred back to our coach proper, our cases already having being stowed in the boot. Ann and Phil were also ensconced inside, eyes closed, napping. I saw Graham climb into the bus and then whilst settling himself in a seat behind them, lean forward for a chat, presumably asking how they were feeling. I took my own seat and closed my eyes in preparation for a nap following my restless night. In the general hustle and bustle I sensed someone hesitate by my seat but if it was Keith he did not stay and sit next to me.

  I dozed fitfully until we arrived at Agadir, Morocco’s largest seaside resort, just before lunch.

  The coach drew up by the esplanade. Abdul gave us an hour to wander around the tourist shops or stroll along the seashore. The sun was once again shining in a clear blue sky and I determined to shake off my gloomy mood from earlier and get back into the holiday spirit. I headed for the shops, however, few seemed to sell postcards and the ones that did looked like they had been on display since before I was born. I ignored the bars and cafés and turned in the direction of the sea.

  There was a low-lying wall separating the beach from the paved walkway and I sat on this to remove my sandals. I swung my legs across the bricks and placed my feet on the sand. It was hot but pleasantly so and I let the heat ease up through my body before I strolled down towards the water’s edge. All around children ran and played or built sandcastles. People were paddling or swimming. Except for the fact that it was not crowded, it was a typical beach that you might see anywhere. I cautiously dipped a toe in; it felt agreeably warm and I stooped to roll my trouser legs up above my knees. I was not the only one of our party to opt for paddling.

  It’s curious but on coach trips sometimes the only free time you get is when everything is closed; I had noticed that previously in Sicily and Malta; organisers have nothing to offer so they declare we can suit ourselves, except the only thing to do is to mooch.

  Karen walked by splashing me a little and further along the shore Ann was continuing to have a bad day as she stumbled and fell in the water drenching the front of her dress. Phil reached down to pull her to her feet and I quickly turned away as one of their spats became imminent.

  I hesitated. To one side of me Phil and Ann were arguing, to the other Larry and Diane appeared to be having a heated discussion about something. I did not want to tag along with Karen and Graham yet again. The single tourist’s nightmare; forever being viewed as a person who attaches onto others. Remembering Nancy’s probing gaze of last night I gave her and Hugh a wide berth. Gordon and Carole had mentioned looking for a cash dispenser when they got off the bus and Keith had elected to go along with them, as he had found that he was running short of cash yet again.

  I looked around and spied Bob sitting on the low beach wall with Keith, who presumably had found an ATM and now had beer money. Bob did not look the type to get sand in his shoes and venture further and I wondered if Keith was perhaps the cause of Larry and Diane’s animated discussion. Had Diane failed in an attempt to ask for Keith’s help in a spot of smuggling I wondered?

  I shifted my feet in the water, making circles with my toes. The sun was shining but somehow I felt like there were clouds on the horizon. I cast my mind back to a week ago when I had enjoyed an evening paddle with Keith in Ribat – how long ago that now felt! And what a contrast to the cheerful crowd we had been then; taking photos for each other, capturing that perfect holiday moment. Just at present our group did not seem particularly happy. We had reached that stage where enforced togetherness had brought tensions to the surface, bickering and disagreements. Perhaps we needed some space.

  Back home I might see a lot of Keith, but not all day, every day. I definitely needed some time apart from him to consider my feelings. Perhaps it was time that I faced the fact that I had possibly read more into Keith deciding to join me on holiday than there was. I had to face the fact he just wanted a break and had used me in this, like he used me to help babysit his nephew whenever he brought him round to play in my garden. Despite his occasional shows of affection this was no holiday romance. Our relationship was rather one-sided; I had always suspected that I felt more for him than he did for me.

  As I wondered aimlessly up the shore, splashing gently through the water I glanced up. Carved into the hillside was another Arabic inscription overlooking the resort, similar to the carved chalk white horse hill figures, or more locally the Cerne Abbas Giant in my native Dorset. Well, I needed to trust to luck or God or Allah that things would turn out alright in the end.

  Lunch was in a modern looking restaurant reached up a dingy back street. However, it looked clean and the chance to use the toilet facilities came at the right time. When I returned from the ladies Keith was still in conversation with Bob. I wondered what they found to talk about – I hoped it was not me. The last thing I wanted was for Keith to do the gentlemanly thing by standing back thus allowing ‘Bobby’ to approach me again.

  Our group had been allocated two tables in a shaded room. Despite the sign I took to translate as “reserved” the room was otherwise empty. A group of locals were eating outside under the shade of a veranda. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I had not, I decided, spent much time with either Ann and Phil or Gordon and Carole and therefore took a seat on their table. Was it my imagination or did Keith flinch slightly as if recognising the snub?

  We headed straight back to the coach for our after dinner siestas during the drive up the coast to Essaouira. There were a couple of brief stops on the way to enable us to stretch our legs. Then Abdul advised us to get our cameras ready, plus some small change with which to tip the local goatherd. I duly took the advice and descended the bus, camera in hand and change in pocket, and followed him up a little dirt track, around a bend of which grew an argan tree. And in the argan tree were goats. I am not a particular animal lover but it seemed an unusual enough occurrence to warrant a photo or two. I snapped away as the creatures gambolled around the boughs or stood on hind legs to nibble at lower lying leaves.

  ‘Not the sort of thing you see in Poole Park.’

  I turned around. It was as comments go a bit feeble but as Keith had made the effort after I had avoided him all day I wracked my brains for a suitable response.

  ‘No,’ was all I could come up with.

  I handed my tip to the goatherd who nodded and smiled his thanks and went back to the bus, a sinking feeling in my stomach that I had blown any conciliatory gesture that Keith had made. I gazed dejectedly out of the window as he walked back chatting amiably to Graham and Karen. He seemed to find it easier to talk to other people than I do.

  Our base for the next couple of days was Essaouira. During the drive Abdul gave us some background information. It had, he told us, been inhabited since prehistoric times. A Roman villa on an island off the coast had been excavated with the finds being displayed in the museum at Rabat. The famous Tyrian purple dye that the Romans used in the stripes of their senatorial togas had been produced in a factory here. Much later, in the sixteenth century this coastal region had been a notorious pirate haunt before becoming Morocco’s premier port. Goods came across the Sahara via Timbuktu and the Atlas Mountains to Marrakesh and then down to Essaouira. Continuing the film theme from yesterday, he added that Orson Wells had stayed and filmed there and a small statue of him still stands in a tiny square.

  We arrived with storm clouds gathering. Our hotel was on the sea front and as we approached waves buffeted the shore, spray flying everywhere. We gathered in the foyer while Abdul completed the checking in process and Graham grinned around at us.
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br />   ‘It’s like the denouement in a film,’ he said before adding in a mock dramatic voice, ‘The storm clouds gathered as our hero races to save the day.’

  On cue Abdul bustled over with our little plastic credit card type room keys. I contemplated his slightly portly physique while he looked around bemused at the stifled sniggers.

  ‘Funny looking hero,’ muttered Bob in an aside.

  ‘Perhaps that’s a false beard and he is going to remove it Clark Kent style when he rescues the damsel in distress,’ replied Hugh.

  ‘Do we have a damsel in distress?’ muttered Graham, raising an eyebrow in my direction. I smiled and flapped my hands in negation.

  Why is it that when a group of men get together sooner or later they all start acting like little school boys? Graham and Hugh were giggling away and Abdul was gazing round wondering what the joke was. I accepted my room key from Abdul and left them to it.

  My room was 318. To find the nearest staircase I had to go through the foyer, past the shop, sorry ‘boutique’, turn left, traverse the corridor, through the double doors, turn right and through the door. There was no light switch and if it was on motion sensors they were not working. I rummaged in my rucksack for my torch praying that the funny five minutes it had had previously was over and it would decide to work. I shook it just to see if that would help. It gave a very thin weak stream of light.

  I trudged up the three flights, opened the door at the top, thankful that it was a normal door and not one of those push bar security doors you sometimes get when using back stairs and had a look around to orientate myself. Then I walked down the corridor, turned right into another long corridor and there was my room at the very end. I was surprised to find my case ready and waiting outside the door. Either I had taken longer than I thought to reach my room or all the porters were more efficient at this hotel than the average.

  The room was large and spacious but spartan. I had a large double bed, which I doubted I will get full use of. Oh, for one of those just two nights ago. But then again, the single bed had been just the right side of cosy and snug.

  One wall of the room comprised a panoramic window overlooking a swimming pool in a courtyard area, bounded on three walls by the hotel complex. The fourth side looked out onto the road, with the sea beyond. A storm was blowing inwards and down below I could see hotel staff beetling around, stacking chairs and moving tables back towards the safety of the building’s shelter and covering anything that could not be moved and generally anchoring and making safe.

  I watched for a while as there was plenty of time before dinner. I was not in the mood for reading or testing the Morocco TV, now that I had one, and I doubted that anyone would drop by my room for a chat. Despite being in a group on holiday I felt a little lonely.

  I decided, not for the first time, to wash that man right out of my hair, before making the long journey down to the bar. It was extremely noisy in the bar due to one man playing an electric keyboard in accompaniment to a lady. I assumed she was singing; my ears hurt as soon as I put my head round the door. It was an effective method of keeping the bar clear ensuring the barman had little to do but lounge on his counter and leer at the singer.

  I was about to withdraw thinking that the room was empty of patrons when I spied deep in a dark corner two individuals. They appeared so immersed in intense conversation I don’t think they were aware of the entertainment. I hesitated about interrupting, trying to decide if my eardrums could withstand the experience, at the same time wondering – how on earth could Keith and Graham be conducting a conversation? Although to be fair, Graham looked to be doing all the talking; Keith just sat, head lowered in dejection; he looked as unhappy and lonely as I had felt in my room earlier. A part of me felt pleased. I wanted to go in and give him a hug but I also wanted to silently withdraw and pretend I had not seen his misery. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach and I did not think it had anything to do with what I had eaten at lunch. While I hesitated in the doorway Karen came up behind me.

  ‘Collecting our menfolk for dinner?’ She asked. I noted her use of the words ‘our menfolk’ and allowed her to usher me into the room.

  Larry was alone when we entered the dining room. Diane was ‘resting’ he explained, her stomach was a little dodgy.

  Nancy leaned towards me and whispered, ‘So he says,’ pointedly and I wondered what she meant.

  I took the wine list from Hugh and scanned through it before beckoning to the waiter by raising my finger and ordered a bottle of wine. The man hesitated, glanced at Keith, who looked equally startled at my daring to order without consulting him first, but I did not want to wait another twenty minutes whilst Keith decided. The waiter acquiesced with ‘Tres bien madam,’ to which I countered with ‘Merci beaucoup.’ I was not in the mood to be bested by a waiter; I might be British, but I do know the odd French word, even if my accent is appalling. He then walked around to stand between Graham and Karen, wavering as if unsure which of them was going to order. Karen took her cue. It’s going to be ‘Ladies Night’ I thought.

  A little while later, when Larry was at the buffet, Nancy turned to me and said, ‘I do believe they’ve had a row,’ she raised her eyebrows then turned her head slightly in Keith’s direction with a little nod. ‘That’s why Diane is “resting.” Larry’s put his foot down on certain activities.’

  I was not exactly sure what activities she meant and before she could elaborate Ann, anxious for gossip leaned across the table and asked in a loud whisper, ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’

  ‘Our room is next to theirs. It was impossible not to overhear.’

  For some reason we all looked across at Keith who had turned a little pink in the process of cutting a very difficult piece of meat with fierce concentration.

  ‘Would you like some more wine with that?’ I asked offering the bottle. I added, a little cruelly, ‘It might make it easier to swallow.’ At which point he started to choke, reached for his glass, drained the dregs and grabbed the bottle from my hand to refill. When he had calmed down a little he refilled my glass also.

  I went up to select my dessert. Ann followed me and as we contemplated the offerings she asked, ‘Are you feeling a little better, dear? You have not seemed quite yourself today.’

  I assured her I was fine. Was I so transparent that everyone knew how I felt about Keith? Except, of course Keith; he seemed to be oblivious. I was warmed by the thought that they were all supportive of me, Nancy with her vague warnings, Karen with her assumptions and Ann with her concern. Yes, definitely “Ladies Night,” sticking together against one, I thought to myself a little cattily who, despite all her pretensions and designer accessories, was no lady.

  Yes, I felt much better.

  As if to continue the theme of dinner we split into two parties afterwards, Nancy, Karen, Ann and myself in one corner of the bar, now thankfully released from the torture of the “entertainment,” and Hugh, Graham, Phil and Larry in another. Carole and Gordon had excused themselves and gone to bed, as usual. Bob had also gone back to his room with the excuse that he was expecting a phone call. That left Keith dithering at the bar. For some reason he seemed reluctant to join the other men.

  ‘Perhaps you should make it up with him?’ suggested Nancy, lightly touching my arm.

  ‘No,’ I replied considering, ‘I think he needs to suffer just a little bit longer.’

  ‘Well don’t leave it too late,’ she warned. ‘The longer you leave it, the harder it will be.’

  Actually, I wasn’t sure what I had done that I needed to make up – he was the one flirting with a married woman. I mentioned this.

  ‘Perhaps he thought he needed to get your attention somehow? Are you sure you were not taking him for granted?’

  I had long ago ceased to be sure of anything. However, the decision was made for me as Keith drained his glass and left. I continued to watch the empty doorway for several minutes, almost as if I was waiting for him to come back, in the vague possibi
lity he had just nipped into the gents.

  I picked up my glass and almost missed my mouth, my mind in a turmoil as to what I should do next.

  ‘Go on,’ hissed Nancy. ‘Now’s your chance to speak to him alone.’

  ‘In a minute,’ I hesitated. A million things swirling round my brain. What excuse did I give for following him? Why were all these women so keen to see us together? How the hell did I find him when I did not know what room he was in?

  Karen, it appeared was a mind reader. (As one born under the thirteenth sign of Arachne).

  ‘I expect he’s gone back to his room. He’s next to us.’ I finished my wine. Well they were all so keen for us to get together, these married women obviously knew more than I did, perhaps I should take the hint. ‘Room 438,’ she added helpfully.

  I had left the bar and was down the long corridor and almost at the stairs before the thought hit me – was 438 her room or Keith’s?

  I had not once during this holiday been invited to Keith’s room; he always came to mine, to collect me before dinner, before going out, or to accompany me back at bedtime. Was that Nancy’s point, he did all the hard work and I just stood and waited? Like I was standing, waiting now, outside room 438. Someone was in there; I could hear the faint strains of music, presumably from the TV. What if I knocked and Graham answered the door, having got upstairs quicker using the lift, than me on the stairs? What would I say? Sorry, wrong number?