Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  Having slowed to almost a standstill, trying to shift from first to fifth gear in one go required a major effort, both mentally and physically. We’d smile, we’d serve, and we’d even laugh at their drunken banter. Tonight’s idiots could be tomorrow’s breakfast crowd and having been rebuked by the nightlife downtown, there was also the possibility that they would choose to dump their entire binge budget in our till if we pushed the right buttons.

  This involved much more than jolly smiles and chirpy banter however. Picking diced carrot out of the bathroom plugholes was a real delight, especially after we’d already cleaned the bathrooms ready for the morning. Oh how we would chuckle at that little jape coming as it did at the end of a 13-hour shift!

  We also had to persuade latecomers that high decibel renditions of ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’ were not a particularly good idea at 1 a.m., especially as they’d normally be followed by a visit from the local constabulary with threats of arrest and deportation for them and early closure succeeded by a stern warning from the community president for us.

  But to be truthful, most of our efforts were focused on getting them out, our persuasion based on the theory that if they didn’t let us close we wouldn’t be able to open again for breakfast.

  If you’ve ever tried to have a serious discussion with a group of radically inebriated youngsters whereby the main aim is to convince them to give up their drinks, you’ll understand that it’s something of a an uphill battle.

  ‘Come on now, last orders has long since gone. We’re closing up now. We’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Oh you can’t close yet, it’s still early. Look, it’s only...’ Several attempts at focusing on a watch face would prove futile. ‘It’s ... it’s still early. Here, here’s some potatoes. Buy yourself one. Sit down with us. Chill. How long have you been here? Do you like it? Do you not miss home? Will you ever go back? I’d love to live here. Have you got any jobs going?’

  This was part of the same interrogation that we faced dozens of time each day. We toyed with the idea of putting a notice up behind the bar answering all the enquiries including, ‘We’re not going to tell you,’ in answer to question number seven - ‘ How much did you pay for the bar?’

  There was certainly an element of envy in the tone of the questioning. There aren’t many people who have been on holiday and not at least momentarily flirted with the idea of making their stay longer than intended. To come in contact with someone that had more or less done that seemed to elicit a certain amount of awe. Some had to justify why they hadn’t taken that step, ‘I thought about moving out here, but my girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband didn’t fancy it.’ You could tell some were always going to be “just about to” move over. And then there were those that after seeing it was possible, became fully committed to changing their lives. Wayne Greaves was one.

  Wayne was on holiday with his girlfriend, Becky, a pretty but painfully thin slip of a girl who wouldn’t have suffered adversely from a couple of weeks of force-feeding. Wayne was an ex-gas fitter who we coerced into fixing our oven when the four rings suddenly developed delusions of grandeur, throwing circles of flames high into the air like four Rolls Royce jet engines.

  We had attempted to persuade a gas engineer to pay us a visit after Frank had removed the safety catch from the propane bottles but our hopes were not high in securing a return visit in time to stop the kitchen ceiling being cooked. Wayne and Becky were sat at the bar early one evening when David came out from the kitchen with distinguishably less eyebrow hair than he had gone in with.

  ‘I think we’ve got a problem with the gas,’ he said and steadied himself with a shot of brandy.

  ‘What’s up with it,’ asked Joy.

  ‘I can’t turn the rings down.’

  ‘Us’ll have a look for you. Us used to be a gas fitter,’ said Wayne, making his way towards the glowing kitchen. Memories of Frank’s near-deadly meddling caused frowns all round. As it was, Wayne discovered the problem and without need for any spare parts had the flames tamed within a matter of minutes.

  He emerged covered in black grease but with a big toothy smile. Becky welcomed him like a hero, like the rest of us, except thankfully she was the only one he pawed with greasy hands.

  The young couple spoke in singsong Wolverhampton tones, an accent that I’m ashamed to say I find hard to take seriously. It was as such when Wayne announced on his last day that he’d be back in a few weeks. ‘Sure he would,’ I thought. However, one morning after a frenzied breakfast rush, Joy and myself sat flicking baby cockroaches across the bar top when suddenly Wayne appeared in the doorway. ‘Alright?’ he waved. ‘Us told you I’d be back didn’t I?’ He was alone. Becky had not been as convinced as him about stepping out of the dole queue in Wolverhampton to make a new life for herself overseas. ‘Us dumped her, us did. She wasn’t for moving, boring cow.’

  Wayne was one of the many wannabees who we had automatically strung along with half-hearted suggestions of employment if he ever returned, which naturally we thought he wouldn’t. ‘If you come back, look us up. We might have work for you,’ we said. It’s surprising what benevolence four large beers can evoke.

  Fortunately for Wayne, he arrived at a time when we were wondering who we could find that would work for low wages in appalling conditions and be trusted to put more pesetas in the till than they would take out. We had all liked Wayne. He was cheeky but sincere. He had no reservations about telling us of his dodgy past and short spells spent at Her Majesty’s pleasure but he was also evidently honest and eager to please.

  We decided that we would give him a few DIY jobs coupled with a few hours collecting glasses during the busy times. In return, we could pay him just enough money to afford rental on a studio apartment and would also provide him with a meal whilst he was working.

  Wayne fancied himself as a builder, though his actual skills had been greatly exaggerated. However, what he lacked in construction know-how he made up for in determined aggression and he usually coerced a project to be more or less accomplished by using brute strength and loud obscenities. Building a stage was one such example.

  The French timeshare line in the office above us had renewed their efforts at attracting fly-buys to the Altamira and the hotel was swarmed with more bewildered Galls than they knew what to do with. To take advantage of this new trade we enlisted the help of Romaine, one of the timeshare reps, to find us some entertainment that would appeal both to his nationality and also to the Brits. Romaine recommended Mystique.

  Some people take light entertainment very seriously. Their act is their life and more often or not their life becomes an act. ‘I ... am Gaston. She ... is Monique,’ said Gaston as he swept an open hand in the direction of a timid blonde teenager lurking several feet away. Romaine had sent them to introduce themselves and for us to see if they’d be right for the bar. The elevated nose and pigeon-chested stance of Gaston suggested that he was seeing if we were right for him.

  They were a magic act, or ‘illusionistas’ as Gaston preferred to be known. ‘I am a member of the Magic Circle,’ he offered, pausing for a suitably admiring response. None was forthcoming so he continued anyway. ‘Our act is a mixture of son et lumiere and tricks of the mind. We can only perform if the conditions are absolutely perfect. The slightest noise will disturb my concentration and there will be a disaster. Your customers will love us. They will want more. We will leave them pleading. You will pay 30,000 pesetas.’ This was roughly £150 at the time, twice the going rate.

  ‘How long is your act?’ I asked.

  ‘It depends how good your people are,’ replied Gaston loftily. ‘You have a stage of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied. I had taken an instant dislike to Monsieur Mystique but Romaine had convinced us that the French would love him and enthused that we should book him for at least seven nights a week.

  We agreed to try out the act the following week and if it was successful we would give the couple a regular once-a-week spo
t. Wayne was set the task of building an outside stage and a backdrop using four sheets of hardboard, a dozen plastic beer crates, a double bed sheet and a can of black spray paint.

  The next two afternoons rang with the sounds of a hammer knocking, a stapler thudding and a Wayne cursing. The excessive din drew the attention of some of the older residents in the Altamira. ‘What the hell is all that noise? It’s siesta time, stop that infernal racket.’ Phil was one of our older regulars. An old sea dog from Dorset, he would often come into the bar wearing a nautical-themed hat and sit with his long-suffering wife Yvonne, who would do nothing but wince at his eternal moaning.

  Unfortunately, amiable though Wayne was, public relations were not his forte; ‘Fuck off, you old git, before us wrap this hammer round your wrinkled face.’ Phil was battle-savvy enough to know when to retreat and saved his admonishing for a more congenial occasion.

  We had commandeered the patio space immediately to our right, in front of the round empty locale next to us. Although we knew it had been sold, it remained unfurnished and didn’t look as though it would be put into use for some time. Above this space was a second short walkway connecting the commercial units upstairs. From this we draped the bed sheet down behind the stage. A backdrop was born. We also positioned a couple of stage lights that we had borrowed from another bar. The result was impressive, though immoveable. With four nights to go before the French debut we were stuck with what looked like a huge washing line airing erotic black bed linen.

  Fortunately, the laundry show only proved to add to the mystery of the forthcoming performance and on show night an eager crowd filled the entire area outside the commercial units. In between washing up, garnishing orders and helping to deliver and collect plates, I was also dashing upstairs to “borrow” more plastic chairs and tables from Bar Arancha which had fortunately closed for the night.

  Unsurprisingly, a large contingent of the audience was French. Romaine had done a good job of ‘selling’ the night and was wandering amongst his clients, spilling sangria over them from two earthenware jugs that he was waving about in a welcoming fashion.

  By the time the show started the terrace was packed to capacity. Joy was having trouble delivering drinks to the distant tables and was reduced to asking people to pass them along. The British cooperated gladly but the French weren’t impressed at having to work as waiters. More curious onlookers lined the railings above us, all poised to enjoy the free entertainment but reluctant to buy even one drink.

  Joy made it a personal mission to extract some money from them. She took a tray up and started to take drinks orders. The majority were brazen enough to admit they weren’t staying; ‘No thanks love, we’re just watching,’ they smiled. Joy was in no mood for reciprocating the friendliness. This act had cost a lot of money, not forgetting the extra strain on the four of us. Her subtle looks of annoyance were wasted on the majority who hadn’t fathomed that somebody - namely us - had to pay for this spectacle.

  Wayne was doing his best to gather empty glasses but he quickly became marooned in a corner, trapped by a group of expectant French and so happily resigned himself to admiring his beautiful stage.

  The show was due to start at 10 p.m. but the flood of people had caused a deluge of food orders and we were all too busy to even think about the entertainment. By 10.45 p.m. our artistes were growing tetchy. Gaston grabbed Joy’s arm as she was scurrying back to the kitchen with a stack of dirty plates. ‘We need an introduction. At once.’ It was something we had overlooked. Although we had no compère, we couldn’t expect Mystique to suddenly start their act without so much as a ‘Monsieurs et Madames’.

  Wayne, can you introduce them?’ shouted Joy across the terrace.

  ‘I’m not introducing that poof. You can bog off,’ replied Wayne at the top of his voice. Joy had no option but to dump the plates on the nearest table and jump onstage. Faith flicked the stage lights on and stopped Van Morrison’s ‘Brown-eyed girl’ in her tracks, swapping the cassette for one provided by Gaston.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen...is this working?’ She patted the microphone as is traditional for inexperienced compères. ‘Welcome to the Smugglers Tavern. Sorry for the late start but I’m sure you’ll find they’re well worth waiting for. Put your hands together for Mystique!’

  There was a slight delay before the electronic fanfare of Jean Michel Jarre rolled from the speakers. Gaston swished in from stage left, one hand pointing skywards. His black cape followed his expansive gestures like a faithful dog. Monique swished from behind the other side of the bed sheet with slightly less enthusiasm. Her red and black basque, fishnet stockings and high heels had already stolen the focus. Gaston grabbed her arm and spun her into his body, rolling her away again with equal gusto. David and I had abandoned the washing up and were stood watching in the doorway with Frank. Wayne was still at the front of the crowd, sitting on the floor nursing a pint of beer and openly rolling a spliff.

  Even from where I was standing I could hear the crack. Wayne looked up, his tongue still sticking out from licking a Rizla. He leaned forward to bring his eyes level with the stage and raised his eyebrows then looked over at us with a pained expression.

  ‘What was that?’ I mouthed but he shook his head dismissively and continued rolling.

  Feathers were procured from the most unexpected angles; gold rings were balanced precariously; jewellery was begged, lost and then miraculously found in unlikely places. The audience were enjoying the show, with the French contingent particularly vocal in their praise. Frank had trudged back to his bar stool, unimpressed, and was slumped over a Dorada, idly picking pieces of gold label off the bottle. He had no time for such flamboyance.

  ‘Can’t be doing,’ he murmured to nobody but himself and the bottle.

  As the music changed from triumphant to ambient, the pièce de résistance began. A black rectangular box was wheeled from behind the backdrop. After much posturing, Monique climbed inside and waved au revoir. Only her head and feet remained visible.

  Gaston pushed the box from one side of the stage to the other to show that both Monique’s feet and head were moving. As he did, I thought I heard another loud crack. Wayne was beyond caring at this stage having smoked himself into oblivion. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes half-closed and a grin plastered across his face.

  Gaston began to saw the box in half, pausing occasionally to check if she was alright. As the blade was nearly halfway through the box I noticed the right hand side of the stage had begun to part company with the left. Unfortunately, Monique was positioned over each half of the separating sections. Gaston began pumping frantically with the saw to keep up with the rapidly widening gap.

  The saw broke free at the bottom of the box and Monique, who was oblivious of the external problems, cried out theatrically as if in pain. Gaston stepped back, raising his saw in mock horror and stamping a foot behind him for effect. This was as much as the right hand side of the stage could take and the outer supports collapsed. The two pieces were now only held together by a handful of assorted screws that Wayne had used to unite them. The discrepancy in levels was enough to start Monique’s feet on a slow roll to the right. Gaston stretched out his left leg, jamming a foot under the castors to foil the escape whilst trying to maintain a smile. The sudden shift in weight caused the screws to release their grip and the left side of the stage kicked free. Monique’s feet trundled right, her upper half began to roll left. Trapped inside her wooden coffin, she could do no more than strain her eyes to see where she was heading. Gaston threw down the saw and made a brave effort to jam his other leg under this half of his assistant but having adopted the ‘splits’ position he discovered he was in no shape to sustain it. He toppled backwards with a fit of Gallic expletives, watching Monique’s boxed head gain speed as she edged closer towards the left hand lip of the stage. Fortunately - although Monique may not have viewed it that way - rather than rolling straight off and toppling over, the first set of castors dropped ove
r the edge, tilting the box just enough to thud Monique’s head firmly against a store cupboard door, wedging her at an unlikely angle but saving her from any further injury.

  The audience was in hysterics. Wayne had contracted an almost suffocating bout of giggles. He was now lying on the floor gasping for breath underneath the neatly boxed Monique, whose pleas for help were drowned out by the laughing. Friedhelm sat on his barrel table, tears streaming down his cheeks. His shoulders convulsed up and down with every rasping chuckle.

  Needless to say, after releasing his assistant, Gaston was rather less amused. ‘Mierde,’ was about the only word I could comprehend and there were plenty of those being thrown about.

  ‘I have never been so embarrassed. What business do you think you run here?’ he ranted, but I was far too amused to pay much heed.

  ‘I can only apologise for the stage,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘I’ll look into it. Can you come back next week?’ Gaston snatched his money from my hand and waltzed out, hurling more French profanities over his shoulder. We took that as a ‘non’.

  A post-mortem was held the following morning, the general conclusion being that the night was a complete success financially and the collapsing stage routine was a fitting tribute to a stuck-up Frenchman. Wayne was most apologetic and in true British spirit blamed his poor workmanship on inferior quality materials. We awarded him a sideways promotion into painting duties and for the next few days he was a permanent fixture, applying dabs of paint where unruly children had left their mark.

  Our thoughts turned to staff again. On the nights when we clocked off at 10.30 p.m. both Joy and I had taken to going for a nightcap and a bite to eat at the local 24-hour service station. Not the most romantic of settings it has to be agreed, but it was one of the few bars within short driving distance where we could get something decent to eat in peace. The favourite was a plate of rice, bananas and fried eggs, which, if you haven’t tried it, is as good as any doner kebab at plugging the phantom hunger that follows late night beers.