Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  The service station bar was beginning to fill up with the usual assortment of moonlight crazies, reminding me of the scene in ‘Star Wars’ where Harrison Ford is in the intergalactic bar with all manner of ill-featured life forms. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly threatening but as a 24/7 hangout for alcoholics and drug-induced insomniacs, it did provide an element of uncertainty.

  Two stools away, a gaunt youth with ill-fitting clothes and matching teeth was concentrating on making a sugar pyramid on the stainless steel bar top. He had opened and scattered at least 20 sachets before the barman whisked away the margarine tub in which they were piled. The youth looked over at us and mumbled something in Spanish. His eyes were glazed and his focus appeared to be a couple of inches to our left. I just nodded obligingly and picked at a plate of pimientos de padron, hot roasted peppers in sea salt, that I had chosen as a starter.

  Despite there only being one person working, the actual service was unbelievably fast. We enjoyed just sitting around the bar marvelling at the haste and efficiency of the barman taking orders. He could heat up tapas, keep tabs on everybody’s bills and simultaneously pour drinks with frightening efficiency.

  He was the perfect barman. His white shirt and black trousers would be soaked in sweat yet he managed to maintain an air of collectiveness, never shaken in the face of adversity, such as a drunken local trying to get away with not paying, or spilling his beer all over the floor.

  He moved from task to task seamlessly; pouring two beers, cutting a slab of tortilla, collecting payments and wiping the bar top like it had been perfectly choreographed. He moved with the agility that only someone fuelled by Latino blood could manage, flexing his physical and mental presence like a world-class salsa dancer.

  It may be that the UK remains one of the few nations in the developed world where waiting staff are looked down upon as though they aren’t capable of securing a more ‘worthwhile’ profession. Perhaps it’s our history of the ‘upstairs, downstairs’ world of servant and master that still lingers in the British psyche.

  Our only help behind the bar to date, apart from the junior crew, was from a 50-something retired flight attendant who had offered to work for free just for something to do. Unfortunately he turned out to be more of a hindrance than a help. His peripheral vision was non-existent which, combined with an acute deafness, meant that anybody waiting to be served and not stood directly in front of him would be thirsty to the point of dehydration by the time Barry would notice.

  If there was one good point about him though, it was his glass washing. He would become totally engrossed, spending so much time with his head down, hands in sink making sure that every glass was as shiny as the day it was blown, that he quite forgot that the principal responsibility of his position - to keep the customers watered. On the sporadic occasions when he would be satisfied with the lustrous sheen on a wine glass, he would raise it to the light like a winner’s trophy where he would be genuinely surprised to see a gang of thirsty holidaymakers glaring through its shiny curve.

  In spite of this, our regular customers loved him. He was a kind man who spent much of his spare time - of which he had plenty - ferrying people about on errands or playing golf with the less industrious. Every now and then we would call him in but more as an act of friendship than for the actual benefit we gained from his presence.

  But we still needed someone who could maximise the profit potential behind the bar. In summer, over 90 per cent of our customers were British holidaymakers whose holiday enjoyment is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed. Every empty glass on a table is a missed opportunity at making the till ring. We needed someone who would not only draw customers to the bar and keep them all night, but also who would make sure that the length of time between one drink finished and another started was kept to the bare minimum. If Barry was the antithesis of what we needed, the service station attendant was our apotheosis.

  We had become friendly with Gary, a satellite system installer who had also risen to saintly status having blessed the Smugglers with the gift of live English football – an amenity that was as vital as draught beer in the British holiday pub world. We mentioned that we were looking for part-time staff and it so happened that he and his stunningly beautiful girlfriend Michelle were looking for extra work and volunteered to take on a couple of shifts.

  Michelle had worked behind a bar before and her visual appeal, though some might consider it a sexist notion, provide a definite draw for custom. Her green eyes, blonde hair, tanned figure 8 physique and flirtatious manner were the perfect bargirl CV. To even the score, Gary had equally piercing eyes and the body of an athlete. There were no doubts from all four partners that they would be the ideal stand-ins.

  We had reached the level of friendship where they were naturally included in any social plans we had on our separate nights off. Joy and I seized the opportunity to catch a real band whenever the shifts dictated, real being any act that included a live drummer and not two balding folk guitarists relying on a digital orchestra and a Bontempi drum machine. Gary and Michelle would often come along with us and what was intended to be a ‘quick drink’ would always extend into a hazy session of inharmonious singing and over-exuberant dancing.

  We were all more than happy to leave them in charge of running the bar from 10.30 p.m. until 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. and trusted them in all aspects, from cleaning to cashing up. For several nights they provided the pressure release of a little time off.

  CHAPTER 10

  Gary and Michelle had relocated to Tenerife after her aunt opened a hairdressing salon in the south, initially employing Michelle as a stylist. Michelle, like many, had decided that a new life abroad should also entail a move away from the job she had stuck at since leaving school at 16 and accepted her aunt’s offer on the understanding that it was temporary.

  Bar work wasn’t exactly what she had in mind for a breakaway career but the couple had their eyes on buying their own restaurant and knew that having temporary responsibility of stock control, cashing up and customer diplomacy at the Smugglers would serve as valuable experience eventually.

  ‘No problems last night. Usual dickheads and drunks but no spew. Love Shell and Gaz, XX’. Their customary report was stuck to the till with Blu-Tack.

  ‘Bar looks good again,’ said Joy, noting the cleanliness. The chairs had all been up-ended onto the tables meaning last night’s sweep and mop was not the usual poke between wooden legs that our end of night routine had degenerated into. All the cutlery had been rolled in paper serviettes, the bar top was free from patches of beer and all the bins had been emptied and cleaned.

  As usual, Joy checked the till roll to see how busy they had been and what time the last bill was tilled in.

  ‘Blimey, the bar must have emptied after we left last night. There’s only a handful of entries. They only took 8,000 pesetas after meals but they didn’t close till 1.30 a.m.,’ said Joy.

  ‘Well, you know what it’s like. A lot of regulars only want the four of us there. Having other people on won’t make them stay. It can’t be helped,’ I replied.

  Joy wasn’t convinced. ‘Even so, 8,000 is crap, especially in summer. We need to take more than that.’

  She was right. Summer was our time for raking it in before the lull in October and November. We needed to put some money aside to cover the mortgage, loan and other payments for those months.

  ‘We can’t have it both ways. We need time off,’ I argued, ‘Either we lose a bit of money or we lose our sanity.’

  We had all been feeling the strain, all showing signs of wear and tear in different ways. Cutting back on our hours was imperative for us and our relationships.

  Spending every waking minute with each other is not conducive to sustaining a happy relationship. If all that we did all day and night was work, and at the same place, there was little to talk about out of hours. Added to that, the exhaustion of being on your feet for so long in such hot conditions, putting on the friendly front for
long periods of time and working under the pressure of being understaffed was sure to take its toll.

  On the nights when we clocked off at 10.30 p.m., Joy and I decided that bar talk was banned. Unfortunately that left a gaping hole in our conversation and we often sat drinking in silence like the married couples that had outgrown their interest in each other that we observed in the bar.

  But the silence was sometimes preferable to the alternative - sniping. The tension was physically visible. Our eyes were red, sunken above stormy shadows, shoulders hunched and knotted. The strain had to be released somewhere and firing pot shots at each other was one of the more effective ways.

  ‘You’re drinking too much.’

  ‘I’m thirsty, I’m off duty. What’s the problem?’

  Or, ‘Have you phoned your mum recently?’

  ‘No, what’s the point. I’ve nothing to tell her. All we do is work, sleep, work, sleep. I’ll only cry if I speak to her.’

  ‘You should still phone.’

  ‘Don’t tell me when I should speak to my own mum.’

  The same was true for David and Faith. When not working in our own bar, they could usually be found in someone else’s, usually comparing notes and complaining about the same things – drunken customers, the latest licence requirements, the interminable questions.

  We had begun to notice that Faith had stopped talking about anything recently. She was becoming more withdrawn and isolated. Any decisions that we had to make about the bar as partners inevitably saw Faith casting herself in the role of outsider, the underdog, seemingly choosing the contrary line of thinking whatever the debate. It was as though she was revelling in the minority role almost to the point of self-pity.

  ‘You don’t consider me as one of the partners do you?’ she would argue with the rest of us. ‘Whatever I say, you always do what you three want anyway.’

  ‘It’s called democracy,’ said David, calmly.

  ‘We have to make the decisions by majority vote. How else can we do it?’ I added.

  ‘Well it always seems like you’ve already decided what we’re going to do whatever I say,’ Faith would counter. ‘You two are brothers and Joy just follows what Joe says anyway. I might as well not be here.’

  ‘If I follow what Joe says it’s only because I agree,’ said Joy, ‘not because I’m some obedient lap dog. I do have my own mind you know.’

  ‘I’m not an equal partner though, am I?’ replied Faith, ‘I mean, come on, at the end of the day we’re never going to do what I want, are we?’

  ‘If we agree on it, yes we’ll do what you want. But the majority have to agree on it,’ said David trying to appease her.

  With Faith’s argument running out of steam, this usually brought on another apron-de-robing, door-slamming episode.

  When Faith had gone, David, as usual, apologised in her absence; ‘She’s missing her mum at the moment and she thinks we’re all ganging up on her. We need to just tread lightly, give her a bit of slack. I think she’s on the verge of a breakdown.’

  Faith’s tantrums became more frequent the deeper we sank into summer. A few customers had started to complain to Joy, citing her snappiness and the fact she looked miserable behind the bar. The truth was, she wasn’t fitting in. She wore her heart on her sleeve when behind the bar it has to be kept under wraps. Also, due to her paranoia, the slightest inference of hostility from anybody would cause her to bare her claws like a cornered animal.

  The first day of reckoning came on a particularly sweltering Saturday in early September. The mercury was loitering around 100, the humidity energy sapping. Joy and I had survived one of the busiest afternoons so far. She had to sprint between bar, kitchen and tables non-stop from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. and I had been battling with the seemingly insurmountable list of orders, trying to ignore the teetering mountain of washing up. By the time David and Faith clocked on at 6.30 p.m. we had just managed to piece together the bar in time for the evening rush.

  Usually, the afternoon shift would complete a few menial tasks like cleaning the bathrooms or emptying out the bar fridges to scrub away the mould. This day we had barely managed to wash all the glasses and polish the glass tabletops.

  Kevin and Brian, the two representatives for the British timeshare line, had approached us about hosting their welcome party at the Smugglers instead of the Altamira lounge. Some of the more affected residents of the hotel associated timeshare with con-artists and had made a point of hissing their opinions whilst walking past on the way to the pool; ‘Don’t do it,’ ‘It’s a scam,’ ‘Just say no.’ Naturally this made the two reps’ tasks of extracting large deposits all the harder.

  Another reason why they thought it better to use our bar was that it meant free drinks for themselves - the single most important reason for doing anything amongst the British expat community. In return for us providing free jugs of sangria and a smattering of peanuts, Kevin and Brian would extol the virtues of the Smugglers Tavern to weekly groups of around 20-30 new arrivals. More often than not, several of the timeshare fly-buys would stay after the welcome meeting and order food enabling us to recoup the cost of our meagre giveaways and showcase our hospitality talents at the same time. However this extra crowd of customers was in addition to our regular breakfast trade and once or twice whoever happened to be on shift that morning would be faced with 30 full English breakfast and 30 coffee orders all at the same time. Understandably the bar was not looking at its best when David and Faith walked in.

  ‘There’s no fizzy water or bottled beer in the fridge,’ said Faith during her habitual inspection.

  ‘Don’t start, Faith,’ warned Joy. ‘We’ve done 65 meals this afternoon as well as hosting the timeshare meeting. I’ve not got round to stocking the bar yet.’

  But Faith was clearly in offensive mode.

  ‘It’s not good enough. Now the bottles won’t be cold enough for tonight.’

  ‘We can put them in the freezer like last time.’

  ‘Yeah, and they’ll all burst like last time. It’s not a lot to ask...’

  Fortunately a family of four walked in, forcing a cessation of hostilities, but the tension still simmered.

  The evening turned out to be even busier than the afternoon. By 9 p.m. we were running out of food. ‘No half-chickens, no pork chops, no gammon,’ shouted David as Joy brought in the 80th order.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’ snapped Joy. ‘I’ve got four pork chop orders here.’ She raced out of the kitchen huffing, her pink t-shirt claret with perspiration. As she left, Faith rushed in with another order.

  ‘Two pork chops...’

  ‘No pork,’ I shouted, manically ripping apart a lettuce to make some more garnishes. Faith huffed.

  ‘For fuck’s sake ... well, two half-chickens, one...’

  ‘No half-chickens either,’ I interrupted.

  ‘This is ridiculous. I haven’t got time to go back and explain, I’ve...’

  ‘I haven’t got time to stand here arguing, Faith,’ I interrupted again. ‘Just go and tell them, no half-chickens, no gammon and no pork chops.’

  ‘Who do you think you are? You’re not my boss. See? You’re at it again. You don’t see me as a partner do you?’

  ‘Faith,’ intervened David, ‘Now is not a good time.’

  Faith’s paranoia was rising again. ‘This is what I mean. You three all stick together. I’m nothing here. I’m sick of it.’ Faith threw her pen and pad at the wall, stomped back through the bar and out of the front door.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered David and carried on cooking. Anybody, even Jesus, would have been a welcome pair of hands at that stage. We were eight orders behind, all four rings and the hot plate were full and still customers were craning their necks at the door looking for a vacant table.

  ‘Do you want to go after her?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’ll let her cool down first,’ said David.

  Joy panted into the kitchen. ‘Where’s Faith? The bar’s three deep.’


  ‘Done a runner,’ I said, ‘Buggered off in a huff.’

  ‘Oh that’s great. Well, one of you two are going to have to help me out here.’

  I threw more garnishes on the plates, left them wobbling three-high on the table in the middle of the kitchen and raced out to face a bar full of impatient faces. We had been completely cleared of bottled beers, including those stacked in the freezer. We were also on our last barrel of draught. If that ran out there’d be a riot.

  I spent the remaining hour dashing from bar to kitchen. We were all trying to fill the gap left by Faith and by 11 p.m., with the last order out, I was pleased to get back to the barrage of washing up that had commandeered every flat surface in the kitchen.

  David was supposed to clock off at 10.30 p.m. but stayed until 11.30 p.m. helping with the clearing. ‘So what’s up with Faith, then?’ I asked.

  ‘She just needs a break. She not good with stress.’

  ‘It’s not great for any of us,’ I said, ‘especially when she just dumps her workload onto us. We’re going to have to sort it out. We can’t have her throwing in the towel every other night.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ said David. ‘I think she needs to go home for a while.’

  He was right. Faith was threatening to leave Tenerife for good.

  After she had regained a little composure, she apologised to the rest of us and admitted she needed a break. Although it wasn’t the most convenient time to jump ship, coming in the middle of the summer season, Faith had decided that she was going back to the UK the following night. She’d spend a fortnight with her mum and then return for the end of the busy period.

  That left the problem of who would partner David on his shifts. We needed someone who could work 80 hours during the week, someone who could walk straight into the role without training. Michelle was the obvious choice but she wasn’t available for all those hours. Barry was available but wasn’t anywhere near capable. We had less than 24 hours to find someone. If we didn’t, the alternative was to close during the day and the three of us just manage the evening shift. That meant a substantial drop in income at a time when we had to make sure we banked all that we could. If not, when the season slackened we might not have enough to pay the mortgage, Jack’s loan or one of the dozens of other outgoings for which we’d assigned envelopes.