‘Try one more time,’ urged Joy.
A voice answered from within. ‘Just a minute.’ It was Margaret.
We heard a shuffle of commotion and Norman hissing at her; ‘You get it’.
‘Sorry about that. God, you look hot. Come in, I’ll get you a drink.’ Margaret led us past a stairway into the cool dark interior. The furnishings were surprising. As with many Spanish houses, the exterior promises little. Unlike the British, the Spanish aren’t obsessed with what the neighbours think. They don’t care if the place looks like the remains of a Baghdad barracks from the outside, all the love and attention is lavished within. Comfort is the key, not vanity.
Norman and Margaret’s house was not exactly Malibu beachfront but the black leather furniture and dark wood furnishings were obviously not inferior products. The kitchen was open-plan revealing a large American-style fridge and a plethora of modern appliances.
‘Beer, Coke, water, wine?’ asked Margaret. We both gratefully accepted ice-cold beers. ‘Billy’s on the roof, he’s on the phone.’ She rolled her eyes then motioned towards the staircase. ‘He said to go up.’
With beers in hand we emerged onto a large rooftop terrace. Norman was reclining on a sunlounger in the centre of a barren rooftop. A can of beer rested on his purple, Hawaiian shorts, a thick gold chain looped across his chest. ‘Hi guys,’ he shouted. He covered the mouthpiece of his mobile phone, ‘Just on the phone to the States, I’ll be right with you.’
On one side of the roof, t-shirts, t-towels and oversized underwear hung motionless on a washing line strung across his neighbour's roof. They obliterated the best view, which was back down towards the ocean. On the opposite side, the village climbed further up the hill to the point where a dark green mountain soared skywards, culminating in a jagged double point.
Behind where we had emerged, only a low wall divided our concrete plateau from a plunging ravine. A long, deep swathe had been scythed out of the dark rock, the far side striped with various hues of ochre. Huge boulders littered the ravine like giant marbles. Such dramatic scenery can’t help but slam your own miniscule presence firmly into place. Or at least that was the case with most people. Those with grossly inflated egos like Norman needed a little more prodding to pop their self-importance.
‘Yeah, no problem. You just get them to sign and I’ll take care of the details. I’ve worked with his type before... yep, sure, George Clooney was also a pain in the ass but we worked it out... yep, yep... exactly the same with Meg Ryan, yep. She came round to my way of thinking eventually. Now Meg and me, we’re best of pals.’ Norman had acquired a mid-Atlantic accent and was eyeing our reaction to his name-dropping. He saw he had our attention and upped the ante. ‘Well you can tell Mr De Niro he’s not worth it.’ ‘Wanker,’ he gesticulated, holding the phone at arm’s length. ‘Okay, okay, I’ve told you what I want. Now it’s up to you to get that spoilt bunch of Hollywood starlets back on line and tell them Billy Rhodes only asks the once.’ He covered the mouthpiece, ‘They’re all the same these Hollywood stars, stuck so far up their own...’ Suddenly the phone he was talking into started to ring. He pulled it to his chest trying to mute the sound then turned away to hide his embarrassment. He put it to his ear again. ‘What? I’m in a meeting with Joey and Joyce,’ he hissed. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do it later ... no, later! I haven’t been yet. Yes I know they close at one ... yes, I know ... rubber gloves and a new toilet seat. Right. Yes. Thank you. Bye. Bye.’ He turned back to us. ‘Damn mobiles ... they never work properly up here. Now where were we?’
We went downstairs for another beer and to watch Norman’s latest film. It was a 10-minute video selling the sights and sounds of Majorca. The voiceover had a strangely familiar mid-Atlantic accent; ‘Soft, silky sand and soothing surf abound on many superb beaches.’ Margaret suddenly appeared strolling along a beach and tugging at an uncooperative dog. ‘Peace, tranquility, the space to do whatever you want,’ the sickly voice continued. ‘Not for the dog though,’ I thought. Then the theme changed. The sound track hit overdrive as the camera zoomed in on an ample backside that wiggled from side to side, framed for what seemed an unnecessary long time. ‘Club land,’ boomed Norman’s voice, ‘where you can dance the night away or just sit back and experience the sights and sounds of party time in the Balearics.’
It was nothing more than an elaborate home video that had been commissioned by a local timeshare company for use in their sales presentation.
Joy and I spent the next four hours experiencing the sights and sounds - mainly sounds - of Norman’s rise to fame as the island’s top ‘cinematographer’. We listened politely in case just one fraction of the truth could lead to paid employment but it quickly became evident that this would require a great deal of special effects, so we made our excuses and left. We had more worthwhile endeavours to attend to, including a world record to beat. Little did we know that two years later we would be trapped in a similar world of make believe artists.
Holiday resorts are infested with all manner of bullshitters, con artists and parasites, keen to sink their teeth into your wallet. However, once they’ve been on the streets for a few weeks they evolve a fairly accurate radar for detecting the expat from the visitor.
For the expat, there comes a stage whereby you suddenly realise you’re no longer being approached by the likes of timeshare reps. A line has been crossed and you have subconsciously acquired the persona of ‘a resident’. Maybe it’s because you’ve learnt that to make eye contact is an invitation for him or her to sell you something.
‘English and friendly? Here mate, take one of these.’ The pimple-chinned teenager would push a scratch card into my hands.
Dutifully I would fill my nails with silver coating to reveal that I’d incredibly won the star prize - a two-week holiday.
‘You’ve won! I don’t believe it!’ He would start jumping up and down as if he were a contestant on ‘The Price is Right’.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen anybody win the top prize. Well done, mate.’ After several slaps between the shoulder blades he’d continue the charade.
‘All you’ve got to do is go up to El Scabby Goat Resort in Torviscas, have a look round, tell them what you think, and the holiday’s yours. I’ll even pay for your taxi. Shall we go?’
After attempting to herd Joy and I towards a conveniently waiting taxi, I would bring the game to a halt.
‘It’s timeshare, isn’t it?’
‘Nooooo, mate. Absolutely not. Nothing to do with timeshare at all. It’s a co-ownership holiday scheme that means you actually own your very own piece of paradise.’
‘So how’s it different to timeshare then?’
‘Well, it... it’s... it just is. You actually own the property.’
‘What, all of it?’
‘Well, no. Not all of it. You own a share of it and you can use it when you want.’
‘Oh, so I could use it all year if I wanted?’
‘Uh ... no, you just use the weeks that you buy.’
‘So you buy a share in an apartment and have a set time in it. Kind of like sharing it over a period of time.’
‘Well, yeah, but...’
‘So it’s timeshare, no matter what you want to call it.’
The timeshare PRs were the worst of a bad bunch of street mitherers. Young, cocky kids trying to entice you to take a timeshare tour by all means, fair or foul. However, like me they had probably escaped the drudgery of Britain’s treadmill or dole queues and figured that standing in the sunshine all day being annoying was preferable to standing in the rain all day getting annoyed. And who could blame them?
CHAPTER 12
On her first day back, Faith was completely different. The break had proven effective. She was smiling, joking and altogether calmer. Even Frank’s antagonising couldn’t draw a snide response. The real test would come in the evening though, when the pressure of a full bar would stretch the nerves.
Much to our surprise, despite the additiona
l trial of two temporary power cuts, Faith managed to sustain her congeniality and refused to be fazed. It was as if she was on tranquillisers, laughing off any impatient complaints and over-demanding customers.
The relief all round was tangible. David had been on tenterhooks, expecting another blowout and his mood was lifted by the ‘new’ Faith.
The effect of Faith’s break wasn’t all positive however; in Joy’s mind it had caused resentment as she too was feeling pangs of homesickness and longed to see her family back in Bolton. She had kept quiet though, knowing that it was totally unfair to take time off before the end of the busy season. Faith’s excursion had sown the seeds of a deep-rooted resentment and even though Faith may have chilled out, Joy’s patience with her had now expired.
Michelle and Gary resumed their two afternoon and two graveyard shifts but Joy was finding fault with everything. Unable to express her anger at Faith in case she reverted back to the ways of old, she vented her frustration at anybody who made the slightest error. The early September nights had become as hot as the days and sleep was hard to catch, adding to her short temper.
School term was about to start in the UK, which meant our first summer was nearing an end. It had been a hard slog for all of us and it was starting to show on Joy. Nearly four months of smiling and being nice to people you’d rather slap was beginning to take its toll. It was like being on stage all day every day. She had always wanted to be an actress but even the busiest stars weren’t expected to keep in character day in, day out for such a lengthy period of time.
‘There’s something wrong with the figures again,’ she snapped one morning. Michelle and Gary had been working the previous night and Joy had totalled up all the bills that were outstanding. We had left the bar at 10.30 p.m. with four tables still eating and a further two still to settle up. Added to that there was a good crowd of drinkers in full flow. ‘The till’s down,’ she announced.
‘Are you sure? Have you double checked it?’ I said innocently.
‘Do you think I can’t count?’ she shouted. ‘It’s down! I’ve been through it twice and it’s definitely down. Even if everybody paid the bills I left and the bar emptied straight away, there should be more money in the till.’
‘There’s probably a reason,’ I said. ‘Ask Gary and Michelle when they come in.’
Michelle and Gary were taking the afternoon shift today and when they arrived at 2 p.m., Joy confronted them. ‘Can I have a word, Michelle?’ said Joy. She took her into the kitchen whilst Gary went to outside to bring a spare beer barrel in. I stood in the doorway keeping an eye out for customers. ‘I couldn’t figure out the money this morning,’ said Joy. ‘I left six bills unpaid and there were about five tables of drinkers but the money doesn’t add up. I reckon it’s about 30,000 pesetas down. Can you shed any light?’
Michelle smiled, ‘Oh, dozy cow. You know what I’m like,’ then realised the implications of Joy’s questioning. Her smile dropped and her face flushed pink. ‘Joy? Why are you asking me this? It’s me, Michelle. I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.’
‘I’m not saying anything, Michelle. I’m just telling you that the till reading doesn’t stack up with the amount of people that were in last night and the number of bills that were still behind the bar.’
Michelle’s eyes had begun to fill up. She shouted for Gary who sauntered into the kitchen.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m trying to find out what went wrong with the money last night. It’s about 30,000 down.’
Whilst Michelle seemed genuinely upset at the insinuation, Gary remained unperturbed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said calmly. ‘Everybody paid, though it did go quiet just after you’d gone. I can’t see how it’s down though. Must be something wrong with the till, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, here we go.’ A customer had come to the bar and Gary went to serve him. Michelle had true shock on her face. She continued pleading her innocence and voicing disbelief that she was being accused.
‘Joy. We’re friends,’ she continued. ‘I can’t believe you’re saying this.’ But Joy was resolute. She was tired, angry and beyond compassion and Michelle and Gary, whom we classed as our only friends, were bearing the brunt.
We left them to run the shift and returned at 6.30 p.m. to take over with David and Faith. They had arrived before us and Michelle had already told them about the run-in. Michelle was trying to catch Joy’s eye but Joy was ignoring her and went straight into the kitchen. Michelle followed.
‘Do you still think we stole some money?’ she asked. Her mood had now changed from one of shock to one of anger.
‘I never said that, Michelle,’ answered Joy. ‘I just want you to know that money went missing while you were working here last night. Look at it from my point of view. You’d be suspicious, wouldn’t you?’
Michelle had obviously been preparing her speech. ‘Well, I’m sorry you think that. I can assure you that I have never taken anything from here. I feel guilty even pouring myself a beer. But if you think I’m a thief then there’s no point in carrying on working here. Or in being friends.’ She walked out, apologising to David and Faith on the way.
‘They’ve just quit,’ said Faith as Joy came out of the kitchen.
‘I know,’ said Joy. ‘They’ve been taking money.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Faith.
‘The till’s been out a few times after they’ve been on,’ said Joy.
‘You can’t prove anything though, can you,’ said Faith. ‘You don’t know for sure. It could have been a mistake.’
‘It wasn’t a mistake. It happened too often. They’ve been taking money... or at least one of them has. I don’t think Michelle had a clue. But I could tell Gary was lying. I think he’s not been tilling in some of the bills and then pocketing the money.’
‘Well that’s great,’ sighed Faith. ‘You’ve just lost us the only relief staff we had...’
‘Hang on a minute. I haven’t lost them. They walked out...’
‘But you accused them of stealing,’ interrupted Faith. ‘You should have consulted me and David first before wading in. It’s not up to you who we fire. You can fill in all the shifts they’ve left. I’m...’ But her protests were left mid-flow. Joy had stormed out.
Faith and Joy were no longer speaking. Joy’s policy of light-footing around Faith had been superseded by a general disregard. On evening shifts, the only communication was to ask for drinks or to take bills. The antipathy was noticeable and although they continued to put on a fake smile and chirpiness for the customers, those who knew them better could tell there was friction.
In a show of spite and to reassert her own authority on the business, Faith had banned children from coming behind the bar, Danny included, and Frank was not pleased. ‘Given our Danny the sack, have you?’ he asked Faith.
‘Danny’s just 13 years old, Frank. If the work inspectors came in they’d close us down.’
‘Didn’t bother you last week though, did it? What’s he going to do now? I’ll tell you what he’s gonna do, he’s gonna mither me all bleedin’ day, that’s what.’ Danny was sitting between his dad and Sam, looking forlorn.
‘We’re not a crèche,’ said Faith. ‘He shouldn’t have been working here in the first place. He should be at school.’
‘Oh, telling me how to look after my kids now, are we?’ He gulped down the last dregs of the half he was drinking and got off the bar stool, nodding at Danny and Sam to follow. ‘If I want parental guidance I’ll soddin’ well ask for it. Okay? C’mon you two.’ Frank slouched off into the sunlight, tailed by Danny. Sam shrugged her shoulders at Faith and smiled but she was busying herself in the bar fridge trying to hide her damp eyes.
We had now lost Michelle, Gary and Danny all in the same week. We still had at least 10 days of the busy period left and desperately needed help. None of us could face going back to running all the shifts and besides, it was so busy that even with the four partners overlapping between 6.3
0 p.m. and 10.30 p.m., we still needed more help.
We now had entertainment on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday night. Friday and Tuesday, the changeover days, remained act-free, as depending on what time the departing flights left and what time the new arrivals arrived, the night could be completely dead or packed with a crossover of white faces and those waiting to go home.
Karaoke had proved such a hit both in drawing the customers and making the till ring that we had begrudgingly booked Maxi Belle for Saturday and Wednesday evening. Sunday was reserved for a Neil Diamond sound-alike who also happened to be from Bolton and had offered us a cheap rate because of the connection. From behind a walrus-like moustache, Tony Delrosso would belt out such hits as ‘I am I said’, ‘Song sung blue’ and the sing-along ‘Sweet Caroline’ to an assorted collection of British, French and German holidaymakers impressed by his effort, if not his melodic precision.
Monday night was David’s quiz night when those who wanted to check if their cerebral matter was still working could test their general knowledge in teams of four. David was quite happy to spend a couple of his rare spare hours compiling 25 questions with a difficulty level varying from ‘What’s the nearest mainland country to Tenerife?’ (Most people would answer Spain, 10 times further away than Morocco) to ‘Name the 10 commandments’. Considering the prize was a bottle of the cheapest sparkling wine we could find, the competition was taken extremely seriously, with more than one competitor walking out adamant that they were right and the quizmaster was wrong.
It was Motown madness on Thursday night. Maxi Belle had recommended a soul act who apparently used to be in The Drifters. It was not an uncommon boast, half of the black singers who threw the obligatory ‘On the Boardwalk’ into their set also made the same claim. If you believed all the claimants, The Drifters would have had more members than the London Symphony Orchestra and that was just in Tenerife.
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