Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  Having seen his act, whether he was ex-anything or not, we couldn’t deny that he was good. Gene Alexander had an ultra-smooth voice, dazzling footwork and was one of the most professional acts that we had seen on the island. However, he didn’t come cheap, especially when he found out that he’d have to travel out of town to accommodate the Smugglers into his schedule.

  Gene didn’t disappoint. He was a huge hit with the holidaymakers and many residents from far afield who would make their only appearance at our bar on the Thursdays when Gene was performing. Joy’s theatrical aspirations were briefly fulfilled as she joined Gene in a dance routine that they had worked on for ‘Up on the roof’.

  It was only after a few weeks of Gene’s gigs that we found out he was capable of getting much higher than just the roof. One Thursday he had arrived over half an hour late and the audience were growing impatient. The two Johns were having a particularly annoying day. ‘I think your ex-Drifter’s an ex-Smugglers now,’ said John One.

  ‘Aye, drifted off, I reckon,’ added his sidekick.

  ‘You want to sack him if he comes in now,’ said John One trying to stir things.

  ‘You can’t put up with it,’ agreed John Two. ‘Tell you what, we’ll sing a few songs for you. How about that? What do you reckon, John? Reckon we could put on a better show than monkey man?’

  ‘Easy, John. I’ll go and get me accordion, you tell the crowd he’s been sacked, Joy.’

  ‘I’d rather chew my own arm off than listen to you two,’ said Joy. ‘Bugger off if you don’t like him. It’s no loss to us.’

  When Gene did arrive, he ambled down the steps with his black jacket over his shoulder and a bow tie dangling down his white shirt.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Gene?’ I asked, taking the cassette from him. He always gave it to me without rewinding it from the last show. I discovered this on his first night when his show opened with two minutes of static hiss before I realised what was going on.

  ‘Hey Joe, how’s it going? No problem, man. I’m ready.’ He jigged from side to side to demonstrate the fact but there was definitely a problem. His eyes were completely glazed, his eyelids heavy and most noticeably, one of his nostrils was powdered white.

  ‘You okay, Gene? You look a bit fried.’ I asked.

  ‘I’m ready man, I’m raring to go. Get me on.’ Joy took the microphone and introduced Mr Gene Alexander to the audience outside. The music started but Gene missed his cue and came in late. Not only that, he seemed to be struggling to remember the words and ended up singing the same line over and over again, ‘It’s just too good to be true, too good to be true...’

  I looked at Joy; ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Too good to be true...’

  Joy shook her head, her smile was still fixed but her eyes were looking aghast.

  ‘…good to be true, doobie doobiedoobie doo...’

  ‘He’s off his head,’ I said. Even when the song burst into the chorus Gene couldn’t veer off that one line, though it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He continued moving his tiny, shiny shoes in time with the music and swaying his body to the rhythm regardless.

  ‘… to be true ... oh yeah ... true ... oh yeah ... too good... good too…’ Obviously Gene had an entirely different tune coursing through his head and when the song finally came to an end the crowd applauded graciously, if not a little baffled. All of his El Beril and Altamira fan club were there - grumpy old Phil and his wife Yvonne, who clapped along oblivious to the deranged state of the performer; Betty and Eric, the Blackpool landlord and landlady who were so intoxicated themselves they wouldn’t have known the difference; Friedhelm, who sat sobbing at his barrel near the door, dabbing at his sagging eyes with a handkerchief; and the whole of supermarket Patricia’s family, who were taking great delight in this variation on Gene’s act.

  I threw Gene a confused look before the next song started but like Gene himself it was wasted. Mr Bojangles burst from the speakers and this time Gene didn’t even bother with any vocal accompaniment. He attempted to throw his feet around in time with the music but they were having none of it and he resorted to static swaying whilst waving his hands above his head like a drama class tree impression. It was becoming clear why; if Gene Alexander was ever a member of the famous Motown five-piece, he was now an ex-member.

  I let him continue with his own private party for another three songs whilst he improvised and blurted out nonsensical lyrics at random points before telling Joy to get him off. Even Phil and Yvonne were having trouble keeping in time with their clapping as Gene’s drug-induced spouting was competing with a different rhythm.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to cut it short but we’ve had a complaint from the Altamira so unfortunately we’ll have to end it there. Give Gene Alexander one more round of applause.’

  ‘That set just zoomed by, man,’ said Gene as he glided to the bar.

  ‘That was crap,’ I said. ‘You’re completely wrecked. If you turn up at our bar off your face again, you won’t be singing here again.’ Gene looked genuinely hurt, as though he was expecting his usual praise and backslapping. Thankfully it was the last time he turned up wrecked. Gene knew he was on good money plus I assumed it wasn’t the first time he’d nearly lost work through his illegal recreation.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Excuse me, you don’t know anything about TVs do you?’ A chestnut-tanned woman was leaning on the low wall dividing our two gardens. Long brown hair framed a model’s face, high cheekbones etched below sparkling emerald eyes. She was dressed in a microscopic yellow bikini, the perfect showcase for a taught stomach and brimming cleavage.

  Joy and I were dozing on recliner chairs in the shade of the overhanging balcony. We had woken in the middle of the night to a commotion from next door. The apartment had remained unoccupied since we arrived but the banging and clomping of high heels on marble signalled we had a new neighbour.

  ‘A little. Depends what you need to know,’ I asked, rising to shake our neighbour’s hand. ‘I’m Joe ... and this is Joy.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Charley. I just got here last night. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

  ‘No, no, we never heard you come in,’ I lied. ‘You here by yourself?’

  ‘At the moment. My sister’s coming out next week.’ Charley beckoned us both into the house. ‘Would you like a drink? Beer? Wine? Juice?’ She held the fridge door open, waiting for an answer. Every shelf was full, mainly with booze. The foil of champagne bottles protruded past cans of imported beer. I could also see an unopened punnet of strawberries and another of cherries. Either Charley had brought with her a Samsonite full of Sainsburys or someone had provided quite a welcome pack.

  ‘Now that’s a fridge,’ I said, and nodded as she pointed to a can of Red Stripe. ‘You didn’t bring all that with you, did you?’ It was not as dumb a question as it may have seemed. Many holidaymakers used more of their luggage allowance on catering packs of bacon, frozen sausages, boxes of PG Tips and tins of baked beans than on summer clothes and sun tan lotion. It’s amazing how many British people spend months looking forward to escaping from their everyday surroundings only to spend a great deal of time and money recreating that same environment once they reach their destination.

  ‘No,’ laughed Charley, ‘I’m not that sad. My boyfriend had somebody stock up the fridge and cupboards for me. Fancy some champagne?’ I glanced at my watch. It was only 11 in the morning. ‘Why not? Joy?’ I finished what was left in my can whilst Charley poured three glasses.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ asked Joy.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Two, maybe three weeks. I’ll see how it goes,’ Charley answered vaguely.

  ‘Does your boyfriend live here, then?’ continued Joy.

  ‘On and off.’

  Now it can’t be denied that in general women are more adept at picking up on small details than men. The fact that she was being cagey about her boyfriend had made a pleasant whooshing sound as it flew above my head. Jo
y had locked in on this disparity. Whilst I was happy with the simple sum of one free beer plus one free glass of champagne equals nice person, Joy was already trying to piece together a more intricate equation. She wanted to know the who, why and wherefores of Charley, not content until she had built up an assailable profile of her new neighbour.

  At the risk of sounding like David Attenborough, I presume it’s to do with selectivity. Women need to have a secure foothold before they’ll throw out a line of friendship. Men are more happy to immediately play tug-of-war with the same line, throwing in nuggets of self-achievement and material possession in a head-to-head for higher status. Most women are subtle at extracting this information. Joy isn’t one of them.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a successful businessman.’

  ‘What’s he into?’

  ‘Sales mainly.’

  ‘Selling property?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Other things.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Bars.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘John ... well, I don’t like to be rude but I’ve got to go out. I’m going to have to get ready. It’s been nice meeting you. Come round for a drink again.’ Charley was ushering us out, taking the half-finished glasses out of our hands.

  ‘What about your TV? Do you want me to take a look at it?’ I asked as I was shepherded onto the patio.

  ‘Oh it’s not important. It can wait. Bye, now. See you later.’ Charley shut the patio doors before we had time to climb over the wall into our own garden.

  ‘Seems like a nice lady,’ I said, the early morning alcohol clicking on my ‘everything’s alright with the world’ switch.

  ‘She’s hiding something,’ said Joy.

  The bar was surprisingly quiet when we arrived to take over from David and Faith at 2 p.m. Frank and Al sat at one end of the bar. Frank looked concerned. Al was visibly shaking. His eyes and skin were a sickly yellow and he was sweating profusely.

  ‘You don’t look so clever,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, I found the daft fucker sparked out on his bedroom floor. He’s been on the pop for four days and nights,’ said Frank.

  ‘Well there’s shite all else to do round here, isn’t there,’ croaked Al.

  ‘I told you. Go home, then,’ shouted Frank. ‘If you want to fucking kill yourself, don’t fucking do it in my house. Get yourself on a plane and go and top yourself in Liverpool.’ David and Faith were standing by the till. David was sucking deeply on a Marlboro Lite, something he always did in situations where he didn’t know how to react. Faith was standing slightly behind him, gripping a bottle of water ready to refill Al’s glass.

  ‘Go on, get that down you,’ barked Frank, holding the glass of water in front of Al’s face.

  Whilst Al sipped on the water, creasing his face as if it was medicine, David filled me in on the morning’s activities. They had had a busy breakfast time and then it had gone dead. The brilliant sunshine and temperatures in the 90s had presumably sent everybody scuttling for the beach. Well, at least the British. Other nationalities had probably headed for the wisdom of shade or a siesta. It was Wednesday, the day after changeover Tuesday so we were bound to see the usual assortment of flaming red hues in the bar tonight.

  The Brits tend to parade sunburn like trophies. The more defined the lines between pre- and post-sun the better. Behind the bar we were often treated to the sight of pallid groins neatly crowned by fire-red bellies as pants were tugged down and tan lines were compared. Blisters on the males were even better, like battle scars. ‘Nope, can’t feel a thing,’ they’d say, oblivious to the fact this was only because they’d just ingested four pints of the local anaesthetic.

  However, the real test was in the morning, when they woke up and wondered why someone had swapped their soft cotton bedclothes for sheets of sandpaper and why acid was coming out of the shower rather than water. No amount of fabric softener would reduce the abrasiveness of barbed wire t-shirts nicking away at raw shoulders and the flimsiest of flip-flops would feel like bear-traps clamping down on swollen red feet. But after they’d contemplated their pain, where would they head? Straight to the beach again of course, to make doubly sure that on their return to the UK nobody could be in any doubt that they had been abroad. Sunburn is the wearable banal postcard - ‘Weather hot, don’t you wish you’d been there?’

  Outside the bar, the two Johns were teaching pool to a couple of teenage girls trying to get them to lean further over the table as they practised cueing up; ‘Smooth action. That’s it. Let it slip through your hands slowly, then bring it back,’ said John Two. ‘Slowly. Smooth. Imagine you’re making love to your boyfriend.’

  ‘Aye, like you’re giving him a hand job,’ added John One. The girls giggled. ‘Got a right pair ‘ere, John. Think they know what a hand job is?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it John. They’re a right pair.’

  A French couple were silently sharing a bowl of tuna salad whilst reading their respective paperbacks. Behind the gas cupboard protruding from the bar sat Micky and Ron. They seemed to be having a heated debate over some matter, or rather Ron was getting heated and Micky was trying to cool him down. I went to fetch the tea towels that were hanging from a clothes maiden several yards behind them, lingering long enough to get snatches of Micky’s hissed placating, ‘... because I say so. It’s my outfit now and what I say goes. Alright?’

  Ron was still arguing. ‘But if we don’t, somebody else will. You know JP’s lot will be here sooner or later.’

  ‘Let them ‘ave it. It’s no skin off our nose,’ whispered Micky.

  ‘You’re going soft, son,’ countered Ron.

  ‘Listen, it was you who told me you don’t shit on your own doorstep. Remember? Isn’t that right, Joe?’ Micky knew I was listening in. ‘Never shit on your own doorstep, right?’ he shouted.

  ‘Right,’ I agreed, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I agreed with. I carried the pile of faded tea towels past their table.

  ‘You’re a lucky bastard,’ sneered Ron through gritted teeth.

  Micky immediately intervened, ‘Leave it, dad,’ he said sternly. Since finding out about their radiator treatment of Richard Forgreen I had naturally grown more nervous of the father-son partnership, especially when they were around the bar. However, enough time had passed since their first insinuated threats to make me believe that we were not about to become one of their ‘clients’.

  Micky left, leaving his father drinking rum and coke. It was clear that he wasn’t in the best of moods. One of the girls playing pool over-hit the white ball. It jumped off the table and rolled past Ron’s foot coming to rest under the chair now vacated by Micky. ‘’Ere mate, can I have me ball back,’ laughed John Two. The girls giggled again but Ron didn’t flinch. John Two tried again, still laughing; ‘Hey, me ball’s dropped.’ The girls nudged each other smirking but still Ron continued sitting with his back to them, rum and coke held to his lips.

  ‘I think he’s deaf,’ said John One loudly, more for the girls’ sake than Ron’s. He put two fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. ‘Hey, ball boy! Hablez-vous Inglés?’ he shouted. Ron remained still.

  ‘It’s a bit rude that, i'n’t it John?’

  ‘That’s definitely considered rude where I come from,’ said the other. The girls had stopped laughing, having perceived more than the two Johns. Namely that Ron could definitely hear them and that his mouth had now curled into a menacing sneer.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said the taller of the two.

  ‘No you won’t,’ said John Two. ‘Mister ignorant over there is going to pass us the ball, aren’t you, mister ignorant?’

  Unbeknownst to the Johns, Ron’s dark eyes had widened at the goading. His scarred jawbone had tensed, the grip on his glass tightened. He slowly turned round, smiling. The two Johns lost their smirks. The girls smiled back awkwardly. Ron leant back in his chair to reach the
ball then rose to his feet clutching the ball in front of him. Keeping his stare fixed firmly on John Two, the smaller of the pair, he strode towards him, stopping with his face inches from John’s. I was watching from behind the bar and could sense trouble.

  ‘What did you facking call me?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Nothing, mate. I didn’t call you nothing,’ said John Two quickly.

  Ron’s shoulders were rising and falling with every raging breath. ‘Ball boy was it?’

  ‘That wasn’t me,’ replied John, his eyes gesturing towards his accomplice.

  ‘Think I’m deaf, do ya?’

  John shook his head silently. ‘Not me again, mate.’ Once again he signalled with his eyes that it was John One.

  ‘Ignorant? Is that what you called me?’ Ron’s voice was getting louder. John laughed nervously.

  I could see that Ron’s hand had formed a fist over the white ball and was about to be launched at John. Despite my dislike of the two troublemakers, as one of the landlords I felt obliged to intervene. ‘Hey, Ron. Micky’s looking for you.’

  ‘Huh?’ Ron turned to look at me. As he did, the two Johns made a dash up the stairs, falling over each other as they fled. Ron turned back, his senses impaired by the afternoon alcohol. ‘Get your fackin northern arses back here,’ he shouted but John One and John Two were pushing each other towards the safety of their apartment. Ron muttered to himself. The two girls were now clinging to each other for comfort, their eyes wide in panic. ‘Here you are, girls,’ said Ron passing the ball to them and setting off to look for his son. ‘You tell those two wankers they’re dead,’ he barked from halfway up the steps.

  The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully; the usual straggle of Dads escaping from the beach for a quick pint under the premise of fetching ice-creams; three generations of a French family sitting down to a late lunch that took one third of the afternoon to order, another third to eat and the final third spent trying to split the bill.

  Unfortunately, as the time came for David and Faith to clock back on, Ron returned having failed to find his son. He had obviously continued drinking heavily and sat at the bar barely coherent but still trying to pick a fight with somebody. Any shape, size or nationality had become a target. ‘You’re a fat cunt, aren’t you,’ he offered to Des, an ex-bouncer on holiday from Bolton, with whom we had become friends. Frank also knew Des and had warned us that he was ‘as tough as fuck’ and was not to be messed with. Unfortunately he hadn’t shared the same information with Ron. Not that it would have made much difference to Ron’s pickled sense of logic.