Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  If it wasn’t for the fact that they were all dressed in swimsuits, except the grandmother who was clad all in black save for a straw boater, you’d be forgiven for thinking that you were peering into someone’s living room. Huge efforts had been made to repel the conditions that you’d normally seek on a beach, i.e. sand, sunshine and a sea view.

  A red-top newspaper protruding from the top of a straw shopping bag gave an obvious clue as to the nationality of our other neighbours. The family of four couldn’t have displayed a more contrasting outlook on beach excursions. They were here to revel in all three enemies of the Spanish clan.

  Mr Brit was standing, one hand cupped over his eyes, surveying the scene for a glimpse of the topless, oak-tanned girls he’d heard about back home. His white legs gleamed in the midday sun like flagpoles on a tropical parade ground. His other hand rested on hips housed in purple knee-length swimming shorts. Above this, a pale blue short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, flapping in the slight breeze. It still had birthmarks, two lines running parallel from top to bottom and one across the chest from left to right, a neat tribute to the packers at C & A.

  Mrs Brit sat upright reading Jackie Collins whilst slow cooking in coconut oil. The wide brim of a straw hat threw shade over the novel and her shoulders, where both straps of her black one-piece had been pushed daringly off their perch.

  The junior Brits were both lying comatose. The boy of about 14 lay on his back atop a Sheffield United beach towel, a glorious antithesis if ever there was one. Pale skin and red hair hinted that this wasn’t an environment particularly suited for him. Nevertheless he slept soundly, blissfully ignorant of the pink glow fanning out from his freckled shoulders.

  His sister was possibly a year older. She was lying on her front, bikini top unfastened, arms and legs spread wide to minimise the catastrophe of acquiring white bits. A teen mag lay discarded in the sand at the side of her head, its pages blowing back and forth from one Hollywood hunk to another.

  We spread out two towels and flopped down. Joy smothered herself in sun cream, took out a magazine and immediately fell asleep before she had time to learn why a C-list soap star had decorated her bathroom in zebra stripes.

  We had been living within a hundred yards of the ocean for nearly 140 days. We had driven past the beach six days out of seven for those four and a half months. We had welcomed hundreds of customers in various states of undress who had obviously come straight from the beach, expressing envy at our lifestyle while asking the inevitable, ‘Why are you so white if you live here?’ But this was the first time we had been able to enjoy for ourselves what 99.9 per cent of holidaymakers came for – to lie in the sun and do nothing.

  Beach-goers can generally be divided into two schools; those that see the sand as a giant communal mattress and those who see it as an activity centre.

  For every comatose sun worshipper there’s another indulging in a beach activity – some more traditional than others.

  Just beyond the Spanish encampment, a tanned Latin girl sat astride her boyfriend who lay on his front. Her face was contorted in fierce concentration as she nipped his flesh with two thumbs, minesweeping for spots along the length of his back then wiping the results on the back of his shorts. His eyes were open, watching two portly British lads trying to impress a group of nearby girls with their keepy-uppy skills, competing with the wind for control of their 200-peseta plastic flyaway ball; ‘One… two… thr… damn! Right, this time. One… two… sorry, love.’

  A small boy stood watching, open-mouthed. In one hand he held a red plastic spade, in the other his willy. Behind him, his father was putting the final touches to an intricate sand village complete with irrigation system and walled surround. His tongue was between his teeth as he lay on his front etching mullion windows into the houses oblivious that his son had wandered off, bored with the complexities of making sandcastles with dad.

  ‘It’s time for a change.’ Joy had woken from her doze and finished all the articles in her glossy on ‘How to get thin by eating nothing but chocolate’, the latest cellulite treatment involving hydrochloric acid, a stiff wire brush and several months in intensive care and yet another conclusive study revealing that all men are crap. She was now propping herself up on one elbow, staring at my manhood.

  Insulted by this deflating remark I stopped my posturing. As gravity let go of my shoulders, chest and stomach they slumped down towards the focus of her gaze. My ego fought hard to convince me that it was the packaging and not the contents at which she was expressing displeasure.

  ‘Nobody wears those nowadays,’ she announced.

  I had to admit that there weren’t many other bodies sporting red Speedo trunks but not being a dedicated follower of fashion this was not a concern. I’d had this swimming costume for years and apart from a quick dash into (and a quicker dash out of) Blackpool’s icy offering, they had enjoyed a very restful life.

  It’s only in places like Tenerife that you realise beachwear is such big business. It’s the least amount of clothing you’re likely to wear in public yet produces the most amount of concern in the run up to summer holidays.

  It’s also come a long way since the days when extraordinary efforts were required to ensure that nobody got a glimpse of exposed skin. In the 18th century, a bathing machine was invented to save the blushes of the psychotically modest beach-goer. This contraption was the brainstorm of Benjamin Beale, a Quaker who was apparently troubled by the sight of women emerging from the sea in sodden dresses.

  Choosing not to look didn’t appear to have been an option so he went to all the trouble of inventing what was basically a shed on wheels. This would be towed by horses far enough into the water to enable the occupant to change out of her thick layers of land clothing into her equally thick layers of water clothing and enjoy an unsociable day at the seaside beyond the prying eyes of voyeurs like Benjamin Beale himself.

  Joy’s revelation that I looked a prat did little for my confidence amidst such eye-popping beach-goers. I was going to go for a stroll but opted instead to have a doze. Several yards away, a group of local girls were doing the same. As I lay there, it dawned on me what a particularly odd place the beach was, especially for the Brits. As a socially inhibited bunch, the last place that you would think a typically shy Brit would come for some relaxation was a wide expanse where you were expected to undress in public and lie shoulder to shoulder amidst a crowd of complete strangers.

  Bed to most Brits is a most sacred place. Strangers, even extended family, are rarely allowed a peek at the room where … dare I say it … sex is practised. Sleep is an equally private affair. What happens beneath the sheets, whether active or passive, is strictly taboo to all but the closest of friends. To go through the same act in public (the passive one rather than the active one) but without the security of a fleecy bed sheet, runs against the grain of the British psyche. But I guess beaches are like that, exclusive zones allowing exceptional conduct. I mean, how else could you explain the fact that a woman may feel perfectly comfortable exposing her breasts on the beach but wouldn’t dream of doing the same in other surroundings, such as around the hotel swimming pool?

  I have to admit that I made very little effort to avert my eyes from the tanned flesh parading up and down. Back in Bolton I was used to strolling amongst anoraks, parkas, trench coats and hats, even in summer. Those considering a move from a muffled-up country like England should be forewarned about the culture shock of suddenly finding yourself living amidst a never-ending parade of near-naked, golden bodies. It’s not a bad thing, may I hasten to add, but those of a weaker disposition should realise that distractions come thick and fast.

  I was pondering these and other facts, about to doze off, when I sensed a shadow slide across me.

  ‘You’ve not got a bad life, have you?’ I recognised the Tyneside accent. It was a middle-age teacher who was here on holiday with his wife. They’d been in the bar every night since their arrival last week.

  ‘It has it
s moments,’ replied Joy. I contemplated acknowledging the couple but thought better of it and feigned sleep. Joy immediately kicked into hostess mood. ‘Look at the colour of you two! You’re getting a nice tan.’

  ‘Aye, we’re real sun lovers we are, aren’t we, pet?’

  The woman was acutely aware that we were enjoying time off and probably didn’t want to be mithered by customers. ‘Aye, we are,’ she smiled as she tried to usher her husband away.

  ‘So is this how you spend all your afternoons, then?’ he continued.

  ‘I wish,’ replied Joy. ‘Believe it or not, this is the first time we’ve been on the beach since we moved here.’

  ‘Aye, away with you. I might look daft but there’s more up here than you think,’ said the man, tapping his thin grey hair.

  ‘Not a lot, mind,’ said his wife. ‘Come on John, these people see enough of us when they’re at work. They dinnae want to be mithered by us on the beach an’ all. Leave them be.’

  But John was having none of it. Two lunchtime pints had set him in bar-room mode and he wanted some banter. ‘Joy’s alright, aren’t you, pet? She doesn’t mind. Look, her hubby’s asleep. I bet she’s glad of the company.’

  He sat down next to Joy while his wife remained standing. ‘So you’re telling me you live by the sea and you’ve never been on the beach yet? You must be mad.’

  Joy was inwardly kicking herself. She took great pride in the fact that many of the customers thought they were her favourite but although it kept them coming back spending money, she couldn’t drop the pretence now, even in her time off.

  ‘So how long have you been here, then?’ the man continued.

  My heart sank at the off-duty interrogation. I could feel the stress beginning to rise. ‘Leave us alone for God’s sake.’

  ‘So what made you come out here? … Do you like it? … Will you ever go back?’ The questions were coming thick and fast. The wife had given up. I had to do something. I opened my eyes and yawned as if I’d been in a deep sleep.

  ‘Oh, hello. I thought I heard voices. What time is it?’

  ‘Ten past three,’ answered the man.

  ‘Eek! Come on Joy, we’ve got to go and meet Mike.’ I stood up and shook my towel.

  Joy paused for a second before realising what I was doing. ‘Oh, right. Yes, I forgot. Well, it’s been nice seeing you.’

  ‘Yes, sorry about John,’ apologised the woman. ‘Two pints and he thinks he’s everybody’s best friend. C’mon, you.’ She pulled him away by the elbow.

  As soon as they were out of sight we set the towels back down again.

  ‘You encourage them,’ I said to Joy, lying back down.

  ‘I can’t blank them, can I?’ she replied. ‘We can’t all be unsociable.’

  I let the dig pass. It was bad enough we’d been ambushed. Bickering would certainly put a dampener on our first day of relaxation. I just wanted to spend an afternoon in the sun enjoying a comfortable silence.

  ‘PIÑACOCOPEPSIFANTALEEEEEEEMON!’ A man in cut-off denims stood at my feet, shouting in a Jamaican accent. He was holding a large, white plastic bucket. Sweat rolled off his face. ‘ANANAS-COCO-PEPSI-FANTA LEEEEEEEMON! You want, mister? Here, ananas.’ Before I had time to ask what ananas was, I found myself holding a wedge of pineapple. The cold juice ran down my still extended arm and plopped onto my stomach.

  ‘Cuatro cientos,’ demanded the man, holding up four fingers. He held out his hand.

  ‘Err … no thanks, mate,’ I said, wiping the sticky mess with a sandy hand. I tried to give him the wedge back but he withdrew his hand.

  ‘400,’ he repeated.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  His English suddenly took a dramatic turn for the better, the Caribbean lilt subsiding into Liverpudlian. ‘You’ve had your hands all over it. I can’t take it back now. Look, it’s got sand on it.’

  I couldn’t be bothered arguing and accepted the dupe, handing him a 1,000 note. He started to walk off, ‘PIÑA-COCO-PEPSI-FA … Que?’ I had hold of his bucket.

  ‘Change. You said 400.’

  ‘Oh, sorry mate. I wasn’t thinking,’ he said, handing me the change.

  Joy was smiling. ‘Want some?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re a salesman’s dream,’ she said, shaking her head.

  The wind had picked up and I was trying to shelter my wedge from the blowing sand, dripping pineapple juice all over my legs and towel in the process. I gave up, crunching sand between my teeth before spitting it out.

  ‘What else have we got to eat? I’m starving.’

  Joy handed me a cheese and ham sandwich from the cool-box but as soon as I put it to my mouth, another gust of wind peppered the bread with sand.

  ‘Don’t look,’ hissed Joy suddenly, though where I wasn’t supposed to look wasn’t made clear. I hid behind the sand-coated sandwich, following Joy’s gaze out of the corner of her eyes. Another two of our customers had laid down their towels just a few yards beyond the Spanish family.

  ‘It’s alright, they’ve not seen us,’ she said. ‘Just don’t attract their attention.’

  In the meantime, a passing fly had zoned in on the sweet pineapple juice that had formed a sticky patch around my belly button.

  ‘Get off, you …’ I flailed my arms, trying to shoo the stubborn insect away but it just kept taking off and landing like a trainee helicopter pilot. Another fly joined in the manoeuvres. Then another. Fresh pineapple juice and salty sweat apparently had a formidable allure to beach bum flies. Before long, it seemed like a squadron had formed with the sole intention of trampolining on my stomach.

  ‘Joe, pack it in,’ hissed Joy. ‘They’re going to see us.’ But it was no good. Joy obviously wasn’t aware of the assault that was taking place. I stood up and ran to the sea, arms thrashing wildly like windmill sails in a hurricane. After losing the flies in the cold ocean I returned the long way round, hoping we were still inconspicuous.

  Joy had started to pack up when I returned: ‘Come on, we’d better get back.’ It was only four p.m. but several others were also on the move. Judging by their smart clothes, some had come to the beach during their afternoon break, preferring a siesta in the sun to one indoors.

  Others were probably more victims of habit, like the old couple who were changing for the third time that I had noticed. They seemed to have swimwear for arriving, swimwear for swimming, another outfit for just lying down and yet more clothes for departing. Both were currently in-between costumes, white octogenarian buttocks wobbling as they gripped each other’s arms in a shaky attempt to remain upright. There were more pleasant parting sights to leave the beach with but unfortunately this was the one that was lodged in my mind.

  Charley was smoking a cigarette in her garden when we arrived back at the apartment.

  ‘Hi, you two. Had a nice day?’

  ‘We finally got to spend a day on the beach,’ answered Joy, ‘well, half a day anyway. I thought you were leaving last night?’

  ‘Yes, so did I, but I’ve got a job. I’m staying on.’

  ‘That’s great. Where are you working?’ I asked, climbing over the wall into her garden.

  ‘I’m in timeshare, not selling though,’ she added quickly. ‘I’ll be working in the office, in admin. Fancy a quick drink to celebrate?’

  We stepped through the patio doors and into the kitchen. As we did I heard the toilet flush upstairs.

  ‘My boyfriend,’ smiled Charley. She shouted up the stairs. ‘John? Are you coming down? It’s Joe and Joy from next door.’

  ‘Be down in a minute,’ came the reply.

  Charley poured four glasses of champagne and we toasted her new job and extended holiday.

  ‘Have you noticed the jeep that parks outside our house some nights?’ I asked Charley.

  I noticed Charley’s cheeks flushing. ‘No, I can’t say I have,’ she replied.

  ‘There’s a man that sits in it all night, watching. He makes us kind of edgy. I’m thinking about calling the po
lice. What do you think?’

  Charley began to choke on the champagne. ‘No…I…you…he’s probably just a night fisherman, or something,’ she spluttered. ‘I wouldn’t call the police, you know what they’re like.’

  The fourth glass remained untouched, as we had to get ready for our shift before the mysterious boyfriend made an appearance.

  CHAPTER 17

  I could delay the inevitable no longer. Buster had taken to spraying anything and anybody that remained motionless for more than 30 seconds and the stench was becoming unbearable. It was time he met the manhood scissors.

  ‘He’ll take a while to come round from the operation so we’ll call you when he’s ready,’ said the vet. She obviously didn’t know Buster.

  The snip was scheduled for 10.30 in the morning. At 11 a.m. I received a call from her assistant, declaring with some amazement that Buster was already wide awake and ready to be picked up. Sure enough, when I arrived, Buster, although scowling and none-too impressed with his loss, was sitting patiently in the surgery waiting for his ride. He dutifully followed me to the car and jumped in without any signs of discomfort.

  While Buster’s lustful advances may have been nipped in the bud, the two Johns were still in full flow. The winks and insinuations would have been funny were it not that John One seriously thought that Joy was interested in furthering their relationship.

  This was another of the undesirable side effects of Joy’s congeniality. Whilst most men, especially those old enough to be her granddad, would enjoy the banter and innocent flirting, there were some who mistook it for genuine enticement. She brought a twinkle to the eye and a shine to the heart of many a greying holidaymaker. On several occasions, the partners of these old, new romantics were less than impressed with their spouse’s infantile obsession with ‘the girl behind the bar’ and occasionally Joy’s seemingly undivided attention would backfire, the husband banned from any further visits to ‘his new girlfriend’ – a heartfelt loss for them, a financial one for us.