The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  My mum hates cats (‘always licking their bits in plain sight’) and wouldn’t ordinarily contribute to the protection of any at all, so this is quite a statement from her. She’s off this afternoon to claim her rightful bounty and from what I can gather she’s taking an army of militant pensioners with her.

  Good luck to them; I dread to think what the place will look like when they’ve finished.

  My concern right now is making a success of the business that I’ve invested everything in. I give myself a target of having the Christmas trip completely sold out to help me focus.

  I need to be speaking to more groups of people so I get out the list of the organisations I want to contact, but before I get the chance, the phone starts ringing with repercussions from my mother’s clear-out.

  ‘Your mother has thrown out all of my clothes and given all of my fishing gear to Help the Aged,’ Alan wails.

  I imagine I’ll have the opposite problem when I see her; it’s highly likely that she’ll bring so much stuff back for me to keep ‘just in case’.

  ‘In fairness to her,’ I say, ‘you never used it and if you haven’t worn it in the past six months, you’re not going to.’

  ‘That’s not the point, why did you even let her near the house?’ he asks.

  I take a deep breath, brace myself then tell him calmly.

  ‘I can’t go back, Alan, it holds too many memories. I also couldn’t bear the idea of you both rummaging through our things mocking our time together. We weren’t perfect but you won’t be either in a few years. You’ll buy tack because it’s funny, you’ll keep rubbish because it reminds you of something, and no one else will understand it. I didn’t want our tat ridiculed, so I sent Mum in.’

  ‘But my fishing gear?’ he asks.

  ‘Two things,’ I reply. ‘One, when did you last fish and two, do you honestly think the honourable Nigella is going to let you keep all that gear in a luxury apartment? Or maggots in the fridge? Do you?’

  ‘That’s true,’ he laughs, and I can picture the warmth of his eyes as he does so.

  ‘And you should thank Mum anyway,’ I continue, ‘because if you’d even tried to move all that stuff in, you’d have had your first row.’

  ‘Oh that ship sailed some time ago,’ he says. ‘The florist made a lot of money that day.’

  The first part both surprises and delights me; I ignore the second.

  He always went to the supermarket for my flowers.

  Ed

  It’s book-club night and I reapply my lipstick in the ladies before heading to the table to join them. I’ve been determined to keep coming no matter how busy I get; true I haven’t read each book they’ve discussed, but I go along and nod intelligently. It’s a moment of peace with a glass of wine included.

  Each of us can make a suggestion of what we read next but I haven’t volunteered anything yet because it’s quite a revealing thing to do, recommending a book for others. Do you pick something safe like a classic or a Booker prizewinner or do you try to say something about yourself with an edgy contemporary author? Then you have to choose something that would appeal to male and female. I’ll never forget the month that Caroline had to feign interest as the guys extolled the virtues of a zombie novel. She says she always picks something that no one will own so they have to buy it from her; I can learn much from her.

  Ed is in the hot seat this month and he’s picked a thriller, Remember Me This Way. This is definitely up my street; I adore trying to guess the twist (that inevitably happens) at the end.

  ‘In some ways,’ I say, ‘I hate these books because I cannot put them down until I know the heroine is safe.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ continues Ed. ‘Did you think he was still alive, stalking her?’

  ‘He had to be,’ I reply.

  Our passionate discourse about thrillers continues after the formal session. We discuss whether the twist made sense, whether the film versions were any good, which books should make it on to the screen but haven’t, and who you’d want to investigate your murder if it happened, Dalgliesh or Scarpetta?

  I haven’t lost myself in a conversation like this for aeons and I’m surprised it’s happening with Ed. I don’t think I’ve even looked at him properly and try to do so now without being too obvious. The opportunity comes when he heads off to the bar to buy us a refill: taller than Alan with strong looking arms. He probably doesn’t sit behind a desk any more. He wouldn’t be my usual type; I’m a sucker for the pretty boys, the Pierce Brosnans or Richard Geres of the world. Ed is more of a Liam Neeson or Tommy Lee Jones. He’s quiet and craggy with a hint of danger. OK, I made that last bit up but we are discussing thrillers and I’m trying to imagine how I’ll describe him to Patty.

  We don’t really know anything about each other so move on from books.

  ‘I’m doing the rounds at the moment, presenting the idea to societies and groups. That seems to work well for us; members tend to spur each other on and we get multiple bookings.’

  ‘You should come and present to us,’ he suggests.

  I can’t imagine what group he might be part of, perhaps university lecturers or the P D James Fan Club. I nod politely.

  ‘We love a good party,’ he adds.

  This mild-mannered man then goes on to tell me he rides a Harley-Davidson and runs a club – they’re called ‘Chapters’. They’re part of the golden generation who have private pensions to blow on fun and frivolity. Ed also does restorations and repairs; that would explain the arms, then.

  Patty will explode.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he says, ‘come out with us this weekend and meet a few of the gang.’

  I hesitate and don’t know how to start this next conversation. I twiddle nervously with my empty ring finger; he spots it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he guesses. ‘It’s just a friendly invitation. I think I’ve forgotten how to date properly.’

  He laughs and we both relax, I know exactly what he means.

  So with nothing to lose and maybe some bookings to gain, I borrow a leather jacket from Josie.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how sunny it looks now,’ she warns me, ‘you’ll be glad you have this when you’re tearing up the motorway.’

  I hope I look the part. I’m waiting for a motorbike to come roaring up the road and if this doesn’t have the curtains twitching then nothing will.

  It does. I climb on to the back of the bike and cling to Ed as if my life depends on it.

  ‘I’m on a motorbike,’ I squeal inwardly.

  We ride into Cheshire with eight other members of The Chapter and after a wonderful tour of the countryside, stop at a dainty tea room in Tarporley.

  ‘We have to call ahead,’ says one of the bikers, ‘or they have a fit when they see us drive up.’

  I can believe that. I still find this whole scenario extremely funny; my image of the leather-clad biker (and I know I won’t be alone in this) is of a rebel, a wild child with arm-to-arm tattoos. They rev up to some sleazy joint and neck tequilas or bourbon before having a fight with a pool cue over some woman. If they’re really unlucky, a Terminator from the future will turn up and demand their boots and jacket before nicking said bike.

  What they don’t do is make sure that they have enough thermals on under the leathers, roll up to a tea shop and have a selection of scones. But that’s exactly what they do.

  ‘Could you pass the jam?’ asks one.

  I hand the glass preserve pot to the man on my left in the Motörhead T-shirt.

  ‘You’re bemused, I can tell,’ says Ed. I nod.

  ‘Most of us loved bikes when we were younger,’ he explains, ‘but you know how it is. You give them up for family estates in your twenties. Now the nest is empty and you go back to what you’ve always loved.’

  I certainly understand that. So this group are reliving their youths while meeting new people, but of course they can’t drink on a ride out so they visit the quaintest of English villages dressed like Arnold Schwarz
enegger.

  I swear I will never look at bikers in quite the same way.

  So from wondering what on earth Mercury would have to offer this group of renegades, I’m reassured that I won’t crash and burn when I present the travel club.

  After a lovely day out, I wave goodbye and peel off the extremely sweaty outfit. A shower is definitely needed but it has barely warmed up when Patty calls. I wrap myself in a towel and lie on the bed to talk to her.

  ‘So where have you been, Bo?’ she probes.

  All of a sudden, I feel a little coy. Despite the tameness of the group, there is no way I can tell her that I was out with a group of bikers without getting the third degree.

  ‘Erm, just meeting some people who might be interested in the travel club,’ I say and that’s the truth after all.

  ‘Some friends of Ed,’ I add, going for nonchalant, but it doesn’t work.

  ‘Him from the book club?’ she asks, ‘that’s moved on a bit hasn’t it?’

  ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want you nabbing a man before I do,’ warns Patty.

  ‘That’s hardly likely,’ I say.

  She rings off satisfied with my answer.

  I had a bloody good laugh today and rolling up into towns riding pillion was quite exciting, better than just getting out of the passenger seat of a hatchback anyway. It would be nice to think things could stay like this; we’d be friends without any expectations of benefits. When I try to picture any relationship developing, I’m comfortable with the dinner and moonlight strolls but I can’t envisage the bedroom scene at all. What do second-timers our age do? Would he undress me or would I disappear into the bathroom to slip into something more comfortable? And do I have to tell him what I like? What do people like these days?

  I feel comfortable making that promise to Patty because when you play the scene through, I really don’t want to go there.

  I’m jolted from my thoughts by a noise in the front garden and a car door slamming. I sit very still for a few moments to make sure that I can’t hear anything inside the house. I mentally run through arriving back home: did I lock the door? I’m sure I did, I always do.

  It’s times like this when you wish you still lived with a man; I would always have sent Alan to investigate noises in the night. Instead, I have to walk assertively down the stairs showing that I am mistress of my own abode and will take no crap from anyone. Sneaking down on tiptoes probably doesn’t say that but it’s all I can manage. If I were in a movie right now, a cat would jump out and screech. I pray that doesn’t happen or I’m head over heels down these stairs, squashing it on the way.

  I get to the (locked) front door without mishap and open it cautiously. The noise seems to have been caused by a beautifully planted terracotta pot, which was obviously very heavy to manoeuvre into place. I look up and down the street but there is no one in sight and no one sneaking a peek from any window. It appears I’m being stalked by Monty Don.

  I kick the spilled soil into the garden and notice that Gnorman is holding something. Someone has attached a little plant stick and an empty seed packet to him so it looks as if he’s carrying a little protest placard.

  I bend down to pick it up; it’s a packet of forget-me-nots.

  It can’t be – can it? Alan?

  Cruising

  Patty has taken up residence in the store today and we’re in danger of her frightening off any customers with her scowl. She’s also still wearing an item of red clothing each day, although thankfully it’s a little more subtle now.

  ‘I thought something might have happened by now,’ she laments.

  ‘I buy red Thai curry instead of green in case someone locks eyes with me at the supermarket and says, “Oh, my favourite too”, I’ve switched to Bloody Marys because red wine looks too purple and I never leave the house without a strawberry condom. I just don’t know what more I can do.’

  It’s not the most obvious list that springs to mind.

  ‘Be patient, Patience,’ I tell her, ‘good things come...etc.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.’ She goes into business mode. ‘It’s about the Granny-Okes.’

  ‘Pats, I can’t...’

  ‘Don’t worry, we don’t need you singing but I wondered if you could do something else for me.’

  Whatever it is, I know that I’ll have to find a way of doing it, but in the end, it isn’t too bad.

  ‘Craig might be able to get us on the line-up of an eighties cruise if you put it in the travel club,’ she says.

  ‘We already sell this,’ says Charlie when I show him the itinerary.

  ‘But if there’s a Mercury Travel Club offer, it might sell-out quicker,’ I say.

  ‘I wouldn’t sweat that,’ pipes up Josie, ‘people are mad for this retro stuff.’

  I know she’s right; this is a simple seven-day tour of the Mediterranean. It has the tribute bands but also eighties movies and quizzes each night. I’m not sure what extra we can add for the Mercury members, it’s pretty good now.

  ‘What did you guys eat back then?’ asks Josie.

  I can’t remember what my parents served at dinner parties, and when I started to go out for dinner with friends, it was mainly to Italian restaurants – I think lasagne was exotic then.

  ‘Mateus Rosé,’ exclaims Charlie, ‘that was all the rage and everyone had a candle in the empty bottle.’

  ‘Wasn’t it totally, like, decadent with Thatcher and the City?’ asks Josie. ‘Lots of champagne everywhere?’

  ‘Steak,’ I remember, ‘lots of steak in peppercorn sauces; nouvelle cuisine, Delia Smith, beef wellingtons and fondues.’

  ‘And cocktails with Pernod or Malibu in. We thought we were being so sophisticated,’ adds Charlie.

  We grimace with such feeling it’s obvious we both made that mistake in our youth.

  Charlie is convinced that he can turn this into something special so I leave him to it.

  I’m back on the road tonight with Ed’s biker gang; it sounds far more exciting when I call my speeches at the WI and Harley Chapter my tour dates.

  ‘Bo Peep on Tour’ – maybe I should have a T-shirt printed? Although as I do sound more like a burlesque dancer than a travel agent, people might be disappointed when I arrive. I guess I could wear tassels.

  Meetings are held upstairs at The Olde Oake and most of the group have walked here. I’m glad I’ve already met a few of the crowd as it means I can mingle politely rather than sit on the edge getting nervous. Ed is the president of this Chapter and he stands up to introduce me. I extol the virtues of the travel club, outline the calendar and offer to customise additional trips if there is enough interest.

  ‘Perhaps a trip to Chicago where the first Harley showroom opened,’ I say. (I throw this in to seem knowledgeable but as I only found it on the internet yesterday it’s a good job no one pushes me further on it.)

  Ed leads everyone in a round of applause at the end.

  ‘That was great Angie, you’ve restored my reputation in choosing speakers,’ he says.

  ‘It wouldn’t be hard to beat the flora and fauna of the Wetlands,’ comes a voice from the back and everyone laughs.

  Ed blushes and takes the ribbing with good humour.

  I’ve heard it said that when some people smile, their faces change completely and so it is with Ed. Instead of craggy action man there stood a well-liked guy, comfortable in his own skin and happy to laugh at himself.

  ‘Happy to help,’ I say joining in the bonhomie and move a step closer to Ed.

  I feel a twinge of something as he thanks me and pecks me on the cheek.

  Baking Hot

  It has been a stunningly warm June and not just ‘British Hot’ as Josie calls it laughingly but ‘Aussie Global Warming Hot’. White legs and arms are turning pink everywhere you look and the world is a happier place, as it always is when the sun shines.

  Across Chorlton, the pub gardens are blooming and cheeks ar
e getting rosier as everyone enjoys a little alfresco tipple in the glorious sunshine.

  So I can understand my mother’s angst when she calls me and pleads, ‘Please come and get her, my house is like Hades’ Sauna.’

  My daughter has taken up ‘baking residence’ in Mum’s double oven and is spending every evening practising her recipes. Mum was very keen to begin with – after all multiple cakes were at stake – but the heatwave has made even the freebies unattractive.

  When I arrive there is a type of science-fiction haze around the back door. It looks just like the special effects they used on Star Trek when they put up that cloaking shield thing; I didn’t pay much attention when Alan was glued to it. Why is it that there are definitely ‘men’s programmes’ and ‘women’s programmes’ and they’re pretty much universally consistent? I’m not sure a woman would invent a programme about spaceships, but I could be wrong.

  Anyway, as I ponder, I walk into the haze and the heat hits me.

  ‘Woah,’ I say braving the inferno, ‘how are you surviving this without protective clothing?’

  My daughter looks up from her latest creation and adds it to a table laden with carbohydrates. If you’d been on the Atkins or Dukan diets recently, this place would be an absolute heaven or hell depending on your inclination to ditch it or stick to it.

  ‘Where’s Gran?’ I ask.

  I’m told she’s upstairs, so go in search and find her sitting on the loo wearing her nightie and reading a magazine with a Chardonnay cooling in the sink.

  I don’t need to ask why: this is the coolest room in the house. I make myself comfy on the edge of the bath and take a slug from her glass.

  ‘What are we going to do about her?’ asks Mum, ‘Amanda’s a professional chef; all the others might be too, she’s never going to win.’

  It will break her heart to be beaten by Amanda, but I know my daughter and there is no way that she will back out now.

  ‘We’re going to have to help somehow.’ I drain her glass and get up. ‘Come on then before you take roots; you know Catherine the Great died on the loo don’t you?’