More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (21 page)

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 dangers of 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-aged teacher who was here on holiday with his wife. They’d been in the bar every night since their arrival last week.

‘It has its 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 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 all right, 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.

‘PIÑA-COCO-PEPSI-FANTA-LEEEEEEEMON.’ A man in cut-off denim 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.

‘
Quatro 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 all right, 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 o’clock 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 quick siesta in the sun to one indoors.

An old couple 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 I could have left the beach with, but unfortunately this was the one that 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. ‘James? 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 police. 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.

On the way up to the bar we knocked on Pete and Maureen’s door, our other neighbours. Maureen answered.

‘Hi Maureen. We were just wondering if you’d noticed that car parked outside our house some nights?’ asked Joy.

Maureen ushered us in without saying anything and shouted down the hallway. ‘Pete! It’s Joe and Joy. They want to know about that car parked outside.’

Pete was sat on his armchair polishing cutlery, a towel across his legs. ‘I’ll tell you who it is,’ he said, suddenly becoming very agitated. ‘It’s a flamin’ minder.’

Joy and I looked at each other. ‘One of Micky’s?’ I asked.

‘No!’ exclaimed Pete and stood up. The cutlery clanged to the floor.

‘Pete!’ protested Maureen.

‘Not only have we got sodding gangsters on this side,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, ‘you’ve got them next to you now as well. Only worse.’

‘Charley’s a gangster?’ I said incredulously.

‘No. But her boyfriend is. She’s going out with James Priory for goodness sake – J.P.,
the
Mr Big. That man parked outside is James Priory’s minder. We’re all living in the middle of a war zone!’

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

In addition to the previous night’s revelation and subsequent sleepless night, we had another problem to deal with in the bar the following morning. Buster had taken to spraying anything and anybody that remained motionless for more than thirty seconds, and the stench was becoming unbearable. I could delay the inevitable no longer. 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 eleven 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. While 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.

If innocent flirtation sometimes lost us custom, there was one thing that was sure to gain more patrons – clickety-click, 66.

It was now late November and the sea of faces viewed from behind the bar had changed from the lively surf of suntanned exuberance to the flat, silver calm of a millpond.

There aren’t really seasons as such in Tenerife, merely different times of the year for different types of people. Summer, Christmas and most school holidays, were obviously the time for families and groups of young students. November to April was the time for the pensioners, or ‘fish brigade’ as we referred to them, due to their partiality for ‘a nice bit of fish’. Clickety-click was more or less the average age of our post-summer, pre-Christmas crowd. It was also their favourite pastime abroad.

The bingo stalwarts arrived twenty minutes before we were due to start. After ordering tonic waters, cups of tea and for the more daring, halves of shandy, they all sat down expectantly, pens poised at the ready until business commenced. If the first card didn’t kick off exactly at the time stated on our ‘tonight’s entertainment’ blackboard at the top of the stairs, we knew the clucking would begin.

‘It said ten o’clock. It’s ten past now.’ Bloody revolutions had started on the murmurings of less discontent.

Six cards were the norm for the specialists and as Joy read out the numbers, the concentration was intense. Comments such as ‘Hang on, I’ve dropped me balls’, as number thirty-three bounced along the floor, were not appreciated.

We didn’t know who was going to win of course, but I could always guarantee who wasn’t. Anybody with cards bearing numbers 6 or 84 were in for a long wait. Those particular balls had long since gone into hiding after a mass breakout during our bingo premiere.

We were only playing for a fiver but the solemnity was all-consuming. The urge to laugh was as compelling as a fit of giggles at morning mass. For Joy this wasn’t helped by the fact that I fed her an endless succession of extra-strong Bacardi and Cokes to liven up the evening for both of us.

‘One and six, sweet sixteen.’ Silence.

‘Kelly’s eye, number one.’

‘Six and nine, your place or mine, sixty-nine.’ Disapproving tuts.

‘Erm… two little ducks, twenty-two.’

The professionals responded, ‘Quack, quack.’

The Bacardi had kicked in by the second game. Combined with the tense atmosphere it would now only take the slightest silly gesture or daft comment for Joy to lose her self-control.

‘Come on!’ complained a large woman wearing Day-Glo pink. She glared at Joy like a reprimanding schoolteacher. ‘Next number!’ But Joy’s eyes were watering and her shoulders shaking up and down.

‘Eee, giddy,’ said Joy regaining some composure. ‘Six and eight, sixty-eight. Oh no, hang on. I’ve got it upside down. Eight and nine, the Brighton line, eighty-nine.’

‘That’s not the Brighton line,’ shouted the same lady. ‘That’s five and nine, the Brighton line. Can we do it properly, please.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Joy, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘Five oh, blind fifty.’

‘Five oh, five oh, it’s… off… to… work… we…’ the lady stopped singing aware that it was a solo effort.

‘Quite,’ said Joy. ‘Major’s den, the number ten.’

‘House!’ shouted a squeaky voice from outside. It was Justin.

‘How can you have house, Justin? I’ve only called out thirteen numbers. You need fifteen for a house.’

‘Oh. Oh yes, I’ve got two more to get here.’

‘Doctor’s orders, number nine.’

‘House!’

‘Justin, you need one more.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Top of the shop, blind ninety.’

‘HOUSE!’ It was Justin again. ‘Oh no. That’s not mine. I need number thirty. Sorry.’

Unfortunately the next number to roll out of the little plastic cage was in fact thirty.

‘Dirty Gertie, number thirty.’

‘HOUSE! That’s me, I’ve won.’ Justin was already racing towards Joy, kicking a couple of chairs in his haste.

‘Hang on.’ The big lady was on her feet. ‘I’m not having that. It’s a fix.’

‘Sit down y’old bag,’ shouted Wayne, waving his bingo ticket at the big lady.

‘I will not sit down. This is a fix. He shouts out the number he’s waiting for and next road up, it’s pulled out. I’m not having that. I want to speak to the manager.’

The other players had started to join in. ‘Boo, boo. Shame on you. Sit down. It’s only a game.’

‘I
am
the manager,’ said Joy over the microphone.

‘Well, what are you trying to pull here,’ the fat lady asked, pointing a finger first at Joy and then at a bemused Justin. ‘He’s a ringer, isn’t he? You’re trying to con us. She’s trying to con us,’ she repeated, addressing the crowd.

Frank was shaking his head. He put his pencil behind his ear and folded his arms. ‘We’re not playing for millions here, you know. It’s only a fucking fiver.’

The big lady pulled in her bosom. ‘Don’t you swear at me. Manager! Manager! Are you going to allow that kind of language in this bar?’

Joy could sense bingo anarchy was breaking out. ‘Can we all just calm down and carry on, please?’ she shouted through the microphone, but her plea was in vain. Insults were being hurled back and forth as the big lady defended herself against the rest of the bar. Wayne screwed up his bingo ticket and flung it at the lady in the middle of the terrace. It struck her on the back of her head.

She wheeled round. ‘Who threw that? Come on. Who was it? Did you throw it?’ she said, pointing a menacing finger at Frank, who was now smirking. As she turned to face him, another ball of paper was thrown from the other end of the terrace. It was Justin’s dad. Normally meek and mild, he was visibly shaking and vented his fury using all the might of a scrunched six-game bingo card.

It wasn’t long before the trend had been established and the big lady was pelted from all angles before skulking off amidst a hail of missiles like a defeated sumo wrestler.

The next day the Czech girl phoned to check if the apartment was still available.

‘How much?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-five thousand pesetas [£100] per week, fifty thousand in total,’ said Joy.

‘I give twenty-five thousand first, twenty-five thousand after? I don’t have more money until end of month.’

Joy agreed and arranged to meet the girl the following day in the bar to take her round to the apartment and hand over the keys.

‘Have you told Siobhan yet?’ I asked.

‘No, I can’t get in touch with her. I’ll just give her the money when she comes out at Christmas. It’ll be a nice surprise for her.’

The couple that had been staying in the apartment had left it immaculate. Scatter cushions were neatly placed along the benches at an alcove dining table. Black and white portraits of classic comedy characters were reflected in the bright sheen of polished pine. In the four corners of the living room, potted cheese plants and cacti added personality to the simple square geometry of the room.

Despite the neat state in which it had been left, Joy still felt the urge to go over the marble floors once more and sprayed the bathroom suite with Windex. She’d also bought a small bouquet of flowers, which she arranged on the kitchen worktop.

At the bar that night we received a phone call from Julie, the gestoria.

‘You’ll be getting a letter from Adeje Town Hall any day. They’ve decided in all their wisdom that all bars and restaurants in their vicinity have to have a foot tap installed in the kitchen.’

‘A foot tap? We’ve got to wash our feet in the kitchen?’ I asked.

‘No you dope. You’ve got to have a tap that’s operated with a foot lever. They’re saying that it’s unhygienic to use your hands to turn on the tap.’

‘More likely a cousin of the mayor has a lorry load of foot taps that he doesn’t know what to do with.’

‘You’re probably right, but just thought I’d let you know,’ said Julie before hanging up.

Frank was sat at the bar complaining how boring life was in Tenerife. ‘It’s enough to drive you to drink,’ he said, adding, ‘Another half here, Joy.’

‘You bored, Frank?’ I asked.

‘Shitless,’ he replied.

‘How are you with plumbing? Reckon you could fit a foot-operated tap in the kitchen for us?’

‘I suppose it’s something to do for half an hour,’ he sighed.

The following morning he trudged into the bar bearing an assortment of borrowed spanners and wrenches and a foot tap he’d eventually managed to track down at a builder’s merchants in Las Chafiras, near the airport. The Czech girl arrived at the same time, looking sullen and still upset. She grunted a hello at Joy, ignoring Frank and me.

‘What’s up with her, miserable bitch? Got a face like a bag of spanners,’ said Frank as Joy took her to see Siobhan’s apartment.

‘Boyfriend trouble,’ I said.

‘Mark my words. It’s more than that,’ he said. ‘She looks shifty to me.’

I left him to vent his frustrations with the world by battering the pipes under the kitchen sink with a monkey wrench.

At 5.30 we returned to the bar to get it ready for the usual six o’clock start. The preparation was kept to a minimum during this quiet time, a bit of salad to chop, Canarian potatoes to boil and a few chicken fillets to tenderise. I grabbed an iceberg lettuce from one of the Tupperwares in the fridge, twisted the stalk off and held it in the sink while I turned on the tap. Nothing happened. I remembered Frank’s mission and reached further under the sink for the pedal with my foot. I probed from side to side but failed to locate the new installation. Even when I stepped back to peer underneath there still didn’t seem to be a pedal.

I was just about to phone Frank to ask him what went wrong, when I noticed the shiny edge of new stainless steel hidden behind the rubbish bin three feet to the right. Now on all fours, I pressed it with my hand and, sure enough, a whoosh of water could be heard overhead in the sink. However, when I tried to turn it on standing in front of the sink, I discovered it was just a few inches beyond reach. I bent my left leg and pointed my right foot like an overweight ballerina but it was futile. It was impossible to stand at the sink and use the foot tap at the same time.

Frank entered the bar. ‘Thought you might need this,’ he said. He held out an old golf club, a nine-iron to be exact. ‘It’s one of Danny’s. He’ll never know, he’s got loads.’ I opened my mouth but words failed me. I stood back as Frank stood in front of the sink, prodding at the foot pedal with the club. ‘Hmm, you’ve still got to lean a bit. Might be better with a wood.’

‘Frank? Call me simple, but I kind of assumed you’d be able to use the foot pedal with your foot,’ I said.

‘You can,’ he replied, and stepped across to where the tap protruded from the wall. ‘You just can’t do it from the sink. Fucking stupid plumbing system you’ve got here. The water doesn’t come in from under the sink, it comes in over here, so there’s no way I could put the pedal there.’

‘But that’s no good. I can’t be swinging a golf club in here every time I want some water,’ I complained.

‘Don’t blame me. Blame the fucking idiot who did the plumbing in the first place. Should’ve been shot. Anyway, you’ll get the hang of it. Here, stand there and give it a go.’

I shook my head in despair and jabbed the pedal with the nine-iron.

‘There you go, water,’ said Frank.

‘Great,’ I said with a sarcastic smile. ‘Now, if I can just grow another hand I can actually use the sink.’

The Czech girl had handed over 25,000 pesetas to Joy and asked if she could pay the other 25,000 in four days when she was paid by the hotel.

Joy had agreed, given her the keys and wrote a receipt, noting that the other half was due on the 1
^st
of December. However, the 1
^st
came and went without any sign of the girl. As did the 2
^nd
and the 3
^rd
. On the 4
^th
Joy received another call, apologising for not coming in to pay. She explained that she’d been working every night and had not had the chance. She promised to come in the following night and sort it all out.

Nobody had seen her since she moved in. She hadn’t been back in the bar for a drink and hadn’t been seen either entering or leaving her apartment. The girl now had only five nights left before Siobhan’s friends arrived for a fortnight’s stay, and we were both beginning to wonder if she was intending to pay any more or was just going to do a runner on her last day, next Sunday. That night in the bar we found out the situation was much worse than that.