More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (14 page)

I began to pull them another two halves but was distracted by a knocking. ‘What’s that banging?’

‘Sounds like it’s coming from the toilets,’ said Joy.

In the men’s room I found Justin hammering frantically on the outside of the cubicle. ‘Justin? What’s the matter, mate?’

‘I’ve locked myself out of the toilet.’

I tried the door and, sure enough, it wouldn’t open. It was a door that could only be locked from the inside.

‘Are you sure there’s nobody in there?’ I knocked just to be sure.

‘Yes, I was in there. But I locked myself out.’

‘Well, why are you knocking?’

‘’Cos I’m locked out,’ he said impatiently.

I gave up on this line of reasoning. ‘How did you manage to lock yourself out?’

‘I was checking on the toilet rolls and the door closed.’

‘With you on the outside?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the door locked from the inside?’

‘That’s right. How am I going to get back in?’

‘What do you want to get back in for?’

‘I’ve got a toilet roll.’ He lifted his arm. He was wearing a toilet roll on his puny wrist like a bracelet.

‘Uh… don’t worry about that, I’ll put it in later. Go and get yourself a drink.’

He skipped out of the toilet leaving me to fathom how he’d managed this mysterious Houdini act.

‘Justin!’ I shouted after him.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re still wearing the toilet roll.’ He slipped it off his wrist and disappeared. It took the best part of the next hour and a 12-inch monkey wrench to unlock the cubicle door from the outside.

The couple from The Rum Jug had since made their exit. I felt a pang of guilt and was just glad that we had happened upon a location that was away from the centre, where so many bars were having to undercut each other to stay in business.

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.

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, guide books and sun tan lotion.

This need for familiarity created the demand for British bars abroad, the same need that created the supply. What better way to satisfy the desire for familiarity with a need to earn a living?

To own your own pub is a pipedream for many British men. To have that pub in a sunny climate just adds to the attraction. But the majority who fulfil that dream in a resort destination like Tenerife return home to the UK with their vision in tatters, having acquired a lighter pocket, an alcoholic addiction and, if they went with their partner, a severely strained relationship.

In Las Américas, whole streets are dedicated to George and Dragons, Red Lions, White Horses and other British-themed pubs and they all compete for the same custom. Few have anything new to offer, most relying on the lure of David Jason, John Cleese and Jeremy Beadle reruns or pints of beer at five pesetas less than the bar next door.

Although competition helps shave the price of beer down to the bare minimum for the customers, it also means that corners are cut to make up for the narrower profit margins. Soft drinks would be of the lowest quality, the calibre of food served somewhere between barely fit for consumption and adequate pet food.

More often than not, the focus would be switched from efforts to attract more clientele to plans to stay one step ahead of the bar next door, even if those extra drinkers were adding to the workload but not the profit. ‘Two drinks for the price of one’ would be countered with ‘Three drinks for the price of one’ or ‘Free drinks for the kids’. This invariably resulted in not only a cut in income for the neighbour, but also a drop in profit for the instigating bar.

Sooner or later the books would show that the business was going nowhere fast, except bankrupt. Eventually, the baffled owners would be forced to sell up for far less than they paid.

Even for the experienced landlords and landladies who had swapped snug rooms in the UK for sun terraces abroad, the competition usually proved too much. Despite this, there was one advantage in having customers who were on holiday as opposed to back in the UK. Those propping up a bar in a resort destination had cash that was destined to be spent before the holiday was over, rather than loose change that was diverted to alcohol and crisps rather than the next utility bill. The battle was getting them to spend it in our bar, but we were lucky, we had a monopoly. Even so, some of our takings were now going to have to be spent on the unforeseen need for extra staff.

We managed to persuade one of Patricia’s daughters to take over the shifts that Michelle couldn’t manage. We were a little hesitant to take her on, mainly due to the fact that she was only 14 years old, but she had the confidence and looks of a thirty-something.

Robin was also far from immature when it came to negotiating a wage. On top of the basic hourly rate she demanded a half share of the tips, plus meals and drinks on the days she worked. The latter proved to be the most costly addendum.

We soon found out that Robin had the drinking capacity of a rugby team captain and on the first night, her flirting ability was turbo-charged with half a dozen tequila shots.

‘Four pints of lager, and one for yourself, love.’ The man at the bar winked as he handed over a 1,000-peseta note, intending Robin to keep the 200 pesetas change.

‘Ta. I’ll have a vodka and orange. That’ll be one thousand two hundred please.’ Robin held out her hand.

‘Blimey. You’re an expensive girl to keep, aren’t you?’ The man gave her two more coins.

‘Thanks,’ said Robin. ‘You get what you pay for in this world.’

‘I bet you’re worth a fortune then, princess.’

‘Too much for you.’

‘I’m not short of a bob or two,’ said the man. He took a sip out of one of the pints, peering at Robin over the ridge of his glass. ‘I could give you a good time.’

Another customer was waiting to be served. ‘I bet you could,’ laughed Robin over her shoulder.

On average, Robin was propositioned three times a night behind the bar. She felt safe with two feet of wooden bar top between her and her admirers, but I wondered how long it would be before she took the flirting too far. Getting off with the bargirl was considered quite a trophy for the many beer-brave groups of lads, who would egg each other on.

Joy also had her fair share of propositions. It was something I didn’t particularly like at first but I soon realised it went with the territory. The male customers expect a certain amount of flirting, and if it brought them in night after night with the heady notion that they were in with a chance, so be it.

Despite her flirting – or rather in addition to it – Robin was fitting in well. Drunk or not, she was coping admirably with the drinks orders that Joy was firing in her direction. She would also take the initiative to wait on tables if she could see that a group had been sitting for too long before Joy could get round to them. Despite the fact that she was regularly consuming more alcohol than the majority of our customers, we were happy to employ her.

But this was the reality of the existence of a ‘resort child’. In Tenerife, for the many non-Spanish speaking youngsters who either attended one of the British schools or, like Frank’s children, didn’t attend at all, nighttime diversions revolved around a British bar or beach barbecues, both of which involved copious drinking, no matter what age. Friends came and went in fortnightly rotation and for a girl with Robin’s mature looks and demeanour, these friends were often several years her senior.

It doesn’t take a sociologist to see that this is a breeding ground for juvenile alcoholics. We all took Robin to one side at one time or another during her fortnight with us and warned her that her life was centred around drinking, but we couldn’t argue against her defence that she was performing well regardless. We just had to hope that for her sake, one day she would be taken away from this environment.

Michelle was also maintaining an efficient – although sober – partnership with David.

For Joy and myself, the difference in atmosphere when working with David and Robin or David and Michelle rather than with Faith was liberating. There were no long faces, no moodiness and, for a while at least, there was no tiptoeing from one eggshell to another.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

‘I think we’ve struck it lucky this time.’ I sat in the living room of our new home, surveying the space. Joy was stretched out on the sofa watching a midday movie full of righteous morals and wholesome families. We’d hardly seen Ron or Micky since we moved in the previous week but that wasn’t to say the neighbourhood had been quiet. There had been a steady succession of mean and moodies knocking on their door at all times of the day and night.

The first time I met Adam was at 2.30 in the morning. ‘Go and see who it is,’ urged Joy quietly. The banging persisted for several minutes and any hopes of the knocker buggering off had faded. I opened the door a few inches and scowled in the most menacing way that anybody wrapped in a Sylvester the Cat beach towel could. The man scowled back. He had me beaten. He was dressed in a black leather trench coat and towered a good foot higher than me. His neck gave the impression of being wider than his head, his face furrowed with a much more convincing scowl than my own.

He held the scowl for a second, waiting for the wheels of recognition to whir into place, but they buckled under the pressure and the scowl fell apart. ‘Who are
you
?’ he grunted.

‘Joe. Who are you?’

‘Adam.’ I wrongly anticipated further explanation.

‘What do you want?’

‘My money.’

I gave a quizzical expression.

‘What money?’ I asked after the quizzical expression failed to make him elaborate.

‘Who
are
you?’ he repeated.

‘Joe.’ I said it slower this time.

‘Where’s Micky?’

‘Ah… Micky.’ I opened the door and padded out to point to his door two apartments down.

‘When did he move?’ asked Adam.

‘He never lived here…’ I started to explain, but Adam was already bounding towards Micky’s door, knuckles skimming the floor.

Joy’s film had come to an end. Although our shift was due to start in a couple of hours my eyelids were beginning to droop.

‘Joe! Look,’ whispered Joy. I looked at my watch. Half an hour had passed since we dropped off. I followed her gaze to the garden.

Our next-door neighbours had been sweeping and tidying their garden ever since we had sat down. Now, they were both leaning over the thigh-high wall, trying to peer into our living room. The sun had started its decline, throwing a bright reflection on the patio door window panes and making it impossible to see in from the outside.

The woman began to brush our lawn, eyeing the patio doors for signs of life. Satisfied that there was none, she climbed over the wall and continued to sweep the grass.

‘What’s she doing?’ sniggered Joy.

‘Brushing our lawn, I think.’

The woman bobbed her head from side to side trying to catch sight of what lay inside. She manoeuvred a little closer to the glass doors, still sweeping back and forth. Her husband remained on the other side of the wall, encouraging her to go closer.

As she reached the short width of patio tiles directly outside the doors, she flicked the brush to and fro once more before pushing her nose against the window, shielding her eyes from the reflection to get a better look.

Her gaze moved methodically from right to left; from the white sideboard, to the black armchair, the arched reading light, the magazine rack at the edge of the sofa, and then…  Her eyebrows shot skywards taking cover behind a fringe of tight ginger curls. Joy and I smiled and waved from the sofa. She jumped back and began sweeping in double time back to the wall. Her husband must have heard her hisses of ‘they’re in, they’re in’ and had ducked behind an expertly manicured bougainvillea before scuttling towards his own patio doors, head down as if dodging sniper fire.

The next morning, obviously embarrassed by their failed undercover operation, the snoopers came a-knocking. Maureen and Pete were in their late 50s. She was a highly-strung redhead with a screeching Midlands accent. He stood at least a foot shorter than her and had disproportionately small eyes like a premature piglet. His black hair was combed in defiance of a balding crown, a flop of unchecked fringe sprawled across a barren expanse.

It was Maureen who tried to make light of the previous night’s mission. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me sweeping your patio,’ she squealed. ‘Only, I know how busy you must be. Obviously you never have time to do any cleaning.’ She was looking over my shoulder, scanning the hallway for dust.

‘It’s nice to see some young ones doing something for themselves,’ said Pete. ‘Keeps you from mugging old ladies doesn’t it, son?’ We barely knew them but already they had spied on us once and insulted us twice. It was not the standard cup-of-sugar introduction that many neighbours opted for.

‘Would you like to come round to our house for a drink?’ asked Maureen. Caught off guard we could think of no excuse, apart from the fact that we already loathed them.

‘Yes, that’d be nice,’ lied Joy.

Maureen and Pete’s apartment was astounding. Not for any design innovation or eye-catching ornaments but for the fact that it was immaculate to the point of sterility. The floor shone like a mirror, replicating the room perfectly in a translucent pool of pale grey marble. The cream leather three-piece suite was arranged around a smoked glass coffee table edged in sparkling gold plate. Three Lladro figurines stood on circles of trimmed lace positioned at precise intervals along the length of glass. More Lladro statuettes posed inside an upright glass display cabinet. Despite so much glass there wasn’t so much as a speck of dust or a fingerprint, even on the patio windows where thick gold drapes had been harnessed in perfect symmetry. Equal precision had been employed in positioning five gold and black tasselled cushions along the back of the sofa.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Joy dutifully.

‘You can see we like to keep things neat and tidy,’ said Maureen. ‘Please, sit.’ Joy hovered over the sofa, uncomfortable about causing ripples in the perfectly plumped cushions. I started lowering myself into one of the armchairs but Pete made a dash for my elbow, halting me before I made contact. ‘Not there son, that’s my chair. Call me queer… not that I am, mind –’ he let out a little laugh, ‘– but I’m the only one who sits there. Isn’t that right, Maureen?’

‘He’s a funny one about that chair, he is,’ smiled Maureen proudly. ‘Here, sit there, next to your wife. That’s it… no… a bit closer… closer…’ She motioned with her hands for us to move in as if composing a wedding photograph. I hutched a few inches closer to Joy so that we were both exactly the same distance from each arm. Maureen was scrutinising our positions. ‘That’s it. Perfect. Now, what would you like? Coffee? Good.’

Four dainty cups were brought in on a silver tray, each presented with a foil-wrapped biscuit on the saucer. Maureen unfolded cream linen napkins onto our laps. ‘There’s no need to make crumbs if we can avoid it now, is there?’

‘So,’ said Pete in between slurps of coffee, ‘it must have cost you a pretty packet to buy the Smugglers. Did you borrow it?’

‘Uh… we borrowed some and took out a mortgage for the rest,’ I said, taken aback by the directness of questioning.

‘You can’t have had much to put down as a deposit, I guess. Were you working in England or on the dole, bleeding the country dry like all the other youngsters too lazy to get off their backsides?’

‘We both worked in retail,’ said Joy.

‘In what capacity?’ continued Pete.

‘Sales.’ I replied.

‘Selling what?

‘Food.’

‘What kind of food?’

‘Seafood,’ said Joy.

‘And game,’ I added for effect.

‘Ah! You were poachers?’ Maureen had risen to her feet and was hovering, waiting for me to put my cup down. The moment I obliged, she whisked all the crockery into the kitchen. I could hear her humming as she filled the kitchen sink with water.

‘You been here long, Pete?’ I asked, attempting to deflect the interrogation.

‘Long enough. I’ve seen a lot of people coming and going. People like yourself. Youngsters who start a business and then realise it’s not all fun and games.’

I looked to see if he was intending to insult us for a third time but his smile suggested it wasn’t intended as a personal judgement.

‘Take Forgreen next door.’ He thumbed towards Micky’s apartment. ‘Started off selling apartments here, all nice and bonny. We bought ours from him. All kosher, no problems. Mind you, he knew not to mess with me. Then he got greedy, like all you youngsters do. Started doing deals on the side, taking all the commission instead of splitting it with his two partners. Anyway, like most people on this island, he couldn’t keep that closed.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘His partners wondered why he was driving about in a flash open-top while they were in battered ex-rentals. So he got found out. Trouble was, one of his partners was married to the sister of a wrong ‘un who didn’t take kindly to her being taken for a ride. Forgreen had to do a runner. They caught up with him in London and tied him to a radiator for a week until he agreed to sign over all his ill-gotten gains in Tenerife. Like his house. Now he’s gone and spoiled it for all of us…’ Maureen had returned and was still humming, busying herself around Pete’s feet with a portable vacuum cleaner. Pete turned up the volume to compensate for the electric sucking. ‘NOW WE’VE GOT THE SODDIN’ MAFIA LIVING NEXT DOOR.’ The timing was immaculate. Maureen turned off the vacuum just as Pete delivered his condemnation. They both looked at each other, silent, eyes stricken with alarm.

Maureen held the vacuum nozzle aloft in pink washing-up gloves. ‘Are they in?’ she whispered.

‘What time is it?’ Pete whispered back.

Maureen looked at her watch. ‘11.45.’

‘No. Tennis lesson.’ Pete’s shoulders dropped in relief.

Maureen tightened her lips in a reprimanding look. ‘One of these days…’

‘Well… it’s been entertaining,’ I said, nodding at Joy to stand up. Maureen reached between us to straighten the cushions. ‘But we’ve got to get ready for work.’

‘No rest for the wicked, I guess,’ said Pete. ‘Don’t go mugging anybody on your way up.’ As the front door closed behind us I could hear the vacuum rev up again.

We had all been taking advantage of the fact that at last we had the perfect people in Gary and Michelle to work the last and most loathed shift of the day. Loathed because it was a time when the majority of customers were getting steadily drunk and expected us to join them in their frivolity, no matter how tired we were or how early we had to get up the next morning.

For my brother and me, four and a half hours cooking for over a hundred people in 100-degree-plus heat, and then having to deal with the subsequent washing-up was not the best way to raise party spirits. Just when the physical work was over, it was time to switch hats and play the jovial host for the next three to four hours. We were both starting to get fed up with the job, and with each other. Often the shift would pass with barely a word spoken between us.

Running a bar is certainly not the 24/7 party that casual observers may think while propping up the bar. Every day brings a new drama, a new dilemma and more often than not, a new drunk. But there are worse jobs, like folding knickers on a conveyor belt for eight hours a day or jabbing at rock hundreds of metres below the earth’s surface. This needs to be remembered occasionally, when drudgery and heat gets the better of you and you just wish all the happy smiling faces would sod off so you can scrape the vomit off the upholstery in peace.

Everybody gets sick of their occupation every now and then but bar work is a ‘party’ business, especially in a holiday resort, and being a miserable git just isn’t an option. A drink or two to lift the mood becomes unavoidable, especially if you want your customers to continue depositing their cash behind your bar.

It can’t be denied that a mighty thirst was worked up in our sweatbox of a kitchen. The first ice-cold beer that dampened the parched lips and bone-dry throat of the kitchen crew after a lengthy shift was pure
manna
. The problem – though understandably many wouldn’t see it as such – was that if you stood at the bar for more than a minute, another drink would miraculously appear courtesy of a customer; ‘Looks like you needed that,’ they’d say, slapping you on the back. ‘Faith! Get him another, put it on my bill.’

You couldn’t say no. It wasn’t worth the argument. It’s an unwritten law that to refuse a beer from a holidaymaker causes great offence – like turning your nose up at sheep’s testicles during a Bedouin feast. Well, almost.

Unless you’ve deep-rooted aspirations to join Alcoholics Anonymous, it’s surely reasonable to not want to drink every single night. And although the calories flooded off in the kitchen, accepting beery gifts seven nights a week was a sure way to acquire the familiar expat gut.

‘The gut’ is just one of the attributes of the expat crowd. In a holiday resort they always have a certain demeanour that makes them stand out from the holidaymaker. It’s not just the difference in confidence from knowing ‘the street’. More often than not, there is also a physical distinction. Usually this is manifested in a tasteless surfeit of gold jewellery in an attempt to distract the focus from deep-set wrinkles on leathery skin. The male of this species often has a stomach like a deflating space-hopper, due to a combination of too much time on his hands and a sub-culture where the sun sets over the yardarm as soon as the Rice Crispies have stopped crackling.

Within this sub-culture exists a micro-culture. The BBs, or Big heads and Blaggards, are often seen frequenting the British bars. The BBs are afflicted not only with the physical traits mentioned above; from the moment they wake to the moment they start dribbling on the pillow (and beyond, for the worst cases), they have a compulsive obsession to bore the arse off those unfortunate enough to wander into conversational proximity with tales of their business acumen.

‘Oh yes, you should come down to my boat for a glass of champers. She’s a twenty-eight footer, you know,’ blabbed a BB one night. Gary and Michelle had just taken over the evening shift, at 10 p.m., half an hour earlier than usual to allow Joy and I to go for a meal and still get a reasonably early night.