More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (18 page)

‘Fack ‘em.’

‘We’re not serving you any more today, Ron. You’ve had enough,’ I said.

‘Get me another drink.’

‘No, no more,’ said David.

‘I want a facking drink.’

‘No more. I’ll go and get Micky,’ I warned.

‘Don’t bring Micky into this you cants. The only reason you’re still in business is because that soft fack doesn’t believe in shitting on his own doorstep. If it was up to me, you’d all be fackin’ payin’ your way.’ With that, he slid off the barstool onto his feet, faced the open door and after a moment’s pause to line up a route, made unsteady progress out the bar. He stopped momentarily to raise a finger at Suicide before deciding that he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and staggered into the early evening light, still holding his finger aloft.

‘Shit,’ I said. ‘So we
were
on the hit list.’

‘It’s a good job they moved into Forgreen’s house,’ agreed Joy.

‘But who’s JP? I heard them talking about JP’s lot coming in.’

‘No idea,’ said David.

Faith had become visibly anxious with the confrontation. Her hands were shaking as she tried to light a cigarette.

‘Here, let me love.’ A customer had come to the bar to order drinks and was in the process of lighting one himself. He took out a box of matches from his shirt pocket and pushed it open.

‘Aaaghh!’ shouted Faith. ‘Put them away.’

‘They’re just matches, look.’ The man held the box closer to Faith.

‘Get away, get away!’

David snatched the box out of the man’s hand. ‘Here, have a lighter. She’s got a thing about matches.’ Faith had run into the ladies toilets, locking herself in.

‘Her nerves are shattered,’ David explained to Joy and me. ‘She’s not slept for two nights, says it’s too hot. Just give her a few minutes to calm down.’

Eventually Faith returned to the bar. It was a slow start to the evening. A worrying sign as it meant that we would have a late rush. I stayed behind the bar to help Faith while David dealt with the few food orders we had.

In her absence a customer had left a bill and some money on the bar. I scooped it up and passed the bill to Faith for her to till it in.

‘Are you okay now?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it’s just the matches. I’m fine now they’ve gone.’ Faith smiled apologetically and pressed the ‘Enter’ button. As soon as the till drawer dinged open, a mouse leapt from one of the coin compartments and landed on the shelf of upturned glasses just below the bartop. Faith let out a blood-curdling scream as the mouse rattled each glass, scuttling along the shelf before it dropped to the floor and disappeared behind the bar fridge. Faith in the meantime had fled to the ladies toilet again, this time in tears.

I swapped roles with David, cooking the food while he attended to Faith. Minutes later he was back in the kitchen. ‘She’s not coming out till we’ve got rid of the mouse,’ he sighed. The bar had now begun to fill up as anticipated and the last thing we wanted to do was disturb the mouse, sending it scuttling out into the open.

‘There’s nothing we can do now,’ I said.

‘I know, I know. I told her that,’ said David. I agreed to swap places with Faith again so she could work in the rodent-free kitchen, but things turned from bad to worse. Faith joined David just as the orders came flooding in.

‘Two chicken in wine, chips and salad. One pork chops, one mixed grill, two cheeseburgers, all chips, no salad. Steak rare, steak medium and two Hawaiian Burgers, no mayo. All chips and salad. One pork chops with Canarian potatoes, one half chicken, chips and salad. Two egg and chips. Two tuna salads, one no cucumber, extra tomato and one portion of chips.’ Joy was writing the orders on the wipe board stuck to the fridge door as she spoke. ‘Oh, and can I have two portions of chips ASAP.’

Faith had her mind elsewhere and was falling behind with the garnishes, chips and washing-up. David was starting to snap at her and the tension was rising.

‘I can’t keep up. I’m tired,’ complained Faith as David attempted to fulfil both roles.

‘Here, you take over with the cooking, I’ll do the prep,’ he said, handing her the spatula. ‘Two chicken and wines on, first pork chops on. You need to make up the mixed grill and bash the steaks.’

‘Say it again,’ she said shaking her head. David started to repeat it, impatience in his voice but Joy was back, interrupting with new orders.

‘Two mixed grills, one Canarians, one chips, salad on both and four steaks, three medium, one medium rare, all chips and salad. Then…’

‘Joy!’ shouted Faith. ‘I can’t concentrate. No more orders for a few minutes okay?’

‘I can’t stop people ordering,’ complained Joy. ‘There’s four tables with menus at the moment. Come on, step it up.’

The sweat was pumping off David and Faith as I brought them two pints of shandy. ‘Courtesy of table seven,’ I said. David was dashing from the microwave to the sink, arranging salads on the way. Faith was stood with her back to me idly flipping one pork chop and one burger. I could see that there were at least twenty more meals to cook but Faith was in a daze.

‘You okay Faith?’ I asked. David looked at me, then Faith.

‘Faith! What are you doing? You’ve got a pile of orders stacking up and you’re playing with one chop and a burger.’ Faith turned round. Her eyes stared straight at David, then at me. There was no flicker of emotion, stress or otherwise. She had shut down mentally.

Joy appeared in the doorway. ‘Table two want to know how long for… why is there nothing cooking?’ Faith was already untying her apron.

The following morning when Joy and I came to open up the bar we found the security bars had already been removed yet the doors were still locked. My immediate thought was that we’d been burgled.

‘There’s someone in there,’ whispered Joy, cupping her hand over her eyes. In the dark interior I could see toes sticking up from a bench behind table one in the far corner near the kitchen doorway. We tried unlocking the main door but the key wouldn’t turn. I could see that there was another key already in the lock on the inside. The Paddington Bear keyring was Faith’s.

We banged on the window and Faith padded to the door, her short black hair wildly askew on one side only. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, I must have slept through the alarm. What time is it?’

‘Five past nine,’ answered Joy. ‘What are you doing sleeping here? Have you had a row?’

‘No… it’s just cooler in here with the fans on. I can’t sleep in the apartment. I’ll see you later.’ She grabbed her shoes and strode out of the bar in her bare feet, still clutching the peach tablecloth she had used for a blanket.

‘She’s been sleeping there for the past week,’ said David, drawing deeply on a cigarette. His face had lost any trace of colour and his eyes bore witness to his own troubled nights. Arguments had become commonplace, subjects ranging from Faith’s role in the Smugglers to whether they should buy filter or non-filter cigarettes. Having agreed to move to Tenerife, albeit reluctantly at first, Faith was now saying she was bullied into coming and once here was being bullied by the rest of us.

We had had this discussion with David before and several times had agreed to tread lightly when voicing our opinions, or rather disagreeing with Faith’s. The truth of the matter was that my sister-in-law no longer wanted to be here but David was financially tied to the business. The decision had to be made whether she was prepared to leave David as well.

David and Faith grew increasingly exhausted over the next 48 hours. Their eyes bore the red marks of too little sleep, too many tears. Faith had decided to leave despite David’s pleas for her not to go. She argued that she didn’t want to move to Tenerife in the first place, nor get married in circumstances that she felt had been forced on her. Now she found herself in a business partnership where she not only disliked the nature of the business, but also where she wasn’t treated as an equal partner. She was leaving Tenerife and David for good. The marriage was over.

On the morning of her departure we didn’t open the bar until 6 p.m. allowing David time to help Faith pack and take her to the airport. Joy and I didn’t see her before she went. Instead she wrote us a letter explaining her reasons for leaving and apologising if the decision left us in the lurch. It did, but the inconvenience was secondary to the rage I felt at her abandoning my brother.

He came in to the bar at 7.30 and worked silently in the kitchen until the last order had been sent out. He left the bar with two bottles of red wine, to return to an empty apartment with his marriage in tatters. David’s bid for a golden opportunity had already cost him dearly. I wondered whether he contemplated following Faith back to save his marriage or if he felt more compelled to stay with the business. Time would tell.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

‘Surprise!’

Joy was in the kitchen scrawling down a breakfast order on the fridge. She stopped writing. I turned my back on the spitting eggs. The cavalry had arrived. In the doorway stood Carole and Faye, our mothers. Both had broad beams and outstretched arms as though welcoming back a long lost relative.

‘Mum!’ Joy couldn’t hold back the tears, which instantly released a tide of emotion in Faye. My mum, never one to miss out on a good cry, dabbed tears from her eyes. I wiped away some sweat that had begun to trickle down the bags under my eyes. To a passer-by it may have given the impression that I was also crying.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

‘David phoned to tell us Faith had left,’ said my mum. ‘I spoke to Faye and we decided to lend a hand.’

‘You’re a couple of stars,’ said Joy. ‘We’ll need the help tonight.’

‘Oh no, we want to start right now,’ protested Faye.

‘Well, at least after a gin and tonic,’ added my mum.

They sat down on table one beneath the only fan that still had the energy to respond to a ‘high’ setting.

After wrapping paper napkins around 65 knives and forks, they decided it was time for another gin and tonic. The bar had become progressively busier and three people were waiting at the bar while Joy was delivering lunches and clearing tables. Encouraged by the midday aperitifs, Carole felt compelled to go behind the bar to try to alleviate the wait. While a noble gesture in theory, in practise she had overlooked the fact that she neither knew where all the requested drinks were located, nor what to charge for the drinks once she’d hunted them down.

‘Two Cokes, a white coffee and a pint of lager please, love,’ said the first man.

‘Uh… okay. Jooooy?’

Carole tried to flag Joy down as she dashed back and forth from the kitchen to the terrace. ‘Just a minute.’

Faye could see that Carole was getting distressed and decided to join her.

‘How do you work this machine?’ she whispered to Faye.

‘No idea,’ said Faye.

‘Coffee won’t be a minute. What else did you ask for?’ said Carole brightly. ‘I guess this is the beer,’ she said pointing at the beer pump.

‘Dunno. Try it,’ said Faye.

Carole held a pint pot under the spout and pulled at the handle. The liquid hit the bottom of the glass, filling the interior with white foam.

‘Hmm, beer’s lively today,’ she said knowingly. She’d heard that uttered on
Coronation Street
once. Carole passed the man an inch of pale yellow topped with five inches of froth. He held it up to his eyes, mouth ajar but before he could say anything, Carole had turned her back in pursuit of the Coke. Both she and Faye searched in the beer fridges, on the shelves, under the sink but neither could locate it.

‘Jooooy?’

Joy flashed past again. ‘Just a minute.’

Faye had moved on to the next person waiting.

‘
Tae pins ena fissy pope
.’ The man stood at the bar shirtless, his bony body almost luminous in its whiteness. Faye was staring at him blankly. An uncomfortable silence developed before he repeated his order.

‘
Assad tae pins ena fissy pope. Whirrsat ootie front
.’

‘Can you speak Spanish, Carole?’ asked Faye, looking over her shoulder. Carole had been a patron of Linguaphone for several years but was disappointed to find her tutorials to be of no use on this occasion.

‘Right, who’s first?’ Joy joined the parents behind the bar.

‘This Spanish gentleman,’ said Faye nodding at the exasperated man.

‘Hi Campbell, the usual? Two pints and a fizzy pop? You sat outside? I’ll bring it to you.’ Joy smiled. ‘They thought you were Spanish.’

‘Aye, a-spose a heave got that Latern look,’ said Campbell, stiffening proudly.

Joy dealt with the three at the bar and then rushed back to the kitchen to answer the ‘hotel reception’ bell that we had bought for the kitchen to signal when an order was ready. Faye and Carole continued chatting until another customer interrupted.

‘Can I pay?’ asked the man.

‘Err… sure.’ Carole turned the piece of paper around in her hands but couldn’t make any sense out of it.

‘Joooooy?’

‘Just a minute,’ came a muffled response from the kitchen.

She passed it to Faye. ‘Where’s me glasses. I can’t see a thing without them.’

‘They’re on your head,’ said Carole.

‘Oh. Nope, still can’t make any sense out of it. Jooooy?’

‘Coming.’

Even though it was a morale boost seeing our mothers for the first time in three months, their gracious attempt to help without the slightest knowledge of knowing what they were doing was causing Joy more work than it was saving. A surfeit of midday gin and tonics had merely added to the spiralling confusion. She suggested they go for a siesta and return for the evening rush. They obliged eagerly.

David arrived with the two mothers at 7 p.m. to clock on for the evening shift. Thankfully, the night started off quietly enough for us all to have time to show Carole and Faye various trivialities of the job such as how to pull a pint, how to work the till and how to succinctly write down an order in the kitchen without including too much detail on the diners’ backgrounds and interpersonal relationships.

There were few problems with the British diners, but Faye in particular appeared somewhat alarmed to discover that there were entire tables of foreigners lying in wait.

‘Hello, what would you like love?’

‘
Pardonnez-moi. Parlez-vous français
?’

Faye stepped back in horror as though she’d just been threatened with a machete.

‘Who?’ she barked, then scuttled off in search of reinforcements.

At 9.30 we made them sit down and have something to eat. Neatly coiffured hair had matted with perspiration and dissolving mascara was making a steady descent south. They looked like a couple of Alice Cooper fans.

Opting to escape from the heavy heat, the two women flopped down at a table on the terrace. The two unoccupied white plastic chairs facing them flagged their ‘single’ status. I spied the two Johns coming down the stairs. Carole and Faye were sitting ducks.

John One and John Two were both dressed in black. They were obviously on a mission. Like sharks to blood they immediately honed in on the two women.

‘Evening ladies,’ said John One, his eyes lingering as he made his way inside to the bar.

‘Evening,’ repeated John Two, two paces behind as usual.

‘My usual,’ shouted John One as he approached the bar.

‘Aye, my usual too,’ echoed his namesake.

Joy handed them two halves with lime.

‘You’re putting a bit of weight on, lass,’ remarked John Two to Joy. He straddled a barstool. ‘It’s not a bad thing mind. Men like a bit of something to get hold of. You could do with a bit more up top though, don’t you think, John?’

‘You’re right, John. You can never have too much up top. Bigger the better I say, eh? The bigger and bouncier the better.’ They both began to chortle like year three schoolboys.

So late into the season, Joy hadn’t the energy to retort. Before taking over the bar she would have counter-punched with some biting banter, a skill perfected on Bolton market. However, five months of facing the firing line behind the bar had taught her that in this job, reacting to all the petty goading took too much time and effort and she had already bored of the same old jokes and comments. A humouring smile was the most accommodating response for all parties.

The most successful landlords and landladies had to quickly adopt chameleon-like qualities, changing personality to suit whoever they were playing host to. In a resort bar, although there were a few regulars, the patronage changed on a wholesale basis every Tuesday and Friday.

Letting the jibes fly over your head was symptomatic of the changes in behaviour that we all had to take on board. On the market cheeky banter was encouraged. The customers who shopped at Pat’s stall expected it and would have been deeply suspicious of straight-laced courtesy. But at the Smugglers the style of interaction had to adapt to whoever was commanding your attention at the time. We were sales people just like any other agent or vendor. Only we weren’t just selling food and drink, we had to sell the atmosphere, a party, and a personality.

Sometimes even the odd whiff of a particular perfume could trigger a metamorphosis. From bawdy backchat with Frank and the other barflies, we would have to climb a few rungs of the deportment ladder to ensure that the wearer would be addressed and treated in a manner appropriate to their own, self-perceived status.

The downside of being a chameleon is that it soon becomes hard to remember your original colour. Personalities get lost, engulfed in a wave of adopted guises worn to please other people. From minute to minute we were both business people and cleaners, bar top counsellors and entertainers, drinking buddies and bouncers, party hosts and diplomats. In a twist on Pat’s favourite saying back on the market, ‘we were losing a lot of ourselves, but making a lot of friends’.

The two Johns sauntered outside.

‘Mind if we join you?’ said John One, sitting at one of the vacant seats opposite Faye.

‘Looks like you ladies could do with some company,’ chirped in the other John.

Carole and Faye looked at each other

‘No, we’re fine,’ said Carole.

John One chose to ignore the rebuttal. ‘You two escaped from your husbands for a week of sun, sand and sex?’

Faye laughed. ‘Not at our age, love. Sun, sand and sleep maybe.’

‘A holiday’s not a holiday if you don’t sleep in someone else’s bed,’ continued John One.

‘Aye, and we’ve got very big beds, eh John?’ laughed John Two.

Carole and Faye continued to eat, ignoring the advances but John Two persisted.

‘What’s your names then?’ he asked.

‘I’m Faye, this is Carole.’

John Two extended a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m John.’ He shook Faye’s hand.

John One took Faye’s hand. ‘They call me John Juan,’ he said smirking and put her hand to his lips. Joy had been watching them from the bar and had seen enough.

‘All right, you two. Go and mither someone else,’ she said striding towards the table.

‘We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just keeping these two lovely ladies company,’ said John Two, trying to look innocent.

‘Well, go and keep someone else company.
My
mum, and Carole, who happens to be Joe and David’s mum, can do without your slavering. Bugger off.’

‘But…’ protested John Two.

‘But nothing, bugger off,’ repeated Joy. 

‘She said sling your hook.’ Wayne had been sitting at a nearby table. He got up and stood at Joy’s shoulder like a protective dog. ‘Do you want me to throw them out?’

‘No, it’s all right, Wayne. Thanks, but I think they’ve got the message. Haven’t you?’ She glared at the two and they slunk off like scolded puppies. ‘Watch those two,’ Joy said to her mum, ‘They’re a pain in the arse.’

‘Looks like you’ve got them under control,’ said Carole.

‘They’re not my favourites,’ said Joy. ‘Just watch out, that’s all.’

Unruly people weren’t usually a problem at the Smugglers. The rare few that did get too boisterous were politely asked to calm down or leave. They realised that we were the only British bar within a two-mile radius so were careful not to fall out with us.

More time was spent herding animals away from the bar than placating the drunk and disorderly. Stray dogs and cats had caused us problems ever since we took over the bar. Packs would roam from community to community, seeking out the most rewarding territory and loitering for as long as possible before they were chased away with sticks and stones, or fell victim to poison bait laid out by the
technicos
.

Sometimes, however, it wasn’t the strays that were the problem. Some owners brought their pets with them to the bar. Most would lie patiently under tables, waiting to go home again but there were one or two pampered pooches whose owners clearly had an unhealthy emotional attachment. I would be happy to bag up any leftovers for the masters to take away. I also had no problem in providing something for the pet to drink from while it waited to go home. What I did object to, however, was the dog sitting on a chair being fed at the table. Even worse I was asked to cook a chicken in wine and serve it on a plate for one particularly babied poodle whose owner ought to have been sectioned. The embarrassed pooch strutted around in a plaid vest. Pink ears poked through holes in a matching sunhat and its tail wagged a pink bow like a baby shaking a rattler. I refused to serve food on a plate to the dog and told the owner it had to be fed on the floor. She looked at me as if I’d just dug up her grandmother. Outraged, she whisked the blob of fluff off the chair and disappeared through the door, vowing that her and Mr Cuddles would never step foot in the Smugglers Tavern again.

Whether invited or not, animal incursions were part of day to day life at the Smugglers and, except for mounting a permanent guard, there was not much we could do about it. Until Buster arrived.

Despite a sign requesting patrons not to feed the strays, most of our British customers actively encouraged cats and dogs to their tables. The unfortunate few who liked to eat their steaks without the front paws of a salivating Alsatian resting on their laps would glare at us with contempt for allowing such behaviour. But we were too busy to keep shooing animals away only for them trot back down the steps again once our backs were turned. A recent invasion of mongrels and scrawny cats had forced us into finding a solution.

Thankfully the solution found us. I was crouched underneath one of the wooden tables in the middle of the bar. One of the legs had fallen off, another victim of the curse of Justin. He had been sitting at the table with his parents the night before. His hands could be seen disconcertingly fiddling with something below waist level, a grin on his face suggesting he was gaining pleasure from the activity. It was only when I came to move it while mopping that the heavy wooden support clattered down onto my flip-flop and the focus of his errant hands was revealed.