More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (19 page)

As I strained the monkey wrench to force the nut tight enough to withstand any other playful fingering, a swathe of black fur raced past my left side. A split second later the black was followed by a blur of ginger. The scene was then repeated on my right side, accompanied by a pitiful yelping. The gap between black and ginger had narrowed. I backed out of the table on my knees just as the black and ginger – now merged into one – hurdled the back of my legs, skidded round table seven at the end of the room and shot out of the doors at the other end. A cheer rang out from the terrace.

A sturdy ginger cat swaggered back into the bar on paws the size of junior boxing gloves. For a second, he stared at me through half-closed eyes, like a gunslinger expecting trouble. On realising there was none to be had, he jumped up onto the padded bench seats near the door and began to lick his paws. His face bore the scars of combat and when he yawned I could see that he had the teeth of a bout-weary boxer.

He stopped licking his outstretched leg for a while and looked at me as I pondered what to do. He was clearly at home on this bench. Unlike the other emancipated and timid strays that followed their noses to our tables, he had the stature of Des the bouncer with the self-assurance to match.

‘He’s a tough nut,’ said a voice from behind. It was Wayne. He’d been watching the antics from outside. ‘He just chased a big bastard dog up the stairs. If he can see off a mutt, maybe he can get rid of the mouse.’

I’d forgotten about our other lodger. Since his acrobatics in front of Faith, he’d kept a low profile, only appearing when the bar was empty. He’d still managed to leave his mark on our stash of crisp boxes. Quavers were obviously his favourites, judging by the number of packets he’d infiltrated, though smoky bacon also bore the hallmarks of a rodent snacker.

We decided to call the cat Buster after Buster Gonad, the
Viz
comic book character. Unlike some cats, Buster’s gender was never a matter of debate. Not only was he as burly as a builder, two little cannonballs swung under his tail with each John Wayne stride.

He had turned up to offer a security service for which he expected to be fed fresh chicken and fillet steak as and when necessary, and be given his own room (a sturdy cardboard box would suffice). The deal seemed fair to us, but I doubt it was negotiable anyway, so we started him right away.

Over the next few days Buster lived in the bar 24/7, emerging only to charge at four-legged foe who dared to stray onto his new patch. One of his first official confrontations was with a lunging mongrel that had become a regular caller at the bar.

The dog had spotted Buster lying under one of the tables and, duty bound, scampered towards him barking and snarling. Buster was taking one of his many daily siestas and thus was officially off duty. He opened one eye and disdainfully sniffed at the dog’s snout, now less than a few inches away. The dog, not used to this breakdown in social order – dog barks and runs at cat, cat scarpers, dog laughs and tells all his friends over a can of Chum and a bowl of water – was a little unsure as to how to react, so he flopped onto his stomach to bark and snarl some more. Buster slowly stood up, arched his back in a slow stretch, and moved to within licking distance of the dog, staring him straight in the eye. The dog began to whimper in confusion.

As is the custom of all professional doormen, Buster had given the customary warning allowing the offender the opportunity to back off. But the dog didn’t. Without a trace of fear or trepidation Buster’s paw scythed across the dog’s nose, sending him scampering backwards. His legs skated on the terracotta tiles as if in a cartoon as he raced to escape this anarchic ginger demon. Buster leapt after him, chasing the howling wretch outside and up the stairs. Happy that the matter had been dealt with, he sauntered down to the applause of those seated outside. His tail went up to acknowledge the adulation, then he turned round and ran halfway back up the stairs for an encore. He had proved his worth. The job was his for keeps.

His notoriety as a dog in cat’s clothing soon got round and he became as big a draw as some of the artistes that were performing. Nobody could fail to be impressed by his sheer fearlessness and determination. This determination also had its downside. For much of the afternoon Buster would lie comatose on his back, snoring at full stretch while brazenly displaying his cat-hood, and occupying the whole bench seat at table five. No amount of cajoling could persuade him to vacate the bench or make room for customers. The price for waking him from one of his deep slumbers was paid in blood. The only way to make him move was to carefully unzip the padded cushion, carry him outside like a pampered emperor, then unceremoniously dump him onto the warm tiles.

He was most insistent at mealtimes. When hunger struck, customers would watch aghast as he strolled straight into the kitchen, where he would make a nuisance of himself around my feet until he was served his ration of raw meat. We naturally tried to discourage his kitchen forays and bought a water pistol in order to teach him the boundaries. However, after one or two days of being squirted in the face and skulking off shaking his head, he realised that being shot at was a small price to pay for eating well and the water pistol became ineffective. As soon as the gun was levelled at him he would stand his ground, screw up his eyes and wait for the deluge to finish before continuing his demands.

While Buster carried on his one-man mafia operation terrorising the local four-legged population, Micky and Ron were introducing more and more dubious associates to the bar, something we weren’t overly keen on. We had become the meeting place for trench coats and facial scars. Frank knew one or two of the disfigured faces as island hitmen. ‘As thick as shit, which makes them even more dangerous,’ he whispered from a safe distance.

We truly had become their ‘doorstep’ and although playing host to a gang of hardened criminals was never in the job description, I figured that at least while Micky remained in charge our doorstep would remain unsullied.

Ron was clearly still aggrieved from ‘losing a client’ and wasted no effort on pleasantries. Micky on the other hand had become a model of courtesy, even correcting his hitmen if they forgot to say please and thank you.

Serving an armed hitman is a stressful event. Although at the back of your mind you know he’s probably not going to stand up and shoot you if you spill a drink down his leather coat, the pressure to stay on the right side of him is immense. On the one hand, you want to appear friendly and accommodating but on the other, you don’t want to fawn too much otherwise you appear weak. As in their line of work, I adopted the silent approach – getting in, doing the job and getting out as quickly as possible.

‘Hey, Joe. You got a minute, son?’ Micky had called me over to his table where six sinister characters had their heads down in deep discussion. ‘I’ve got something coming up. You might be able to help me out.’

‘Err… sure, depends what it is.’ I laughed nervously.

‘What have you got on tomorrow afternoon?’

‘I… err… might have to work here if it gets too busy,’ I lied.

‘It won’t take long. I just want to borrow you for an hour or so. Can you spare a friend some time?’ he grinned.

I was trapped. Refuse and I was refuting friendship, agree and I could be destined for a stretch of long lonely days in Santa Cruz prison.

‘No problem. What do you want me to do?’

‘Have you got a tennis racquet?’

‘Yes.’ He could see my confusion.

‘Meet me at the Altamira court at two. I heard you used to play and fancy a game. None of these monkeys know one end of a bat from another.’ He nodded at the assembled primates.

Although the dilemma was a fraction as troublesome as it could have been, it was still a dilemma none the less. I was naturally competitive. What if I thrashed him? What if he was a bad loser? How bad would he be?

After a fitful night’s sleep and a morning shift in the bar, I dusted off my tennis racquet and met Micky at the court. He was dressed in brand new gleaming whites. Everything was top of the range, even the racquet looked like a sophisticated weapon.

The warm-up started well. We both appeared to be of roughly the same ability. Micky’s aggressive forehand was matched by my devious drop shots and we parried the ball back and forth for twenty sweaty minutes.

‘Shall we start?’ Micky had approached the net. His eyes were steeled with determination. The first few games were close. I wasn’t yet playing to my full ability.
You’re playing against the mafia,
my conscience reminded me at frequent intervals.

However, the further we progressed into the match, the more my natural will-to-win kicked in. My serves got harder, my returns more aggressive and my runs to the net more frequent. Micky was getting agitated. He was cursing to himself, beating his thigh with his own racquet after every point lost.

By the last game, the match was tied one set all. I was serving to win. My first serve fizzed over the net, landing a good six inches inside the box.

‘Out!’ shouted Micky.

The second serve dropped just in front of him and he returned with a strong backhand. I parried the shot more in self-defence than anything and the ball bounced off my racquet, dropping just over the net. I ran in to follow it. Micky also sprinted to the net, straining to reach the ball as it dropped to the floor. He just managed to scoop the racquet underneath it at full stretch and flicked upwards but his momentum caused him to lose balance. He fell forward. The ball gained height then began its descent. I couldn’t tell if it was going to land on my side of the net or not. Micky crashed to the tarmac at full stretch. His head came to a rest at the bottom of the net, inches from my feet where he lay motionless for a moment, watching the ball bounce just next to him. A wave of panic surged from head to toe. Not only had I beaten Micky the Mafia but I’d also drawn blood.

Micky picked himself up. ‘Fack,’ he said looking down at his knees. A trickle of blood streamed down his left shin. Both elbows were also grazed, scraped raw on the unforgiving surface. ‘Fack,’ he said again.

I offered my hand. ‘Well played.’

He looked up. ‘Fack,’ he said once more, reluctantly accepting a handshake. I helped him limp to the Smugglers where my mum was filling in for my absence. I poured him a beer and offered him a handful of Elastoplasts.

‘What happened?’ asked my mum.

‘I won,’ I answered sheepishly.

‘Well done,’ she shrieked proudly. Micky attempted a smile to acknowledge the defeat but it looked more like a sneer, as if revenge was already being planned.

‘Oh, nice move,’ Joy hissed sarcastically as my mum distracted Micky with childhood tales of my competitive nature. ‘I thought we were supposed to be staying on the right side of him.’

‘You won?’ shouted Faye, who had heard the conversation from the kitchen. She was stood in front of the sink and didn’t see Micky sat at the bar. ‘He needed knocking down a peg or two, that Nicky.’

Mum applied the fourth and last plaster and Micky hobbled out of the bar, angrily swatting the air with his racquet. Fortunately he displayed his displeasure in a passive manner by staying away for the next few weeks. It was nice to be mafia-free, if only temporarily.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

At last, it was September 22nd, the final night of our busy season. The number of breakfasts and lunches served daily had dropped into the 20s and we were all desperate for a break. The bar needed touching up after a hot and hectic season. Handprints marked the white walls like the ghosts of customers past; hundreds of green bottles on a high shelf were caked in dust; the bar stools and wooden chairs needed repainting; and the outside tiles were ready for yet another industrial clean.

Perhaps worst of all, the bar needed fumigating and for this we needed to vacate the premises for at least twelve hours. With Faith gone, Frank had resumed his barfly responsibilities again and was the one who brought the matter to our attention. He spent so much time hunched over the bar in moody contemplation that he knew every knot in the wood, every cigarette burn and every hairline crack where the roaches sought sanctuary. Despite our unleashing dozens of cans of killer spray through the summer months, the romantic procreation of our resident bug population continued unabated.

‘You’re going to have to do something about these fucking roaches,’ said Frank, slamming his hand down on a procession of babies. ‘They’re getting worse.’

He offered to fumigate the bar himself, claiming he knew what chemicals to mix and a man who could supply them, but I declined. I had visions of his lethal crop dusting leaving a legacy of toxins circulating for weeks, our bar decorated with red and white ribbon and deemed a no-go zone while a team of boiler suits tried to find an antidote to the hazardous cocktail Frank had created.

Buster had become adept at leaping on the bigger roaches but he made such a song and dance out of his assaults that he was bringing unwanted attention to the infestation. He would bat the bug from paw to paw until it toppled on to its back and started to spin, then end the show with an unappetising crunch in front of a horrified audience of diners.

Still, there was a celebratory mood in the air. We had got through the first season of a new life without poisoning anybody, making too many enemies or being set on by the locals. It felt like a victory, albeit at the cost of David’s marriage. He and Faith were now communicating again but hopes of reconciliation were slim. There was no way she would come back to Tenerife and David, like Joy and me, was chained to the bar by a huge mortgage and loan.

In spite of our burdens, this last night of all-day opening was one to celebrate. A never-ending succession of beers was delivered to the kitchen by mum and Faye, who were making the most of their last night helping out with generous proportions of gin and less generous proportions of tonic.

By the time the final meals had been cleared and the kitchen tidied we were all in party mood.

‘Are you lot on drugs or something?’ muttered Frank. As is usual following an excessive intake of alcohol, we viewed everybody as our friends that night. Even an appearance by the two Johns couldn’t dampen the spirits, despite their usual antagonising.

‘Hey, Joe must have given you a good time last night,’ said John One to Joy. ‘Look at that smile.’

‘That’s the smile of a satisfied woman that is, eh John?’ added John Two.

‘No, that’s the smile of a woman who doesn’t have to face your ugly mugs in the daytime anymore,’ replied Joy.

‘What do you mean?’ asked John Two.

Joy explained that we were closing during the days and just opening at night until the Christmas crowd arrived.

‘But you can’t do that,’ moaned John Two. Where are we going to go for our fry-ups?’

‘Not my problem,’ smiled Joy.

‘Tell you what. Maybe Joy wants to deliver it in bed. Now that’d be good service. What do you reckon, Joy?’ said John One.

‘I think I’m going to throw up at just the thought of it,’ replied Joy.

‘Is that right then?’ asked Frank. ‘The bar’s going to be closed during the day? You lazy fuckers. I worked seven days a week when I was your age. I had to get up at five in the freezing cold and walk a mile to me uncle’s garage.’

‘Yes, and look what a happy chap that’s made you,’ I said. ‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’

‘No danger of that here, is there?’ he sighed. ‘Anyway, what about my office? Who’s going to answer my phone?’

Frank had taken to using the bar as his daytime office. Phoned requests for his DIY services were frequent, more frequent than our own callers at times. It had come to the point that incoming calls were immediately assumed to be for Frank and we would automatically pass him the handset, although he was always reluctant to take it unless we knew the caller. He was convinced that sooner or later one of the calls would be from Shark Bait.

‘And where am I going to leave the keys for my renters?’ added John One.

The bar’s status as community HQ also involved taking on several other responsibilities. As we were amongst the very few people guaranteed to be around for at least a few more months (so long as Frank resisted the urge to mess with safety valves again), the Smugglers Tavern had become more than a place to grab a drink and a meal. In addition to its crèche status, the bar also became a drop-off and pick-up point for begged, borrowed and returned goods.

‘When you’ve finished with the stepladders/surfboard/stuffed cat, if I’m not in leave it at the Smugglers. I’ll pick it up later,’ was common. Our tiny outside storeroom began to resemble a catalogue despatch centre more than a booze cupboard. Behind the bar we would have all manner of notes, letters and keys to be passed on to second parties.

Keys in particular were a constant hazard. Apartment owners who rented out their properties had bestowed upon us the honour of being custodians of spare keys. The title came with the burden of being listed in their ‘apartment manual’ as the ones to go to if there was a problem. We didn’t mind doing this for those owners we had befriended and who showed their appreciation in kind or cash. However, some saw it as our community obligation and at such a relatively early stage of our business we rarely refused if asked.

This key-holding service slowly developed into bigger and better things, at least for the owners. From time to time holidaymakers would ask us if there were any private apartments for rent. To save the effort of having to scroll through her phonebook each time the question was asked, Joy had compiled a list of telephone numbers of the four or five owners who would let their accommodation. The enquirer would then phone the owner direct and the owner could make all the arrangements with them. That was the theory anyway. In reality, the person wanting accommodation would make an initial enquiry and the owner would call Joy, asking if she thought they were okay and could she pass them the keys if they booked.

In the eyes of the renter this tended to wrongly paint Joy in the role of apartment manager and any subsequent problems were then directed her way. More than once a complete stranger would walk into the bar and demand that we fix his leaking tap, or inform us haughtily that his buttocks had been nipped by a broken toilet seat and what were we going to do about it? ‘Nothing’ was usually the answer.

We had a final drink with David, mum and Faye after we had managed to herd the last of the customers out, then staggered down Cardiac Hill to our apartment. There was a fresh sea breeze blowing up the hill, the first inkling of fresh air we had experienced on El Beril. Overhead the sky was full of pinprick clusters, the moon casting a silver glow over the ocean in front of us.

We strolled past the apartment on our left and continued down some steps at the far end of the turning circle at the bottom of the hill. The steps led to a part-finished promenade that ran halfway in front of the Altamira to the right and to the back edge of the El Beril complex to our left. At intervals along the promenade were gaps in the knee-high wall where broken steps led to the black pebble beach. We sat on the top step gazing at our world. A gentle surf raked the smooth rocks, rasping slowly back and forth at our feet.

‘It’s not a bad place to live, is it?’ I said.

‘No. It’s times like these that you appreciate it,’ agreed Joy. ‘Now we’re closed in the daytime we should start making the most of it.’

‘You’re right. Let’s spend the day on the beach tomorrow.’

We watched a line of lights dipping and rising like a Mexican wave several miles offshore; night fishermen stretching their nets from boat to boat in search of tomorrow’s fresh catch. Beyond them, the dark silhouette of La Gomera rose from the water like a giant whale, the faint lights of Hermigua and Vallehermosa blinking above the moonlit ocean.

I thought about the view from Joy’s mother’s house where we had been living before we moved to Tenerife. Joy’s bedroom looked over Belmont Road, a busy byway linking Bolton with Blackburn West via the bracken and heather of Belmont Moors. Austin Allegros and Vauxhall Vectras would be parked outside the neat gardens of the bungalows opposite.

Lace curtains would frequently twitch, those inside disappointed as fire engines raced past from the station half a mile up the road, reminding the neighbourhood that there was something exciting happening, but always somewhere else.

Over the bungalows the terraced houses on High View Street would reflect the pale yellow streetlight off damp grey roof slates, casting a pallor on the community. The pale damp glow of the night felt as claustrophobic as the low-hanging clouds of daytime. I felt pride, and relief, in our escape.

We wandered back along the promenade to the apartment.

‘Who’s that man in the car?’ asked Joy.

As we climbed the steps up to Cardiac Hill, she noticed a man sitting in darkness behind the wheel of an expensive-looking jeep. His seat was reclined as if he was planning to sleep there but his eyes were open, tracking us as we walked in front of the bonnet and through the gate leading to the back of our apartment.

‘Seems a bit strange,’ I said, unlocking the door.

‘Go and see if he’s still watching,’ said Joy.

A hedge at the end of our garden obstructed the view onto the road, so I slowly pulled back the curtain in the spare bedroom upstairs. The man was staring straight back at me.

‘Is he still there?’ shouted Joy.

‘Yes, and he’s watching us.’

‘Should we phone the police?’ asked Joy.

‘No, I’ll go and let the Altamira security guard know. He can keep and eye on him.’

‘Wait a minute, you’re not leaving me here alone.’ Joy was already shutting the door behind us.

I found the security guard asleep on a sunbed beside the El Beril pool. One arm flopped towards the floor, the other was resting on his stomach, his thumb hooked through a pair of handcuffs. His mouth was wide open and he was rasping the deep sleep of someone who clearly wasn’t at his most vigilant.

‘
Señor
?’ I hissed without success. I tapped him on his arm but still there was no waking him.

Joy grabbed his shoulder, shaking him violently. ‘Hey, wake up.’

His eyes shot open. ‘
Que? Que pasa?
’ He looked at us as if we were going to mug him and fumbled for his baton while wiping a dribble of saliva from the corner of his mouth with the other hand.

I raised my palms to calm him down then signalled for him to follow us. Peering from behind a stack of bin liners piled at the top of Cardiac Hill, I pointed to the solitary car parked at the bottom.

‘A man…
hombre
… watching our apartment…
mi casa
.’ I scowled to show this was not good and gestured that the security guard should go and take a look, but he didn’t seem keen. He gesticulated that he’d keep an eye on him from a safe distance, i.e. where he was now.

As usual the sun exploded round the blinds in the bedroom. Today felt different. Almost like the day we were leaving for Tenerife. I wasn’t sure why but then remembered that we weren’t going to open during the day for the next few months. I felt like we were on holiday.

I drew the blinds up, filling the bedroom with light.

‘He’s gone,’ I said.

‘Hum?’ mumbled Joy. Her eyes were still closed.

‘That man in the jeep. He’s gone.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Beach today?’ I suggested. A smile slowly spread across Joy’s face as she came to the same realisation as myself.

An hour later we were on the way back from the airport having dropped off my mum and Faye. It was late morning and I could feel a progressive hangover starting to kick in.
Nothing that a day snoozing on the beach couldn’t cure
, I thought. Thin wisps of clouds threaded a near perfect sky. A perfect day.

Just then my mobile rang. It was the fumigation company. They’d be at the bar at midday.

Normally you could rely on the Canarians to need several pokes with a sharp stick before they’d fulfil their obligations several days later than requested. This was the first time that one had been so speedy and efficient. It was very inconvenient.

The beach plans were put on hold. Hopefully they would turn up by one and be gone again at two, which meant we could still get a couple of hours on the beach. The night before, we had given Wayne a key so that when the fumigation had taken place he could let himself in and wash all the crockery and glasses. It was a job we were glad to delegate.

As promised, the fumigation man turned up at midday. Only his midday was more known as mid-afternoon in our world. After waiting from 12.30, pottering with small jobs that needed doing like dusting the fan blades and polishing the beer pumps, our bug-buster sauntered in at three. The beach would have to wait until tomorrow.

The exterminator was smoking a cigarette, a rucksack slung casually over his shoulder. He greeted us with a rasping ‘
hola
’ and a subsequent coughing fit. It sounded like he’d been inhaling toxins too long. He emptied the contents of two plastic bottles into what looked like a weed killer bottle, and pumped on the top handle until the nozzle he was holding in his other hand spat a small globule of insecticide onto the floor.

‘
Donde estan?’
Where are they, he asked, gazing round the bar.