Less Ketchup than Salsa: Finding my Mojo in Travel Writing (More Ketchup Book 3) Read online

  LESS KETCHUP THAN SALSA:

  FINDING MY MOJO IN TRAVEL WRITING

  Copyright © Joe Cawley 2018

  The rights of Joe Cawley to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in

  accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Acts 1988.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  www.joecawley.co.uk

  Have you seen my photos from the Smugglers days?

  If you haven’t, click on the link below and I’ll send you some. I’ll also add you to my subscriber list and let you know when my next book is out.

  Sign me up and send me some embarrassing photos of Joe, Joy and the Smugglers.

  Tenerife

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Surprise!’

  Joy’s face was as blank as mine.

  ‘Remember us?’ said the lady standing in our apartment doorway. Her bingo wings jiggled as she held up outstretched hands bejewelled in rose gold.

  Joy smiled, without commitment.

  The lady raised drawn-on eyebrows, turned her head slightly and waited for the penny to drop. It didn’t. She tried jazz hands. That didn’t free the penny either.

  Her husband stood stiffly, a full pace further back, hands behind his back. His mouth was fixed in a manic grin, the type you inadvertently do when your lips are dry and get stuck to your gums. ‘Stan. And Vera,’ he said, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  ‘Ah!’ said Joy. ‘Half a shandy; gin, Indian tonic.’

  I dutifully smiled and nodded as if I had a clue. Joy always remembered ex-customers by what they’d habitually drunk.

  ‘Babs at timeshare reception told us where you lived,’ smiled Gin Indian Tonic (we’ll call her GIT for the sake of brevity, and because she was). GIT strode purposefully into our apartment.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Joy, trying to sound pleased.

  I made a mental note to shoot Babs in the knee.

  ‘Nice,’ said GIT, looking round. ‘Small, but nice. Easy to clean…’ She stroked a finger across the top bar of a pine chair. ‘… you’d think.’

  Shandy remained rooted in the doorway. He continued grinning, as though this was part of a viable conversation, dentures still clenched and showing.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, turning my head to address them both, ‘I have no idea who you are. Clearly, you’re not our friends, and even more clearly, you’re both slightly deranged. We have a hundred other things that we’d rather be doing than making polite conversation with you two, so pack your bags, sling your hook and close the door behind you.’

  That’s what I’d have liked to have said. What I actually said was, ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee, wine?’

  Twelve months on and we still couldn’t shake off the ghost of Smugglers. Joy and I had survived seven years of pandering to the bewildered, deranged and downright demanding patrons of our pub in Tenerife. At least that’s what it had felt like at times. Having stumbled along a crazy-paved path of self-discovery and frequent self-destruction, we had progressed from fish-stall workers to successful expat publicans, and although our life behind bars had now come to an end, sticky crumbs from our erstwhile career resurfaced in awkward places.

  Those with whom we’d chosen to sustain an acquaintance in Tenerife still expected us to act the happy hosts during meals out. And why not? It was a role they’d repeatedly paid to see us play for seven years and now that we’d moved from our familiar venue we were simply viewed as a touring panto.

  It wasn’t all the fault of others. Our years of conditioning were hard to shake. Sometimes it wasn’t the people but the environment that triggered a Pavlovian response and soured the sweet flavours of freedom. A return to a familiar setting risked stirring the subconscious with sights, smells or sounds that we associated with time-sensitive tasks. Wine-addled seafood lunches at fishing-village restaurants in La Caleta or Los Abrigos would be haunted by the fear of deadlines missed: ‘Don’t you have cucumbers to prep before customers arrive?’

  My mind could be set in a flurry by the mere sight of a Caesar salad: ‘Did you buy enough lettuce today?’ Even a visit to the urinals could prompt a mental note to set to with a scouring pad and bleach, and more than once I had to stop myself from picking cigarette butts and chewing gum out of the bowl.

  Despite our post-traumatic-stress disorder, we had a lot going for us. Our relationship had survived a near-fatal shattering and remained intact, we had more money in the bank than we currently knew what to do with, and we were free to get up at hours that suited us and dally with the day however our whims desired. It was bliss. But an uncomfortable bliss, if there can be such a thing.

  Although Whim had been the main driving force behind our move to Tenerife in 1991, I was older now, and wiser, I liked to think. I’d realised Whim was not to be trusted. That mischievous imp had very nearly landed us in the proverbial poop. Or Llandudno, to be precise. Fortunately, Sense had stepped in at the last hour and slapped us about the head, and we narrowly avoided moving from frying pan to fryer following Whim’s insistence that running a bed-and-breakfast in north Wales was our future.

  However, we did agree on one thing with Whim – we, or rather I, definitely needed to do something. But what?

  Aimlessness has its place, a by-product of passivity in those content to drift wherever the current takes them. That had been me eight years ago, but it wasn’t me now. Having the Smugglers had instilled in me if not a sense of urgency at least the realisation that idling in an ocean-facing bungalow at thirty-four years of age was not where I wanted to be. New adventures were not going to unfurl before me; I would have to go and find them.

  Repelling land assaults by Shandy and GIT were not the adventures I had in mind. It took two hours of banal conversation before we could peel them off our settee and usher them out the door.

  ‘It’s been lovely. I’m so glad we found you. We’ll call round again soon,’ threatened GIT.

  We waved them off with professional smiles and thoughts of moving. Whim suggested murder. Whim had its uses.

  Unfortunately, GIT and Shandy weren’t our only unexpected visitors following our Smugglers retirement, but they were by far the most persistent, blessing us with their presence at least once a fortnight during their three-month stays in Tenerife. In El Beril we were sitting targets, especially as we did very little during the day other than spend time together in the apartment.

  Despite our inertia, three big events happened in the year 2000 (four if you include the Y2K millennium bug that was going to stop the world but didn’t). One involved the pitter-patter of tiny feet and one would finally foil the plans of people like Shandy and GIT, but it was the third that would alter the course of my life for ever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We were curled up on the sofa watching daytime TV in our apartment.

  ‘Turn the telly down a minute.’ Joy tilted her head to one side, listening.

  I grabb
ed the remote control from the glass coffee table. There was nothing at first, then a tiny scratching.

  ‘Damn, mice again,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not a mouse. It’s coming from behind the patio curtains. Go have a look.’

  I squinted into a landscape bleached by blistering sunlight. ‘Can’t see any— Oh! Hang on.’ I slid open the patio door and scooped up a tiny white bundle. The high-pitched complaining ceased for a moment as it sunk small claws into my palm and bared its teeth.

  ‘Ouch!’ I lowered the kitten carefully onto the marble floor of our living room. The mewing started up again and the blob of fluff began to sway and shake as if it was experiencing its own little earthquake.

  ‘Aww,’ cooed Joy. ‘I think it’s hungry. Give it some milk and a bit of that ham.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa.’ I held a hand up. ‘If we feed it now, that’s it. It’s ours. It’ll never leave.’

  ‘Well, you can’t let it starve. Look at it, poor thing, it’s shaking with hunger. So cute!’

  Cute it wasn’t. The kitten continued to vibrate at a steady rate of knots. I picked it up again and the shaking stopped. It looked like the kind of kitten a three-year-old would draw long before any sense of perspective had taken hold. Huge eyes bulged from a head blotchy with angry red scabs. At the other end, a thin pipe-cleaner of a tail protruded from its bloated pink body.

  ‘Got a skin infection,’ I said, holding it at eye level. ‘Ew. And worms.’ I jerked my head back as it took a quick swipe at my nose. ‘Still got some fight left in him though.’ I turned him around. ‘Her,’ I corrected.

  In addition to its skin affliction, the kitten’s eyes were clogged with grey-green pus, and a thin trickle of mucous hung from its button nose. It was, by some distance, the ugliest kitten I had ever seen. Despite that, it seemed there was no going back. It devoured several slices of ham and two saucers of milk, then brought it all back up again in a series of gooey convulsions.

  ‘We should call it Elvis,’ said Joy.

  I looked bemused.

  ‘Shakes its hips like Elvis Presley – look.’

  ‘Or Fugly,’ I offered. ‘Flaming ugly.’ And so it became. Our first offspring was officially named Fugly, an ugly duckling that grew into a beautiful swan. Only she didn’t, but more of that later.

  Over the coming days, Fugly bonded with Joy to the point of my exclusion. I was under the impression that new-born orphaned animals attached themselves with fierce loyalty to the first creature they interacted with. I had picked her up. I had examined her. I had fed her ham and milk and cleaned up the sick, but it was Joy who was the chosen one. It was she who was seen as the carer, the one to sit near but not on – the kitten was still building trust in that area. Despite Joy’s admonishment to ‘stop being soft’, I felt snubbed.

  Not only was I not seen as her saviour, I was now viewed as the enemy, though I did gain some comfort in knowing that I was not alone – cushions, errant shoes, the sweeping brush, curtains that swished, shopping bags and anything else that dared to exist, living or inanimate, were all objects of Fugly’s hostility. In fact, everything except Joy.

  What she lacked in looks, Fugly more than made up for in psychotic tendencies. If a stranger walked past our patio, her eyes would snap to the target like the blade of a flick-knife. If the passer-by carried on walking, they were safe. If they paused to peer inside our apartment, their curiosity would turn to terror as a spitting, snarling, white ball of fluff charged towards them.

  At first I was irritated by this paranoid behaviour, but I warmed to it slightly when I witnessed how Fugly’s narkiness could be turned to our advantage.

  ‘Oh, how sweet, you have a cat!’ said GIT as she strode past us and through the doorway during her next invasion of our home. She bent low to stroke Fugly.

  Never one to miss the chance to inflict pain, our kitten sank her tiny razor teeth into GIT’s forefinger. At the same time, three lines of blood appeared on the back of GIT’s hand, courtesy of a raking claw.

  ‘Fugly!’ I shouted, trying to disguise my fatherly pride.

  Joy passed GIT a piece of kitchen roll.

  ‘Not very friendly, is he?’ said GIT.

  ‘She’s a she. Doesn’t like unexpected visitors,’ I said pointedly. And the moment would have passed. Except Fugly wasn’t done.

  When Shandy sat down, Fugly leapt onto the back of the settee and lashed out Zorro-like at the nape of his neck. Shandy sprang to his feet as if he’d sat on a nail. GIT emerged from the bathroom having washed the blood off her hand and crossed paths with her husband, who was hurrying to the sink.

  ‘What happened?’ She turned to him, but before he could answer, Fugly attacked hard and low, scratching at varicose veins and biting fat, turquoise-painted toes.

  ‘What the heck is wrong with that thing!’ shrieked GIT as she performed a defensive cancan.

  Joy scooped up Fugly and locked her in the bedroom. ‘Sorry about that. She gets a little excited when we have company.’

  ‘Excited! You need to have her put down. She could have rabies or something. Have you got any plasters?’

  We did, but I pretended we didn’t, which seemed to do the trick. Our unwanted guests departed, muttering something about tetanus, irresponsible owners and calling the police. Finally, we were left in peace. For now.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Joy was halfway up a stepladder with a can of crimson emulsion by her side. She hummed refrains from a Michael Bolton album that had been subliminally implanted in her brain during our Smugglers days. I knelt at her feet, tongue protruding from the side of my mouth, meticulously painting along the top of a marble skirting board.

  Both of us wore black T-shirts emblazoned with gold lettering: ‘SMUGG’ on the front, ‘LERS’ on the back. They were remnants from days gone by, plucked from a bin liner full of T-shirts that we’d had printed for bar customers.

  Many in the black bin bag were special editions. Additional lettering listed both the date of our initial bar opening (June 1st, 1991) and the day of what was supposed to be our Smugglers leaving party (May 30th, 1998), after we’d sold the bar to a local ‘godfather’ of Italian descent and dubious background.

  If you’ve followed the Ketchup saga from Book One, you’ll know that this first sale fell through. Although we were left with a sizeable non-returnable deposit, we were also left with an overwhelming feeling of despair and a large bag of commemorative T-shirts. We still have some if you’d like one. Email me via the address at the back of the book and we can sort something out. They make very good painting smocks and/or cleaning rags.

  Anyway, I digress… We had set about sprucing up the apartment – cleaning it, shuffling furniture around – in the hope that a change of immediate scenery would fill the hole in our lives.

  Our seven-year bar career had been pitted with anguish and disasters – both professional and personal – but as well as providing an inordinate amount of cash, it had forced on us a resolute sense of purpose. We might have been bleary-eyed from continual nights of too-little sleep, but every day we woke knowing what had to be done. Our journey was plotted, the ship travelling under full sail. All we had to do was keep it on course.

  Now we felt adrift, bobbing in an ocean of uncertainty. That might sound liberating, and in many ways it was. Everybody needs a little uncertainty in their lives, but it has to be counterbalanced with elements of predictability and structure and a rough sense of what might be coming. We didn’t have a clue. So it was no great surprise that Michael Bolton and purple paint didn’t fill the gap.

  As we stood back to survey our handiwork, we were satisfied that, aesthetically at least, the blandness had been eliminated. We were not so happy that it been replaced by hideousness.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked, arms crossed, trying to find a single redeeming feature in our colour of choice.

  ‘Looks vile,’ said Joy cheerily.

  The purple made our apartment feel like a claustrophobic den of iniq
uity. We decided to revert to the original cream colour.

  It was our second bout of decorating in less than a week. Because of the purple disaster, we’d become quite adept at painting. ‘We’re getting good at this,’ said Joy, as she thrust the paint roller up and down the wall. I felt another shower of paint splatter on my head. ‘We could do this for a living.’

  For no other reason than that we could think of nothing else to do, the notion stuck, and ‘Painterman’ business cards confirmed our new vocation.

  Four months and a dozen jobs later, the Painterman sheen had faded. There had been no struggle to secure work; in fact, the novelty of a young, or by now youngish couple painting apartments together at a reasonable rate meant that word spread fast. The demand for our brush skills began to exceed supply.

  Requests started coming in not only from private house owners but from business owners too. From one-bed apartments we moved on to four-bed villas, which involved renting, transporting and subsequently climbing long ladders to reach the higher ceilings, and getting drawn into conversations on topics that we knew nothing about. ‘What product would you recommend we use on the covings?’ or ‘Could you give the bathroom walls a kind of stucco, stipple effect.’

  Then I was asked to provide a quote at an apartment complex overlooking Puerto Colon harbour. The German community president was waiting for me in the car park. We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries in broken English, and got down to business.

  ‘So, is it your apartment you’d like us to paint?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, my apartments,’ said the president.

  ‘Oh, apartments! You have more than one?’

  ‘Yes, all my apartments.’

  ‘How many do you want me to paint?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘But how many?’

  ‘One hundred and fifty-two.’ He waved an arm at the flaking four-storey block in front of us. ‘Inside and out.’