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

  I gulped.

  ‘You give me good price, yes?’

  I didn’t give him any price, good or bad. The job entailed stripping and redecorating the public corridors, the outside walls, and all the apartment interiors. Although it would have been a golden ticket to the next level of our painting-and-decorating careers, it didn’t sound like fun at all. Unless we took on extra help, we would need the best part of a year. I had seen Painterman as a stopgap, a moderately rewarding pastime that would do until the Next Big Idea came to mind. But this sounded like a business, with long-term commitment – responsibility!

  Those two words again! This near encounter with those evil twins seemed to suck the enjoyment out of what we were doing. Joy and I had been having fun together and making a little money as a bonus. But now it was time for something else.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was another reason why I couldn’t commit to such a full-on project right now. I’d received a call from my brother, David, in the UK. Nan was in hospital, having fallen for the second time in as many days. They didn’t think there were any broken bones, but given that she was ninety-three, the hospital naturally wanted to keep her in for observation and to run a few checks.

  It was three thirty in the afternoon when I reached Clitheroe. Daylight had already gone back to bed and a December wind whipped discarded newspapers and other paper rubbish into a frenzied twirl along Whalley Road. I stepped out of the taxi and let myself in to my nan’s house.

  Nothing had changed. Except Nan wasn’t there, of course. The ceramic funfair trinkets were still on show in the glass cabinet. Most of the ornaments had fallen over, Nan being either too short-sighted or too disinterested to right them. The cabinet itself was also heading for a fall, its usual precarious angle now verging on the point of total topple.

  I pondered trying to straighten it but remembered Nan’s complaints at my last attempt. ‘Leave it be. I like it like that. Besides, if it goes, it goes. It’s its own silly fault.’ That had seemingly been Nan’s mantra throughout life, a Lancashire version of qué será, será – whatever will be, will be. Perhaps her ability to dismiss stressful situations with a mere shrug of the shoulders was why she’d reached the grand old age of ninety in relatively good health.

  Physically she was a demon, still domestically agile in her morning uniform of faded blue day-coat and fluffy pink slippers, single-handedly throwing sodden bedsheets over the washing line strung across her back yard; still trudging up the steep, carpeted staircase, bedtime cocoa in hand, once ‘that nice Alastair Stewart had said all there was to say’ on ITV’s ten o’clock news.

  And until the last twelve months or so, Nan’s mental capacity had also remained at a high level, partly due to her ‘use it or lose it’ philosophy regarding daily exercise for the brain cells. Sitting down anywhere in her house had nearly always been accompanied by the rustle of papers stuffed under cushions – pages from word-search puzzle books, neatly folded newspaper crosswords torn from the Daily Express, or, more recently, Sudoku challenges provided by her Woman’s Weekly magazine subscription. But this time I noticed no such brain stimulants.

  David had bought Nan a large-screen TV, which now stood in the centre of the room on a thinning hearth rug in front of the electric fire, just three feet from Nan’s armchair. I pushed the ignite button on the fire to warm up the tiny room and noticed the plastic casing on the left side of the TV had begun to melt, so I wheeled the TV back a few inches, out of reach of the artificial flames.

  In addition to the gradual fading of her mental faculties and her eyesight, David had told me over the phone that Nan’s ankles had started to swell and that the doctor wanted to give her injections to reduce the inflammation. Nan, of course, had refused, preferring to let nature take its course. Her inflated ankles may have been a contributing factor to her instability, but it was more than that that had caused her to fall, leaving her with bruises to her head and forearms. The doctor and David suspected she’d been blacking out. Nan’s defence was that she’d merely been getting up too quickly, ‘making me head giddy’.

  I slept at Nan’s house under the foot-high pile of quilts on her bed. The mattress had long lost its ability to support any weight and just collapsed in the middle with a soft sigh of resignation. It was the same mattress David and I had clambered onto when we were toddlers, snuggling up to Nan and her tales of Lancastrian hardship when she was young.

  As we lay there having our hair stroked, we would sink into that state between wakefulness and sleep, our young imaginations fired by whispered narratives of her working life in cotton mills, munitions factories and school canteens. Those stories came back to me now as I drifted into a similarly carefree slumber.

  Next morning I went to visit her in the hospital. ‘There’s nowt wrong with me,’ she shouted from where she lay propped up against the pillows. Her hearing aid was at the side of her bed and the sheets were tucked tightly under her chin. ‘I can’t be doing with all these sick folk coughing and spluttering throughout the night.’

  Husbands in overcoats sat forlornly beside the seven other beds in the ward, providing physical if not conversational company to their sick wives.

  ‘The doctor will be round soon,’ I said, handing Nan a bag of sweets.

  ‘He’s a darky,’ bellowed Nan matter-of-factly while sucking on a Mint Ball.

  ‘You can’t say that these days, Nan.’ I moved the visitor’s chair nearer to the bed in the hope she’d stop shouting.

  ‘Why not? He’s a darky, and that’s that,’ she yelled. ‘No point denying it. You can see it in his skin. Got them big lips, too. Did you bring liquorice?’ She peered into the paper bag.

  I smiled apologetically at the adjacent cubicle, where three generations of Pakistanis were listening avidly to our conversation.

  David had already told me what the doctor had diagnosed: high blood pressure, angina, anaemia, prediabetes, kidney infection, and cataracts in both eyes. It was a formidable list, but Nan was a formidable lady. She’d already beaten off two cancers, lost her son and been widowed twice. She wasn’t one to be mugged by a gang of lesser afflictions.

  The doctor had insisted that Nan should stay in hospital for a few days, at least until they’d cleared up the kidney infection, addressed the anaemia and balanced her blood-sugar level. He’d also brought up Nan’s mental state. He was worried that she was showing early signs of dementia, forgetting names and repeatedly asking, ‘What’s this hotel called again?’ He was alarmed that she was still having to fend for herself at home.

  Both David and I tried to convince him that it had always been a very fine line between sensibleness and absurdity when it came to our nan. She was never one for convention, preferring to do things her way and follow her own logic, however bizarre that seemed to others, such as when she’d packed her TV remote control on a visit to Tenerife ‘so I don’t miss Coronation Street’. However, we agreed to keep an eye on her and report back if things deteriorated.

  That night, against a background of crooning karaoke kings in a Clitheroe pub, David and I discussed what we’d do if Nan really couldn’t look after herself safely. He and his wife, Andi, lived in a two-storey house with an upstairs bathroom and a near-vertical staircase that even the most athletic of firemen would find challenging, so Nan moving in with them was a non-starter. Bringing her over to Tenerife was a definite option, though emigration to a subtropical climate would naturally have its own challenges for a nonagenarian. It wasn’t off the cards just yet, but easier alternatives (for everyone) had to be explored first.

  Nan’s pride and dignity were part of what kept her independent and fit. Like all people in the twilight of their lives, Nan would play Pensioner Top Trumps at any opportunity. She was engaged in a game when I returned to the hospital the next day.

  She was sitting by the side of the bed when I arrived, resplendent in Barbara Cartland make-up and a full armoury of pearls. She looked like a dignitary on a royal tour, only the bed she was v
isiting was empty. She was conversing with a new neighbour, a pensioner with a shock of white hair and lips painted blood red. I could see that the competition had begun.

  ‘You look marvellous,’ said the neighbour to my beaming nan.

  ‘Not bad for ninety-three, eh?’ Nan waited for a reaction.

  ‘Ooh, you’re nearly as old as my sister, Maureen. She’s ninety-four,’ said the neighbour.

  One–nil. I could see Nan choosing which card to play next as she rolled her dentures from side to side.

  ‘I’ve had cancer twice,’ she blurted out – rather randomly, I thought.

  ‘Fancy that! So have I! Where was yours?’

  ‘Breast and throat. Had to have it removed.’

  ‘Your throat?’

  ‘No, me breast.’

  ‘Oh, I had both mine taken off,’ countered the neighbour proudly.

  Two–nil.

  Nan popped a Mint Ball in her mouth. It clacked agitatedly against her teeth, like a clock ticking down time.

  ‘I still live by myself, don’t I, Joe?’ She’d decided to draw me into the game now.

  I leant down and gave her a kiss. ‘Hi, Nan.’

  Nan held onto my shirt. ‘She’s got lady problems,’ she said. ‘Nowt serious like I have.’ She turned up her nose to emphasise the point.

  ‘Well, good for you, Eileen,’ said the neighbour.

  Nan’s eyes lit up. Two–one.

  The neighbour continued. ‘Good on you and everything, but I wouldn’t want to do that, live by myself. Malcolm, my son, built me a little bungalow in the grounds of his estate, next to his house, but I said, “Malcolm, why don’t I just move in with you and Barbara and have done with it?” Much easier. It’s like living in a posh hotel.’ She put a finger over her mouth as if sharing a secret. ‘They do everything for me. I let them. Makes them feel good, you know?’

  Nan’s accent rose a couple of social strata. ‘Joe and David, my grandsons, are the same. They both want me to come and live in their houses. Joe’s a very successful businessman in Spain. But I don’t want to be a burden. ’Sides, if you haven’t got your independence, what have you got?’

  Two–two. And with the ball in the back of the net, Nan settled for a draw, blew the final whistle and blatantly turned her back on the neighbour.

  ~

  Before I headed back to Tenerife, David and I checked out a nursing home close to Nan’s house in Clitheroe. It was the only one that had a vacancy, ‘though things can change daily, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate,’ said the lady at the other end of the phone.

  There was an air of sadness and foreboding about the place. The bare branches of overhanging oak trees scratched at the clear blue sky like gnarled fingers in rigor mortis. Through one of the square windows of the dark, stone-walled building, a lady stared at the two of us in the car park. Her face was expressionless, her shoulders sagged. Was she looking down at a life left behind or had the cruel confusions of seniority clouded any such thought processes?

  Great efforts had been made to brighten the doorstep flowerpots with vibrant colour, but the drooping stems had been defeated by the December frosts, or possibly by the suffocating air of melancholy. I rang the bell and blew into my hands for warmth.

  After several bouts of hand-blowing, I rang again, but still nobody came. Through the glass pane I watched a resident shuffle along the threadbare carpet to the end of the hallway, pause, and then shuffle all the way back. I smiled at her through the glass, expecting the door to open, but she stared through us as if we were invisible.

  There was a shout, a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she was slowly turned and steered away by a plump nurse in a dark blue uniform.

  With the resident safely set on a new flight path, the nurse opened the door and we stepped in. ‘Sorry, it’s elevenses. Usual mayhem.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You here to visit someone?’

  We explained the situation and were put in a holding pattern in the hallway while she finished distributing tepid drinks and Rich Tea biscuits. A sparsely decorated Christmas tree at the bottom of the winding staircase was the only nod to the forthcoming festivities in what was otherwise a depressingly dreary scene. Worse than the crimson flock wallpaper were the ammonia fumes rising from a carpet that had long since offered neither cushioned comfort nor cheery decoration. Typed notes pinned above an open guestbook barked strict instructions regarding signing in and out, and a line in bold and capitals reminded visitors to ensure the front door remained closed at all times. I shook a tip box labelled ‘For Your Friendly Staff’ and took note of the hollow rattle.

  ‘Oi, you’re not nicking our tips, are you?’ The nurse who had let us in seemed to be only half-joking.

  We followed her up the fast lane of the staircase. The slow lane was for stair-chairs only.

  ‘This is an example of a room, but they’re all different. This is one of the bigger ones.’

  I squeezed past David to get a better look and was alarmed to see a wispy-haired lady staring back at us intruders. ‘Have I got visitors?’ she asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

  ‘Not today, Ellie. Just showing these nice men round,’ shouted the nurse.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ellie, disappointed.

  I smiled as compassionately as I could.

  ‘I’ve got me own teeth,’ ventured Ellie, as though ownership of her dentures was the deciding factor as to whether we’d stay or leave. ‘See!’ She tapped a finger on what were clearly false teeth.

  ‘Nice,’ said David.

  She beckoned him closer so that she could whisper in his ear. ‘Want to hold them? They won’t bite!’

  David declined, politely but firmly.

  The glassed-in lounge area added nothing to the appeal of the place. Residents sat on hard-backed chairs lined against every wall. Some slept, others slurped noisily on drinks. Four floral sofas faced each other across a coffee table in the centre of the room. Pensioners in various stages of dress and seemingly mental competence slouched over teacups. Some smiled as we entered, some said hello, and some continued staring at the carpet.

  ‘It’s bingo in ten minutes, so they’re getting excited,’ said the nurse as she handed us steaming cups with saucers. ‘Excited’ was not the word I’d have used, but presumably she knew her residents better.

  David and I sat in silence for five minutes while we were examined by the more astute residents.

  ‘Bit young for this, aren’t you?’ said a well-dressed lady from one of the sofas.

  I laughed politely. ‘We’re checking it out for our nan. What do you reckon?’

  The lady looked around and shrugged. ‘It’s no five-star hotel, but it’s somewhere warm while you wait your turn.’

  ‘Have you no family?’ asked David.

  ‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘But they’ve got their own lives to live. I’ll make do here.’

  As I gazed out at the frosty fields on the drive home, I thought how sad it must be to have lived a full and meaningful life only to have to ‘make do’ in your final years. Or months. Or even weeks. Nan deserved to go out with a bang, not idle her days away watching the rain and being bossed about with a bunch of others that had been dispatched to God’s waiting room. I decided that after I’d flown back the next day I’d look into retirement homes in Tenerife.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Back in the warmth of Tenerife, we had become ‘nodding’ friends with Alison and Stuart over the low white wall that separated our two small squares of ocean-facing garden in the El Beril complex.

  Like many others, this friendly, fresh-faced couple had moved from the UK to Tenerife to start anew in sunnier climes, believing that the mere act of geographical relocation would provide a more thrilling life. Like those same many, they soon realised that even if the grass was greener, it still needed mowing, and nor was it entirely trouble-free: the pleasant patches were under continual siege from weeds and creepy crawlies and were also subject to periods of drought.

  Some people contend that
it’s these very antagonists that keep life interesting, that without the weeds and the biting insects you can’t appreciate the nice things in life. These are usually the same people who come out with such nonsense as ‘no pain, no gain’ and ‘hard work never did anybody any harm’. Tell that to the millions who die of stress-related diseases every year.

  Joy, my brother David and I had worked our fingers to the bone to make the Smugglers a success, and, like us, Alison and Stuart also weren’t afraid to put in the hours. Alison walked dogs, worked in a bar in Playa de las Américas and hand-crafted greetings cards which she sold on a market stall in Los Cristianos. Stuart rented out sound equipment by day and pulled pints of beer at night.

  None of these jobs were very stimulating, but Alison and Stuart put up with them in the hope that ‘something else’ would come along, the one big stroke of luck that would provide validation and significance, be it fame, infamy or an unexpected fortune. Something that would prove that life didn’t have to be a succession of struggles.

  Alison had been applying to every TV show that was relevant to her status as an expat in the sun. Finally, it seemed that one of the seeds she had planted would bear fruit. Over one early-morning nodding exchange, she enthused about a phone call she’d just received. ‘Changing Rooms have just been on,’ she shouted giddily from across the wall. ‘We’re on a shortlist for their overseas special!’

  I nodded, mid-yawn, trying to bring the ocean into focus through sleep-weary eyes. ‘Excellent. That’s… excellent.’ Joy and I had become accustomed to Alison’s cycle of moods. They spiralled from initial excitement over her latest attempt at fast fame, to despair as her dreams faded alongside a phone that refused to ring.

  Changing Rooms was a popular British TV show fronted by the ever-beaming ‘girl-next-door’ Carol Smillie. The simple format revolved around restyling one room in a house whose owner had either tired of the decor or, like Alison and Stuart, clamoured for TV attention. The homeowners would gush enthusiastically to the Changing Rooms team about what they would like to do with the room given the resources. On camera they also talked about hobbies, interests and any furnishing styles that they absolutely hated. They were then packed off for twenty-four hours while the team worked on the room. The facial expressions of the returning homeowners acted as a barometer as to whether the revamped room was a hit or a disaster. Most of the time there were tears of joy. Occasionally there would be genuine anger. Especially when the Changing Rooms team had purposefully chosen a pet hate and restyled the room accordingly just to elicit an extreme reaction.