The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  Enough fantasising. I tell you the Italians knew this way before anyone else and every mouthful of this sensational dish makes me want to break out into groans of delight. I restrain myself but the unadulterated joy must show on my face.

  ‘It looks as if you’re enjoying that. Do you cook?’ asks Ed.

  Coitus interruptus.

  ‘No – in fact it’s a running joke in my family. Let me show you something.’

  I get out my phone and show him the pictures of the bake-off rehearsal.

  ‘What is it?’ A perfectly understandable question.

  ‘They’re cakes,’ I declare pointing out the baked goods amongst the rest of the paraphernalia.

  ‘My daughter is entering the Great Bake-Off competition so we were having a run-through.’

  I explain the competition and the idea behind my creations. His glazed expression suggests that he’s either deeply interested, deep in thought or deeply bored.

  ‘Anyway, enough of my culinary disasters, shall we share the tiramisu?’ I ask.

  ‘A woman who offers out her dessert; what parallel universe have I been transported to?’

  ‘Don’t worry it’ll only happen this once. The sharing that is, not the date.’

  Damn. I’ve called it a date.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he smiles, and picks up the second spoon.

  Artistic Differences

  If I were a cartoon character, I’d be walking along the street with little cherubs fluttering around my head. Now that I think about it, how did they ever come to represent love? What on earth is romantic about fat children armed with bows and arrows? Nowadays, they’d be slapped with an ASBO and if you saw them in a family pub, you’d run a mile.

  Anyway, enough with reality; I think I might be the tiniest bit smitten. After dinner we had a quick drink and then he walked me home. Not all the way home – I didn’t want that awkward ‘Do I invite him in or not? ’ scenario – but to the end of the street where we progressed to a ‘more than friends’ kiss. It didn’t feel too awkward so I’m starting to imagine that falling in love at fifty might be just like falling in love at any age. Not that I’m falling in love, of course; I’m just very happy.

  Patty is not.

  ‘Bo, can you come round tonight and give us your objective opinion?’ she pleads.

  She rarely wants my opinion, so I know what she’s actually asking is for me to tell the rest of the Granny-Okes that she is right and they are wrong.

  They are having costume and set list disagreements ahead of the cruise gig. I’m curious about it so agree to arbitrate. Patty and the girls are struggling with the transition from small-time club singers to big-time stadium fillers, or at least you’d think they were with the angst that fills the room.

  Kath and Sheila think things are good as they are; everyone enjoyed the last gig and that’s the performance Craig hired them for.

  All good points I think as I turn my head to Patty; this is like being the umpire at a tennis match. So far Patty is fifteen-love down.

  ‘But every act has to progress,’ she counters, ‘otherwise people will get bored and stop coming to see them.’

  Fifteen-all.

  ‘On this cruise we can’t just dress up like these people. Adam Ant might actually be there,’ she adds.

  Thirty-fifteen.

  ‘That makes it even funnier,’ says Kath. ‘He could chase us off the stage or something.’

  Thirty-all.

  ‘These artists aren’t props on a Granny-Oke gig,’ says Patty. ‘They take their music seriously and we have to if we want this to last.’

  Forty-thirty.

  ‘Let’s build an identity of our own,’ urges Patty, ‘keep some of the things that work, like the Zimmer frames, but have a look that makes other people want to dress up like us.

  ‘No one wants to be the starter act on these tours,’ she continues, ‘but we don’t mind. We could be travelling the world if we want to. Come on let’s go for this, please.’

  I’m impressed and when I look back over at Sheila and Kath, they are too. The nodding heads tell me that this rally is over.

  Game, set and match to Patty.

  Grâce à Dieu

  I’m sick to death of weathermen and their cheery smiles; everything is wonderful thanks to the glorious sunshine. Sales are up as everyone buys new clothes and barbecues, crime is down (because it’s too hot to burgle someone? I couldn’t make sense of that one either) and farmers are happy because the crops are abundant this year. It seems as if everyone is doing well from this apart from the poor old travel agent. Give it another week of heat and the whingeing will start; drought across the land, hosepipe bans and fights breaking out on the tube because everyone’s blood has hit boiling point.

  The cruise is sold out, so I can’t flog that any more. I need to fill spaces on the other events, in particular the trip to Monaco, which is rapidly approaching our ‘lose your deposit’ deadline. How on earth am I going to persuade people to leave this heat and sit somewhere hotter? I look up the temperature out of interest; typical, it’s actually colder on the south coast of France than it is here.

  That’s it, the brain has waved. We sell this trip as an escape from the heat.

  ‘You’re gonna sell a holiday by telling people it’ll be cold when they get there?’ Josie is looking at me as if I’m mad.

  ‘Not like that, but picture this,’ I say. ‘Cooling sea breezes, chilled wine on the terraces watching the sun go down, castle visits during the heat of the day and air-conditioned bedrooms for a wonderful night’s sleep.’

  ‘I’d go for the air conditioning,’ chimes in Charlie. ‘I’m not sleeping a wink in this.’

  ‘It’s got to be worth trying, hasn’t it?’ I ask.

  I don’t have any other ideas at the moment but more than that, it’s not the worst I’ve had.

  ‘Let’s give it all we’ve got,’ Charlie agrees.

  ‘I’ll download some pictures: chilled wine, harbour walks, that kind of thing,’ Josie fires up.

  ‘Make sure it looks as if there’s a gentle breeze blowing and try to find something that might say “refreshing night’s sleep”,’ Charlie gets it.

  All afternoon Josie emails, tweets and Facebooks mouth-watering images of exactly what you want to see in a heatwave.

  I get on the phone to some of our loyal customers.

  ‘Hi there, how are you enjoying this heat? I know a killer, isn’t it? I was just saying to Charlie that it’s actually cooler in the south of France – honestly...’

  I should get a BAFTA, never mind an Entrepreneur’s Award, as I deliver that line at least thirty times this afternoon and with the same amount of enthusiasm each call. Charlie collars everyone who walks into the store with the same line and by the end of the day we have a few definite bookings and even more promises to talk it over with the other half. As Charlie expected, the clincher turns out to be the air-conditioned bedrooms with someone to bring you chilled orange juice and fruit salad in the morning. We add these to Josie’s social media posts then agree to stay open later so that people can pop in or call us when they’ve finished work or had the conversation.

  We get some fresh orange juice in and invite people to have a chilled glass while they’re booking. We really couldn’t be trying any harder, so if there is a God in heaven, surely he will look down on these efforts and save our asses. I don’t think he’s busy with much else at the moment.

  We get past our minimum sales number and close up. I walk home watching British café culture play out in the suburbs. I contemplate our complete lack of glamour compared to the vision I’ve just been selling; I wouldn’t mind going to the south of France myself.

  Here Lies Patty

  Patty’s complete level of focus on the upcoming cruise surprised me somewhat, so I thought I’d go and quiz her about it. She tells me to come round after her military fitness class in the park. I didn’t think she even knew the word fitness but the fact that there’s a suggesti
on of a burly bloke makes me believe that there may be another incentive for this sudden interest in exercise.

  ‘No, I want to get fit,’ she tells me as she pours us both a glass of mineral water – that’s right, water. ‘I can’t perform every night if I’m not.’

  ‘You’re taking this very seriously all of a sudden,’ I say.

  ‘It floats my boat, if you’ll pardon the pun,’ she starts to explain.

  ‘When Nige died, I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I had a go at everything and I accepted everyone’s invitations. People kept saying “You should do this” or “Come with us – you’ll love it”, so I did but I never found anything that I liked. Do you know what I mean?’

  I nod; I know exactly what she means.

  ‘But it’s not as if I’m getting any younger,’ she continues. ‘The other day, I was perusing the lonely hearts as usual and I ended up reading the obituaries too.’

  ‘You won’t find much action there,’ I say.

  ‘And I thought, “What will they say about me?” Here lies Patty...wife? Not any more. Mother? Nope. It’d just be Here lies Patty. Not much to show for a life.’

  Mine wouldn’t say much more I think to myself.

  ‘I’d tell everyone about the brilliant fun we had at the airline,’ I say, ‘if I outlive you, of course.’

  ‘But that’s the problem,’ sighs Patty. ‘I don’t want the stories about me to be forty years old. I want brilliant fun now. It’s taken me four years to accept that I am allowed a life of my own and I’m ready to live it,’ she says.

  ‘After all, everyone knows I was positively born to perform.’ She smiles and the Patty I know and love is back in the room.

  ‘If Craig is right and we could travel the world on this at least for a year or two, it has to be worth a go, doesn’t it?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ I say, ‘but you’re right, you have to try it.’

  I fall quiet and she gives me a hug.

  ‘Oh you’ll be OK, Miss Travel Expert and Knight Rider Pillion. Do you think you’ll ride him, sorry with him, for a while?’ she asks.

  ‘Subtle,’ I reply. ‘Nothing’s happened if that’s what you’re asking, but I like him and he’s one of the few uncomplicated things in my life at the moment, so as you say, why not?’

  We clink our water glasses but don’t bother drinking; if they’d been filled with wine, we’d have been on a refill by now.

  * * *

  The complications in my life return with a call from Alan.

  ‘Have you heard from the estate agent?’ he says. ‘There’s a delay in the sale, they’ve found damp or something in the survey.’

  ‘We didn’t have damp,’ I tell him.

  ‘I know that, it’ll be a bloody tactic to reduce the price. Well I’m not having it; we should tell them they can’t have the house for messing us about like this.’

  My imagination runs wild and I wonder if Alan is trying to delay the sale, maybe even prevent it. After all, he needn’t have called me personally about this. Play it cool, I tell myself.

  ‘Can we sleep on it?’ I ask. ‘Wait to hear from them properly? I could do with the cash right now for the business.’

  As soon as those words are out of my mouth I regret them, anticipating some, ‘I told you so, biting off more than you could chew’ type comments. Instead, he’s quite gentle.

  ‘Cash flow is a killer, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I was wondering how you were getting on. It’s always tough to start.’

  He starts reminiscing about the early days of his business when we used to work out of the dining room but pretend we were in his offices to anyone who called; they were good times.

  I feel as if I’ve had a little hug from him and I find myself wondering if I ever got the choice, which would I pick?

  Old flame or new flicker?

  Mum and Dad

  If it’s true that ultimately we all end up like our parents, I hope I end up like my dad. To the outside world he is the archetypal hen-pecked husband but behind that mild-mannered exterior there is a man who knows exactly how to manoeuvre my cake-snaffling mother. If he were in a political thriller, he’d be the Svengali who ensures the right people get to power. The Caravan Club is a case in point. They don’t actually own a caravan.

  They did own a motorhome for many years and we used to join them for lots of great family holidays while Zoe was growing up. When she reached the age where she preferred Barcelona to Bognor, they joined a club and began touring the UK with other abandoned grandparents. On one trip, they were pitched up in the grounds of a magnificent country house hotel and the weather was just appalling. Mum complained that she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with the rain battering down on the metal roof and while she was nattering with one of the other motorhomers, Dad, stealth-like, went off to ask about a room in the hotel. As everyone else got ready to leave the bar and trudge back through the mud to their vehicles, Dad revealed that they’d be staying indoors. Mum was delighted; I can just imagine the gloating: ‘Oh he spoils me. I’d much rather be in the motorhome but I can’t say no now, can I?’

  Mum would never let him sell the motorhome as she enjoyed the trips out and meeting the other club members. However, over the course of the next couple of years, Dad pulled his hotel room trick a few times. Then he sold the big motorhome for a smaller version – which Mum thought was too cramped, so this led to even more nights in a hotel – and eventually Dad sold that one and bought an old Jaguar, which was ultimately what he wanted anyway. They’re still members because Dad runs the weekly quiz team; Mum keeps telling people that they still love caravanning and ‘when it’s warm enough’ they’ll stop using the hotels.

  Of course it’s never warm enough unless it’s too warm, but this is equally uncomfortable in a motorhome. Over the years, many of the other husbands have persuaded their wives down the same route so effectively it’s now a caravan group that swapped its vans for classic cars. They all have a preference for life’s luxuries and that’s why it’s worth my while being here tonight.

  Mum has been desperate for me to do this talk. ‘Now that you’ve been in the paper, people keep asking about you,’ she tells me.

  The local rag is international stardom in my mother’s eyes. So I deliver my well-practised performance and have an anecdote for everyone I’m introduced to. I’m so happy to have done something for them.

  I didn’t want to come here first, I wanted to come along as a successful entrepreneur not one struggling to make ends meet and begging for business, but they don’t know that yet. Mum holds court amidst the women who are telling her she ‘must be very proud’, while Dad does his Svengali bit and introduces me to the people who might make the bookings.

  ‘I love the sound of New York,’ one of the members tells me, ‘but is there anything else interesting before then?’

  I hadn’t expected to be asked and stutter a bit before offering, ‘There might be some extra availability on our Monaco trip.’

  ‘Monaco,’ my Mum has overheard. ‘Oh how wonderful, royalty, yachts...’

  ‘Casinos,’ adds someone else.

  ‘The Grand Prix Circuit,’ adds another.

  I could kick myself; why didn’t I think? They’re classic car enthusiasts for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Do you think you might have availability for us?’ asks Dad seizing the moment.

  ‘I’ll check as soon as I get back, but I’ll need you all to confirm immediately.’

  They all promise to do so and I know that with these bookings, we’re going to break even now, perhaps even make a tiny profit. The relief must show on my face.

  ‘If you ever need a little bit of help in these first few months, you can come to us, you know that don’t you?’ Dad has his arm round me as I leave the meeting.

  ‘I know that Dad, but some things you need to do yourself,’ I say.

  He nods and kisses me on the forehead. ‘The women in this family, you’re all stubborn to the core.’


  With the Caravan Club bookings on top of our concerted efforts in the store, I don’t have to go to make up the numbers, but I fancied this one from the start and in my magic wand list, I said that I wanted my new career to be fun. So I book myself on to the Monaco trip too.

  Should I invite Ed? I imagine strolling arm in arm along the promenade each evening; we’d be wearing delicate chiffon (me) and crisp linen (him). As much as I’d love some company, it seems a bit presumptuous to ask a man to the south of France – especially as I’d be asking him to buy himself a ticket and sleep in a room on his own. So now I visualise myself, still in chiffon, strolling on my own but not alone; I gaze wistfully over the Mediterranean and read Ed’s text over again:

  MISSING YOU, HURRY BACK X.

  BEEP-BEEP

  A real text drags me from the dream; and it actually is from Ed – spooky.

  LOOKS LIKE A LOVELY NIGHT, FANCY TRIP TO THE COAST AND CHIPS ON PROM?

  I don’t think I’ll wear chiffon for this one.

  * * *

  Living in Manchester, I miss the coast, but if you make the effort, it’s less than an hour away. We’ve come to Crosby to see Antony Gormley’s Another Place, hundreds of bronze figures that line the beach. They stare out to sea and seem to be walking out, looking out for distant lands. I love this installation and always imagine that one day, they’ll run free. We leave them to it and head for a fish and chip shop.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me to this exclusive restaurant,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure, thank you for paying for this wonderful meal.’ Ed scrunches up his chip wrapper and lobs it into the bin first shot; he’s disproportionately pleased with this.

  ‘Well you paid for the last one so it seems only fair. Anyway, I’m celebrating tonight. Our Monaco trip is sold out thanks to my parents and their Caravan Club.’

  ‘I’ll have to get my lot booking something before you’ve sold everything,’ he says.