The Gran Tour

by Ben Aitken

  He brushes up well, does Graham. That’s Jill’s opinion, which she shares with me as he’s getting his pudding.

  ‘He certainly dresses better than I do, Jill.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind his trainers.’

  ‘They’re Skechers.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Shame about his cough. He used to be a bingo caller, you know?’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘He couldn’t do that anymore. Do you think he’s a Pisces?’

  Graham returns and says he’s got a book I might like; says he’ll run up and get it and meet me downstairs in the bar. Jill says she’ll see Graham in the morning then because she’s going out on the town with Sharon.

  ‘Wish us luck,’ she says.

  ‘I wish the blooming town luck,’ says Graham.

  I watch him waiting for the lift. In his Skechers. In his nice clothes. Coughing into his clenched fist. If the bloke’s got a bad bone in his body, then I can’t pick it. That’s a nice impression to have made on someone, I think.

  35 ‘Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known / The name for Japanese anemones, / So pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone / Of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees / Without my seeing them. I count the bees.’

  21

  If you want to know the secret to a long, happy marriage, it’s 1) stay alive and 2) have separate bedtimes

  I take the book Graham lent me down to breakfast. It contains the paintings of George Cunningham, who was (I hope) unusual in his refusal to show anyone his paintings nor look at the paintings of anyone else, lest their judgement (in the former case) or excellence (in the latter) proved a deterrent. George’s lack of confidence had a significant root: an art teacher who told him as a young man that he couldn’t paint for toffee and would amount to nothing. After hearing these words, Cunningham didn’t paint again until he was laid off at the age of 50. If only for his painting Cemetery Road, I’m glad that George got the chop and was compelled to repurpose. The depicted road is lively despite its name. It shows people and animals and trams and vans in a colourful, ordinary commotion. It also shows a pub, The Royal Oak. The landlord’s in the doorway, smoking a fag. I could be wrong – it’s not the biggest reproduction, and nor is it as sharp as it could be (the book was published some years ago) – but I think the landlord’s wearing Skechers. The book says George was a man who could see beauty in a quartet playing dominoes in a pub. He could see it in many other things besides.

  When I board the coach for today’s excursion, Mr Prunes says: ‘We’ve had a meeting and have decided that if you’re ever late again, we’re going to have a quick vote as to whether to leave you or not and I don’t fancy your chances.’ Jill has moved, so I’ve got two seats to myself. Perhaps it’s a preemptive strike. Perhaps she’s heard I’m flying home and has called time on our travelling partnership before I could. Or maybe she just finds me boring compared to the others. Oh, hang on. Who’s this? It’s the old bra-flinger herself. Jill hasn’t moved. She’s merely late. ‘Sorry,’ she says to the coach, ‘I was stockpiling.’ She plonks herself down next to me. She looks nice in her floral dress and lemon headband. ‘I got you a kiwi,’ she whispers, and I think: fine, just don’t tell me where you’re storing it.

  We drive to the town of Como for the outdoor market. The market runs alongside the old city wall. I stroll between the stalls with Graham and Sidney. It’s good to finally get up close to the latter, since I’ve heard a lot about him. I’ve heard that he drinks ten litres of lemonade a day and sleeps half an hour a night and single-handedly built Somerset. He’s certainly dressed for action. He’s wearing a fanny pack over the shoulder, cycling shorts, a handlebar moustache and aviator sunglasses. Purposeful attire indeed.

  Sidney’s purpose isn’t to shop, and nor is Graham’s. They do a couple of lengths for the hell of it, and demonstrate a polite amount of interest in the socks and handbags, but they’re not shoppers at heart, and they’ve both already got more souvenirs than they know what to do with. When the chance arises, I’m not surprised that they sit down at a café for some refreshment. ‘Ooh, that’s more like it,’ says Graham. ‘We’ll do our shopping from here,’ says Sidney. A lady comes to take our order. She says ciao to the three of us. Sidney says, ‘No, no – not tea thanks, love. Three cappuccinos if you would.’

  Stirring sugar into his coffee, Sidney says he lost his wife a year ago, and that this is the first holiday he’s taken alone for 60 years. Still stirring sugar into his coffee, he says his wife would have loved this market. She used to love buying all sorts of crap they didn’t need. She bought a carpet in India that cost a thousand pounds to get home. They already had carpet in every room, so Sidney had to lay it in the car. She brought back about five kilos of the Berlin Wall, which Sidney ended up making a rock garden of. And jewellery. Oh, she couldn’t get enough of the stuff. If she had one issue with God, it was that he didn’t give her enough ears. And clothes. Sidney’s got 300 T-shirts and 90 pairs of jeans, which is a lot for someone who lives in a bungalow. When Sidney dies, it’s going to be the biggest endowment to a charity shop in the history of man. But she was a good girl, the best. She looked after Sidney all his life, and then he returned the favour for the last bit of hers. Not a fair exchange when he thinks about it, which he often does these days. He’s got a cleaner who comes twice a week now. Sidney felt bad taking her on, like he was betraying his wife, but then he reasoned that his wife would rather another woman was going round with the vacuum than have Sidney live in squalor. I suggest that another option was Sidney doing the cleaning himself, but he reckons that was out of the question, that he simply doesn’t have the time, that he’s got too much on his plate to worry about what’s on the floor. He’s down the town hall a lot – that’s the thing. Might as well pay council tax he’s there so often. They do bingo on Mondays, coffee morning on Tuesday afternoons (don’t ask), a variety show on Thursdays, and bridge with a fish supper on Fridays. And at the weekend, Sid takes the ‘oldens’ out. One time, he took a load of ‘oldens’ to the IMAX cinema, but they could have been in Tesco for all they knew. No, he shouldn’t be so dismissive. Some of them really liked it, you could tell, and maybe the others were just pretending not to give a shit. Yeah, that’s a better way to look at it, thinks Sidney.

  You’d be tempted to think Sidney was one of a kind, but he insists that most of his siblings are practically carboncopies of him. When Sidney says he’s one of fourteen, Graham asks, ‘One of fourteen what?’ Sidney’s oldest brother would have been 100 and something by now. He died on the golf course, picking his ball out of the hole. He’d just got a double bogey, the poor sod. Sidney’s mum had 74 grandchildren and over a hundred great-grandchildren. Sounds like Sidney’s family don’t mind an early night, and it sounds like their fondness has rubbed off on Sidney, who says that babies are what it’s all about, that babies are the future, that I should have as many of the buggers as I can manage, because having none or just one is just wrong if you can help it, just plain daft. I say to Sidney that it can’t be all doughnuts and discos having lots of kids though, that there must be some drawbacks, some challenges. Sidney concedes that at the start it will hit you for six (especially if you’ve had eight), and that even now it can be a juggling act fitting in his dependents between the bingo and the bridge and his daily routines, but dependents are good for you, they keep you honest, keep you on your toes, keep you in touch, keep you needed, and if they don’t do any of that, it means they don’t love yer, and if they don’t love yer, it means you probably didn’t love them. Sidney finishes his coffee and asks the lady if he can have a cup of the ciao now please, then says he’d live to 300 given the option, and wants 120 years minimum. He says every day is precious and yet to look at some people – him over there, for example – you’d think the whole thing was a chore.

  ‘Yeah, but some people have reasons to be uncheerful, Sidney,’ I say.

  �
��Like what?’

  ‘Ill health. Stress.’

  ‘Rubbish. As far as I’m concerned, the only reason to be uncheerful is if you’re dead.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. It is. I did a bungee jump off Clifton Suspension Bridge when I was 74 and had one hip. I learnt how to water-ski during chemotherapy. I was in the nightclubs until I was 65. I used to get the grandchildren to say I was their older brother. Then when I tried to use my bus pass as ID one night, they stopped letting me in. They thought I had uncommon interests.’

  It’s fair to say that Sidney keeps busy. And it’s fair to say that he’s not shy about the fact. He gets up at 5am every morning – (and no he doesn’t bang his head to set an alarm) – and does an eleven-mile walk up to his mate’s farm for some milk straight from the cow. Then after lunch each day, he’ll do some star jumps and some squats in the front garden so everyone can see. Then in the evenings, he’ll exercise his brain by going to visit some of the grandchildren and trying to figure out what it is they see in some of the crap they watch on telly. He doesn’t mind admitting that most of his grandchildren make him scratch his head. And not just the grandchildren, the children as well. Take his son for example. He sent a wedding list through the other day. Now what’s that all about? When Sidney got married, they were lucky to get a set of tea towels. Now here’s his son asking for a fridge-freezer, a coffee machine and a trip to flipping Mexico. He thinks he’s on the sodding Generation Game! They’ve got it too easy, that’s the problem. Their appetite’s all wrong. And they’ll never learn, no matter how much Sidney tries to teach them. They’re like a cult. They’re brainwashed. Case in point: Sidney was walking to the shops with his grandson and his grandson walked straight into a lamppost. And they’ve too many options these days, that’s another thing. Sid didn’t know what a biscuit was until the late 90s, and now they’ve a billion to choose from. But you’ve gotta love ’em, says Sid. You’ve gotta love ’em.

  Sidney goes in to pay for the coffees and his tea. When he gets back, he doesn’t wait for us to thank him before telling us not to worry about it. ‘After all,’ he says, ‘you can’t take it with you. In Switzerland my salad was €44 and the others looked at me like I was crazy and I said, “Yeah? What? I’m on holiday!” Besides, my bungalow’s worth 300 grand and I bought it for sixteen quid.’

  Walking back to the coach, Sidney slows down a touch, even stops for a while to rest against a tree. He says he’s probably due a lemonade, and that the ciao can sometimes go to his head. He says his wife loved her tea. He says she was discharged from hospital so she could die at home but didn’t tell a soul, only mentioned it once she was in bed with a cup of tea. ‘I think I’m going to say goodbye now, Sid.’ That’s what she said. Sid says it’s funny, really, because this week’s been harder than he thought, not least because pasta was her favourite food, and red her favourite colour. He wonders if I’ve noticed how much pasta there is in Italy, and how many red flowers. He says they’re all over the place. There are even some plastic ones on his bedside table.

  ‘How long were you together?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re still together.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t—’

  ‘Fifty-nine years.’

  ‘So a long time.’

  ‘Yeah, a long time. And if you want to know the secret to a long, happy marriage, it’s 1) stay alive and 2) have separate bedtimes. She’d go out somewhere and say, “Right, see you later, Sid!” and I’d go out and say, “Right, see you later, love!” She was always out that woman. We both were. But I’ll tell you what. When she got in, I didn’t half love her, and when I got in she didn’t half love me.’

  We start walking again. We’re definitely going to be late. They’d vote to leave me but would they vote to leave Sidney? Come to think of it, they probably would. I ask if Sid would consider loving again.

  ‘Another woman you mean?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘I wouldn’t risk it. What if she were boring and did microwave dinners?’

  I’m later for dinner than normal. Vinny and Rita and Graham are just finishing up. I enjoy a bowl of soup in their company. Graham and I brace ourselves when Vinny knocks red wine over Rita, but she’s not bothered and nor is Vinny. ‘I often do it,’ says Vinny, by way of an explanation. I tell Graham I liked that book he gave me, and the pictures in it, and the fact that Cunningham got there in the end and saw beauty in unlikely corners and so on, but he’s not interested in art this evening, he wants to talk about old football injuries with Vinny. The pair are currently remembering a particularly tough centre-forward who played for Port Vale. They’re in agreement that if you came off the same pitch as him with all your teeth, then you’d had a good game.

  ‘Jill says you’re flying home,’ says Rita.

  ‘He’s never,’ says Graham. ‘Are yer?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … I struggled on the way here.’

  ‘How struggled?’

  ‘With … all of it.’

  ‘If you struggled with that I shouldn’t mind knowing what you find unbearable. I expect you think that ravioli’s unbearable. I expect you’re going to struggle with your ice cream, will yer?’

  ‘Leave off him, Graham,’ says Rita.

  ‘I’m only messing, but I’m not. Bloody jellyfish his generation. They’re nice and all that, I’m not saying they’re not, but they’re about as tough as – I’ve seen more backbone in a Jacob’s cracker. And what’s Jill going to think?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well it’s a bit offensive, int it?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘How can it not be personal? You sit next to the woman. She’ll think she’s done something wrong.’

  ‘No she won’t.’

  ‘She will. She’s a sensitive woman. She told me as much this—’

  Graham stops talking abruptly. He does so, I think, because he’s just realised that one consequence of my jellyfishiness is that there’ll be an empty seat next to Jill, for 27 hours, overnight, which is just the opening he’s been—

  ‘Nah, fair play to yer,’ says Graham. ‘The lad’s got to do what he’s got to do. That’s one thing that’s good about his generation – they know their limits, they look after themselves. Fair play to yer. When yer flying then?’

  ‘Friday morning.’

  ‘Good lad. Smart that is. Got to hand it to him – looks after himself. My granddaughter’s the same. She’s into self-preservation. Always reading books about it. That’s why she’s a vegan.’

  Graham raises his glass to me, wishes me a safe journey, and before he can offer to help me pack, I go up for my pudding.

  22

  And then some paramedics arrive

  I return Graham’s book at breakfast. He says it’s a good job I remembered because it’s not his. One of the blokes at the hospital where Graham’s a volunteer gave it to him.

  ‘What do you volunteer for?’

  ‘Because I enjoy it.’

  ‘No I mean, what do they do to you?’

  ‘Nothing. We just sit and have a chat.’

  ‘Wait, what – with the patients?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah, okay. I’m with you.’

  ‘You thought I was going in to chat with the doctors?’

  ‘No, I thought you were volunteering to be tested on and used as – never mind. That’s good. They must like that. Do they like that?’

  ‘Some more than others, I’m sure. Because most of ’em are younger than me, they probably reckon I’m rubbing their noses in it. One bloke who I sat next to and offered a biscuit to told me to eff off. Just like that. I said fair enough but I’m ’avin your biscuit you miserable git. Are you going to Milan?’

  ‘Milan?’

  ‘A few of them have just left.’

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Jill and Sidney and that lot.’
/>   ‘I expect Sid’s walking, is he?’

  ‘He’s going to propel them with the sound of his own voice. I could have murdered him last night.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He just wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘What did he want you to do?’

  ‘Slow dance with him.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘To Whitney Houston.’

  ‘Ooh.’

  ‘Anyway, if you nip out, you might catch them. They’re at the bus stop. Here, take this with you.’

  I take the orange with me, but it’s no good, I’ve missed the bus. I have no way of contacting any of them, so there’s no point pursuing. Instead, I get the ferry across to Bellagio, which is the small town at the tip of the peninsula that makes Lake Como do the splits. Sharon the social worker’s had the same idea. I spot her as we’re getting off the ferry. We join forces and go for a stroll. This isn’t exactly original on our part – there’s not much else to do; Bellagio’s no booming metropolis. But it’s certainly a good-looking place. You’ve got the lake on both sides, and the pink and yellow and orange buildings, and the cobbled staircases that run from one side of the peninsula to the other. We climb one of these staircases now – Salita Serbelloni – which is narrow and medieval and lined with bakeries and shoe shops. When we linger at the top to enjoy the view, I tell Sharon that I had a good old chat with Sidney yesterday, which was great, because he’s great, but that one of its consequences was that I felt a bit reflective and despondent, because sometimes spending time with people who are jubilant and gung-ho and exceptional can make you feel a bit crap by comparison. Sharon agrees that Sidney’s certainly a character, and has many virtues, but she also says that people who are the life and soul of the party are often fighting some very private battles. Through her work, Sharon’s seen a fair few people whose outward and inward selves are like chalk and cheese, so I should bear that in mind before I start drinking lemonade and doing star-jumps and breeding like a rabbit, believing the outcome will be unmitigated enthusiasm and gratitude à la Sidney. I tell Sharon she should be a social worker.