The Trip To Spain

I never knew my dad. He left Mum and me when I was just a year old. Mum never spoke of him, and so neither did I. A mate of mine once asked me, “Don’t you miss him?” My answer was quick: “Of course not. How can you miss something you’ve never had?”

Mum brought me up the best she could, she worked all day at the Post Office and then evenings at the local supermarket. Nan would babysit me until I was old enough to look after myself. I left school at sixteen and began an apprenticeship with a local joinery company. I’d always been good at Carpentry at school, and this seemed like my best option. I did evening classes, and eventually, at the grand old age of twenty-one, I became a fully qualified joiner with a certificate to prove it. Mum was proud and so was I. We lived in a two-bedroom flat that Mum had managed to buy from the council at a reduced rate because she’d rented it for more than twenty years. She got herself a mortgage, and once I started working, I helped out as much as possible with the household bills.

Cancer took Mum eighteen months ago, and since then, I've been sorting out the paperwork. But now it’s all done. The mortgage has been paid off thanks to Mum's numerous insurance policies, and the flat is mine. And, for the first time in my life, I’ve also got a few bob in the Bank. And it’s all thanks to Mum. I’m twenty-five, and I still miss her every day. But, even though I love where I live and the work that I do, it’s time to move on. It’s time for me. I’ve never been abroad, in fact, I’ve never been further than Clacton-on-Sea. It’s time for an adventure. The internet is a wonderful thing. I've done my research and booked my flights. I’m off to Spain. How long for? I don’t know. I've closed my small workshop for a month and haven’t got any work to start for another six weeks. Mrs Brown's bespoke kitchen cabinets will just have to wait till I get back.

So, here I am at London City Airport, waiting to catch the 11.45 am flight to Malaga. I’m travelling light. Apart from the polo shirt and jeans I’m wearing, I have a small sports bag containing just tee shirts, shorts, flipflops and a small bag of toiletries. In my wallet, I’ve got two thousand euros in cash, that’s for beer and food and anything else that takes my fancy. I've booked an apartment in Benalmadena, which is between Malaga and Marbella. It was cheap, it’s March and their season doesn’t really start until June.

The flight is on time, so I board and sit next to a nice lady who immediately offers me a sherbet lemon sweet. “For take off love, for your ears.” I smile and take one. She tells me she’s going to see her grandson in Torremolinos. By the time we land just over two hours later, the bag of sweets has gone and left me with a sherbet induced stinging sensation in my mouth, but on the plus side I now know everything about her family. What her kids are called, the names of her grandchildren, where she grew up and what she did for a living before she retired. Nice lady, reminded me of my old Nan.

I take my bag from the overhead compartment and make my way to passport control. It’s quick and within a few minutes I’m outside in a queue for a taxi. The air is cool and dry, definitely tee shirt and shorts weather. The burning heat of July and August is still weeks away, I’m guessing the temperature is in the low twenties. There’s a smell that’s difficult to put into words, it’s a mixture of citrus fruits, flowers and the sea. If that’s the smell of Spain, then I’m gonna like it here. My Spanish is non-existent, so I give the taxi driver a piece of paper with just four words on it. Benalmadena Costa, Minerva Apartments. He looks and smiles. I get in, and we’re on our way. It’s three o'clock in the afternoon, and I’m expecting it to be busy, like it would be in London. But it’s not, it's quiet. We drive along the coast through Torremolinos, still quiet. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I suppose I’d always thought of Spain and especially this area as party town, everyone wearing “Kiss Me Kwik” hats and music, lots of music. But not here, not today. Fifteen minutes later, I see a huge sign above the road. “Benalmadena”. Almost there, and then the adventure begins.

The Taxi driver pulls up outside what looks like a ten-storey tower block, the sort of place that I see so often in the part of London where I live. I give him fifty euros, he looks stunned, I guess it’s too much, but who cares, I’m here. He shakes my hand and, in broken English, wishes me a pleasant stay in Spain.

The reception area surprises me, the outside of the building looks dated and tired, but inside it’s full of glass and marble, what I would call “Plush”. I give my name to a smartly dressed man at reception. He’s wearing a name tag that reads “ Carlos”, this makes me smile. Of course it is, what else would it be?  His English is perfect, he tells me my room number and that I’m on the ground floor, and then he apologises, “Sorry sir, but the swimming pool doesn’t open until April.” It’s only then that I remember I haven’t brought any trunks with me. I smile. “No problem, Carlos.”

My room is a nice-sized studio. Small kitchen area, separate bathroom and toilet, then one large room with double bed, table with two chairs, settee and a nice big TV on the wall and a massive wardrobe. My few bits of clothing will get lost in there.

I quickly change into my shorts, tee shirt and flipflops and put a few hundred euros in my pocket. The rest of the money I put into a small safe that’s in the wardrobe. I'm good to go. I've taken a chance coming here. It could go two ways, either way is okay for me. But it’s time.

I walk across the road to a typical English bar. Tables and chairs outside, lots of TV screens inside to show the various sports that the punters love to watch. There’s a screen outside, and it's showing last night's Champions League game, Real Madrid against Manchester United. I sit down and look at the menu. A stocky, bald-headed man in his fifties approaches my table. “Sorry mate, no food until 5 o'clock. I can do you a cheese and ham toastie if you want?” I look up at him and smile. “No, thanks mate just a beer. San Miguel?” He smiles back. “Coming up, bottle or pint?”  I think for a moment. “Give me two bottles and a pint glass.” He nods his big bald head in approval. “Good choice. The bottled beer is way better than the draught.”

He walks away, and I look at the sign above the bar. “Lenny’s”

Just a few seconds later, he’s back. “There you go mate, two bottles and a pint glass. Enjoy. You just got here? Staying long?”

I pour the first bottle into the glass.

“Depends on how things turn out.”

He frowns.

“That sounds ominous. I’ll leave you and your beer alone, just let me know when you need a refill.”

He turns and walks away. Just as he does, I call out.

“Okay Lenny, or should I call you Dad?”

My words stop him dead in his tracks, it’s a few seconds before he turns round. When he does, he just looks at me and grins.

I recognise that smile, I recognise those eyes. Those are mine in a few years' time. He comes close and sits down opposite me.

“I always knew this day would come. I just didn’t know when. Hello son.”

He thrusts out his hand for me to shake. For a moment, I’m not sure whether to shake it or punch him in the face. I shake his hand and find myself saying, “Hello, Dad.”

I know what the next question will be, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“How? How did you know where I was?”

I reach into my back pocket and pull out a postcard.

“I found this.”

I hand him the postcard. On the front is a picture of a bar called Lennys. On the back is a hand-written message. It’s short and to the point. “Sorry, hope the boys okay. I miss you. Love Lenny.”

He looks at it and laughs.

“Bloody hell, that was twelve years ago. I had a load of cards done to promote the bar. I got pissed one night and decided to send one to your mum. I never heard back from her, how is she?”

I take back the postcard.

“She passed away last year, Cancer.”

His face changes. He’s visibly upset. It’s an honest face, genuine.

“I’m so sorry, son. She was a good woman, your mum. Too good for me, that’s for sure.”

I don’t say it, but I agree. She was too good for him. I need answers, so I just come out and ask the questions.

“So, what happened? Why did you leave? Why did you never get in touch? Just a fucking postcard after fifteen years?”

The questions don’t phase him. He just answers them in a matter-of-fact way.

“I was a rascal son. Everyone knows that. Me and a couple of mates did a bank in Lewisham, it was messy, didn’t go according to plan. But we got away. After a couple of weeks, the other two were captured and I knew it was just a matter of time before they came for me. I’d be looking at a ten stretch at least. I had two options, stay and go to prison or have it on my toes and come here to Spain. I chose the easy option. I grabbed my passport, gave you and mum a kiss and left. After a year or so two bent coppers found me working in a club in Marbella. They wanted five grand each and said they'd return to England and say they couldn’t find me. I borrowed the money from my boss and paid them. The deal was, if I stayed away, they’d leave me alone, but if I ever came back to blighty, they’d arrest me and throw away the key. So, I stayed here.

I let it sink in before I reply.

“And Mum?, Why didn’t you keep in touch?”

His bottom lip quivers and his eyes begin to water.

“I did! Of course I did. I called her as soon as I got to Spain. In fact, I called her every few days when I first arrived. I told her to wait until things had settled down and then you and her should come out here. But she wouldn’t have it. You know your mum. No way was she going to leave her family in London. She told me in no uncertain terms to stay where I was and not come back. It would be best for everyone if we just moved on. Thinking about it now, she was right. She’d have never coped here.”

As much as I want to argue with him, he’s right. Mum hated the sun, her skin was as white as milk, and even five minutes walking in the sunshine made her skin burn plus she’d never have left Nan on her own.

There’s an awkward silence and then he gets up and walks to the bar, he returns with two more beers. He places one in front of me and raises the other one up for me to chink it. I do. He looks at me.

“New beginnings?”

I’m still not sure. But what can I do. He’s my dad and I now understand why he’s done what he’s done. I take a swig of beer and shrug my shoulders.

“So, what happens now?”

He looks pleased.

“How long you here for?”

“A month, maybe six weeks?”

“Brilliant, we’ve got time to get to know each other. Where you staying?”

I point over to the apartment block. He shakes his head.

“Fuck that, I’ve got a villa up in the hills. You’re staying with me. Okay?”

I suddenly discover two words that I’ve never known before and find myself saying them.

“Thanks Dad.”