Danni had seen me coming and was already selecting the model of bike I preferred from the rows of cycles lined-up neatly outside his shop. I always went for the sturdy model with a large basket strapped to the front where you could store your bits and pieces. Danni and his Dutch wife had run this bike-hire shop, tucked away a few blocks from the beach, for as long as I could remember.
While I waited for the saddle height to be adjusted I reflected how tough this business must be for them, especially out of season. They opened from eight in the morning till eight at night, seven days a week, and at nine euros a day hire-fee there could not be much of a living out of it. But there were plenty of bicycle-hire shops in Mallorca and the competition was fierce.
The saddle height was perfect, and having paid my euros I peddled away towards the seafront. I planned to do my usual run into Palma, which was a nice easy ride with hardly an incline for the whole ten kilometres. Being long time retired from a job sitting at a computer all day and now in my mid-sixties I was not looking for anything too strenuous while on holiday. An easy ride like this, a coastal walk, or a set of tennis was about it now.
I slipped into the cycle lane that skirted the coast road and headed south. The riding here was wonderfully safe with dedicated bike lanes and was now the only place I felt comfortable to engage in this type of sport. I had a bike back home in London, but it had been collecting cobwebs in the garden shed for many years. After some near accidents I had come to the conclusion that I was too old for cycling on the London streets and that it was a long way from being conducive to my wellbeing.
I stopped about a mile along the track to don a hat and apply some sun cream. It was only March but it promised to be a fine warm day. I soon left the sprawling resort of Can Pastilla and weaved my way round the old quarry works and headed towards the small town of Molinar. The faster riders coming from behind would ring their bell to let you know of their approach but most cyclists on this route were holidaymakers like myself, peddling along at a nice sedate pace.
After the quarry I passed some derelict hermit cottages on the beach, their roofs long since gone and the ruins now home to a multitude of noisy sea birds. The cycle paths only slight incline opened out to a little headland with views across the Bay of Palma. Here the local municipality had, for some reasons best known to themselves, erected a rather odd modern art folly of polished steel and wooden poles that sprouted from the ground at crazy angles.
Soon I arrived at the quiet little town of Molinar and the Café Plaza, my usual half-way stop for a coffee. I found a railing near the outside chairs and tables where I could chain my bike and keep an eye on it. It was easy to find a nice table with some shade as business for the café looked pretty slow, the holiday season, such as it was for this small resort was not yet underway.
A young waitress greeted me with a friendly smile. I braced myself for an attempt at the language, which always gave me a little satisfaction for at least having a try. ‘Un café con leche e un botella agua pequeno, thank you,’ I uttered sheepishly. She gave me a sweet, understanding nod-of-the head at my attempt at Spanish. Timidly, I always said ‘thank you’ rather than ‘por favor’ to confirm that I was English and would be totally befuddled and embarrassed in the unlikely event that I might be mistaken for someone who spoke the language.
I lit a cigarette and congratulated myself that it was the first of the day.
The café was the main focal point of this seaside town and was mainly home to locals, a few of whom were still wearing coats despite it being a warm day.
Molinar is not really a tourist spot despite having a good sandy beach. There are no hotels, clubs, or holiday apartments. In the middle of the communal square was a children’s play area with swings, a sandpit and some climbing frames. Surrounding the square were a few small cafés, a couple of shops, and an estate agent. Most outsiders who stumbled on this resort were usually people like me cycling into Palma.
My order arrived and whilst sipping a welcome coffee, I pondered how the Spanish love their dogs. Some poodles and small terriers with leads tethered to table legs rested disinterestedly in the shade by their owners. I stretched my legs and took out some pamphlets and mobile phone from my rucksack and saw that my phone provider had decided that I was in France rather than Spain and listed various tariffs for sending texts. I cast my eye over some literature about Palma Cathedral, which I was thinking of visiting.
I read with interest that in the autumn of 1229, King James I and his army sailed to Mallorca to defeat the Arabs. A storm raged so violently during the three-day journey that the young king feared for his life, so he made an oath to God promising, should his enterprise succeed, to erect a temple dedicated to the Virgin Mary. He was lucky, not only did he arrive safely but he also defeated the Arabs. As a God-fearing Christian he did not forget his promise and quickly set about putting his oath into practice.
On New Year’s Day 1230 the foundation stone was laid on the site of where the main mosque originally stood.
The king decided that the site for his new church was obvious. The Muslims were already using the perfect position for their mosque. So by razing the mosque and constructing a house of God on its foundations, King James knew he would be highlighting the victory of Christianity over Islam. But in doing this he also created one of the great, all-time historical paradoxes; anyone kneeling at the altar does so in the direction of Mecca like a Muslim not, as should be the case for a Christian, towards Jerusalem.
As the centuries went by no fewer than fifteen architects worked on repairs and improvements to the cathedral right up until 1901 when Antoni Gaudi, who had already established his reputation with his work on the cathedral of La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona was called in to finish the job. For three years he studied and sketched until finally in 1904 he presented his drawings and work could begin. Then, for another ten years he laboured without interruption, completing some incredible work, until suddenly one day he decided not to finish. Why this happened was not quite clear, but it was probably due to criticism he received at the hands of the Mallorcans. Whatever the reason, it left the then Bishop frustrated. The cathedral had now exhausted 16 generations of architects and was still not finished.
Whilst reading this most interesting story I became vaguely aware that perched on a stool at the bar, a neatly attired old-boy seemed to be taking an interest in me. He puffed on a cigarillo between sips of brandy while every so often stealing an inquisitive glance in my direction. It seemed he had made a decision to come and speak to me for he slowly got to his feet, and with brandy in hand, gingerly made his way over to me. He stooped forward over my table like a waiter ready to take an order.
‘You are English?’ he enquired in a soft, polite manner, his face holding a warm enticing smile.
I nodded. His voice was low and refined, and this along with his smart appearance lent him an air of mild gentility.
‘Do you mind if I join you for just a moment?’ he asked pleasantly, ‘I don’t get to speak to many people from back home.’ I gestured to a chair. ‘Please,’ I said, whilst being somewhat perplexed as to why he had sought me out. He settled himself and placed his brandy on the table. I guessed he was about eighty. He was tall and dressed very smartly in a blue lightweight suit with a red handkerchief tucked neatly in the top pocket. His good head of grey hair and neat beard worked-well with the sharp features of his broad tanned face with fine prominent cheekbones and inquisitive grey eyes. It crossed my mind that he would have cut quite a dapper figure in his day.
‘Where are you from in England?’ he enquired.
‘From London,’ I said, still feeling a little apprehensive as to who he might be and why he had made a beeline for me. ‘From Finchley,’ I added, ‘Mrs Thatcher’s old constituency.’
His face brightened with a knowing smile. ‘London was my home town, It’s where I was born,’ he said eagerly. ‘But I lived mostly nearer the centre.’ He looked past me in the direction of the sea, his eyes momentarily glazing over as though recalling a memory. He turned back to me. ‘I miss London you know, I miss the place so much.’
‘Do you not go back?’ I asked, suddenly warming to this courteous stranger.
‘I used to,’ he said, with something of a resigned sigh, ‘but not any more. My health has not been too good these last few years.’ He gestured a hand in the direction of the neat little houses that surrounded the communal square. ‘This is my home now and I am content to see out my days here.’
He took a sip of brandy and rested his arms on the chair rests. ‘I get the English papers so I keep in touch with life back home,’ he said, his mood suddenly lighter.
‘What on earth is going on with house prices in London? It’s unbelievable what people are prepared to pay these days. I don’t understand how anyone can afford that sort of money.’
I looked to see that my bike was safe. ‘It’s all pretty crazy.’ I said. ‘But so many people are moving to the capital. Supply and demand I guess, along with a lot of wealthy foreign buyers.’
He shook his head and smiled grimly, ‘I dare not think what my house would be worth now.’ he murmured. He lit a small cigar and blew a puff of smoke skywards.
‘But I must not complain,’ he said slowly and thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been fortunate to live in the sun all these years and feel quite settled here now. Mallorca is a lovely island and this is a nice little town with friendly people.’
We chatted away amicably and to my surprise I felt quite at ease talking to this old boy who came across as having an easy affable charm about him. His voice was low and soft and unhurried, which at first seemed a bit strange and a little irritating – a sort of Prince Charles deliberation – but as we talked I realised that this slightly upper-class voice was not feigned but simply the way he had always spoken.
His considered speech along with his bright and fresh appearance gave the impression that despite his age he still clung proudly to some sort of countenance and bearing that he had probably enjoyed in former times.
We discussed house prices and the weather and such before we somehow got round to talking about the sporting scene back in England. He asked me with twinkle in his eyes if I liked horse racing, which I did, and went on to tell me that he had once owned some good thoroughbreds. He reminisced fondly how he and his friends would travel all over the country to watch his runners and that while he had won some good quality races, being an owner was incredibly expensive and had cost him a lot more than he ever received back in prize money. I found this conversation most interesting, as I had always been fascinated with the sport of kings from a young age.
Settling back in his chair, and in a bright mood, he told me that he had also owned some greyhounds which he had raced at the now defunct Harringay dog track. This amused me as I used to visit the track when I was a young lad. We swapped fond memories about the old stadium with its dog racing, speedway and the absolute mayhem of stock car racing.
It was pretty clear talking to this engaging character who had owned racehorses and greyhounds that he must have had a fair bit of money at some time in his life.
He sipped his brandy and sent another puff of smoke in the air. ‘I’ve been following that casino case back in London,’ he said quietly, while shuffling his chair a little closer to me to gain some shade from the sun that had been gradually creeping over our canopy.
‘Did you read about that high roller who won a fortune playing baccarat and the casino refused to pay him?’
I nodded, and told him that I had.
‘I can’t believe that American chap nearly got away with it,’ he said, warming to his narrative with raised eyebrows. ‘The case intrigued me enormously because I loved playing baccarat and so the story brought back memories. What he was up to is an old trick that I have seen many times. You spot a small blemish on one-side of the back of the playing cards and if they are the ones you want you simply get those cards turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.’
He shrugged philosophically and relaxed back in his chair with a knowing smile. It was an odd coincidence that he should mention this story, as I had more than a passing interest in the impending court case. A friend of mine worked at the casino in question and had explained to me why they had refused to pay the famous gambling guru and poker champion, Phil Ivey, seven million pounds.
‘I have been following the case,’ I said. ‘At first they couldn’t work out what he was up to, only that something was very suspicious, so they quite rightly withheld the money.’
‘I’m glad they refused to pay him,’ he said with a wry expression. ‘I loved gambling more than was good for me, but I never tried to gain an unfair advantage.’
We talked a little more about London life before I beckoned to leave. I delved into my rucksack for some euros.
‘No, no,’ he protested firmly, ‘I will get this, it will be my pleasure. It’s been so good to talk to someone from back home and I hope that I have not detained you. By the way my name is Sidney, Sidney Ainsworth.’
‘I’m Adam,’ I said, ‘and thanks for the drinks Sidney.’ I picked up my bottle of water and headed for my bike when, as though he had suddenly thought of something, he called after me.
‘Adam, will you be coming back this way?’ he enquired quietly.
I unlocked the bike chain and moved towards him. ‘Yes,’ I said, a little hesitantly, thinking what might be coming. ‘I’m cycling into Palma, then back to Can Pastilla.’
He looked a little anxious and eyed me nervously. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask this Adam, but I have enjoyed talking to you so much that I feel inclined to take a chance and ask if you might oblige me with a huge favour.’
He looked shy and uneasy before asking: ‘Would you stop by here on your way back and collect a letter from me? I know it’s unfair to waylay you like this, and please forgive me; it’s not something I would normally do. You see I am desperate to get a letter delivered to a London address and I was wondering whether you could post it for me when you get back home.’
I hesitated, this was a strange request and I felt suspicious. ‘Can you not post it from here?’ I ventured politely but a touch warily.
‘It’s a little difficult to explain,’ he said softly, his face solemn. ‘Rather a long story I’m afraid. It’s just that I need to feel assured in my mind that it gets delivered.’ He paused for a few seconds before adding with polite emphasis. ‘I would be more than happy to pay you for your trouble.’
I was feeling confused about this and he must have read my mind.
‘I assure you it’s just a letter,’ he hastened to say, ‘composed on my old typewriter. I don’t know about all that modern computer business and printing machines and the like. I’m a bit of a dinosaur when it comes to modern things.’ He offered me a nervous smile. ‘I would be very pleased to show you the letter just so you know there is nothing untoward. It’s simply to a very old friend, someone I wish to contact after a long absence.’
It was still lost on me why he couldn’t simply post the letter himself and I felt unsure of what to say to him, but I had enjoyed chatting with him and he seemed a most genuine and likeable character, and so why, I thought, should I refuse what seemed a simple favour. ‘Okay Sidney,’ I said, after some hesitancy ‘I’ll stop by on my way back.’
He rested a hand on my arm thanking me most profusely and repeating that he would like to pay me for my trouble.
Cycling into Palma had been easy and carefree. On arrival I was surprised to see that despite it being early season the town was gay and lively with plenty of tourists mingling with the street artists and enjoying the Spanish guitar players in the main square. I pushed my bike through the crowds and past the performers that pose as Robin Hood, Quasimodo and the like, and who stay motionless as though statues rather than real people. There were also the ones dressed as shepherds, cowboys and Charlie Chaplin who cleverly support themselves with concealed metal rods that seem to make them hang in the air without any support – a trick that I thought was now slightly overplayed everywhere from rainy Trafalgar Square to Tenerife. But these artisans certainly earned their wages trying not to blink for hours on end. The sketch artists also deserved whatever they might earn in a day charging just twenty euros to draw the face of some girl from Tokyo who was trying to keep an even pose while her friends giggled nearby. I always admired these artists who are so highly-skilled but certainly wouldn’t get rich in their chosen profession when it can take the best part of an hour to achieve the perfect likeness of a holiday tourist.
I made my way past the crowds queuing to get into Palma Cathedral, which I decided to give a miss, and crossed the waterside esplanade to the Palau de I’Almudaina, originally a palace for the Moorish governors but now a palatial residence housing a series of state apartments kept in readiness for visiting dignitaries and the Spanish Royal Family.
I crossed the Park de la Mar and headed for the lovely Old Town with its cobbled squares, fountains and narrow lanes. I found a safe place to chain my bike and took a seat outside a small ornate bar for some tapas and a cold beer.
After a nice break and refreshments I wheeled my bike along meandering back lanes of the city before eventually emerging at the Passeig Mallorca where I made my way down a series of terraced gardens to the harbour front. As I descended, I passed the huge column erected by Franco in honour – as it’s said – to some Balearic sailors who were loyal to the fascist cause.
I was near to Bellver Castle with its imposing towers and fortifications but decided against a visit, as it was a steep climb to reach the top and would be hard work while pushing a heavy bike. Instead I chained my cycle to some railings and popped into the museum Es Baluard and studied, somewhat absent-mindedly, some works by Picasso, Maigritte and Miró that were striking but also bewildering and thought provoking at the same time.
From the museum and out into the bright sunshine I collected my bike and crossed the busy Passeig Maritin to the harbour and took a few snaps on my mobile of the gleaming white yachts and speedboats neatly lined up in their hundreds, waiting for the day their owners might show up and take them out to sea.
As I cycled along the front passing row after row of these magnificent yachts I reflected how many millionaires there must be knocking around.
But of course these boats were no more than modern day interlopers resting up on the shore of a city with a thousand years of rich history. I contented myself with this thought as I cycled along the front stealing a last glance over my shoulder at Palma Cathedral with its massive exterior buttresses, now bathed in early afternoon sunshine and no less a great sight despite having been built facing the wrong way.
As I cycled east I wondered if I should stop and see Sidney and collect that letter of his or just cycle past and forget all about him. Then I thought it would be pretty mean of me not to do him a simple favour. In any case, to my surprise, I had really enjoyed chatting with him. It was clear that he had been something of a gambler in his time but he came across as a most likeable chap and it was clear that he had led an interesting life. As I peddled at a steady pace, listening to the rhythmic sound of the wheels beneath me I began thinking deeply about my own liking for a bet. Perhaps it had been talking to a one-time gambler, and someone who liked a drink, that had triggered in my mind thoughts about myself.
I had started betting when I was about seventeen. I had discovered a very astute tipster called Supernap who gave occasional tips in the now defunct Daily Herald. There were no bookmakers in those days but I had somehow managed to open an account whereby I could bet by post. This entailed sending off selections along with a cheque, which would have to bear a timed postmark before the race meeting. I did very well following this tipster who became a scourge of the bookmakers, but my bank manager was not best pleased. He pulled me in one day wanting to know what I was up to with so many cheques flying around and how I had managed to show a healthy profit. I told him I had been lucky, but thereafter used postal orders instead of cheques as the bank manager had threatened to close my account. Perhaps it’s better to lose when first attempting to gamble so that its seductive nature gets quickly extinguished, but I had caught the bug. Nobody quite knew who Supernap was, but one day he wrote a sad note in the Herald informing his followers that he would no longer be offering advice and tips. The bookmakers had moved the goalposts. From now on they would only pay one-fifth, instead of one-fourth, the odds for a placed horse. It was only a slight difference but enough to take away the edge that Supernap worked to. Such are the fine percentages between winning and losing in the betting arena. Supernap was more of an accountant than a tipster. For days on end he might not offer a selection if no horses fell within the strict parameters of his system. In the five years he wrote for the Herald he showed a profit of over 30 points for each season. A remarkable achievement, the success of which was based on a very clever system, but most importantly – patience; something that gamblers do not possess in abundance. After Supernap I was on my own, and it was pretty much downhill from then on.
I married my wife Jane, when I was in my early twenties, and at first we lived in rented accommodation until we managed to put enough together for a deposit on a house. We were both working hard. Jane was training to become a midwife and I was working as a store manager. Our deposit for a house would have come about sooner had I not been gambling away a proportion of my wages each week, losses which I kept from my wife.
My drinking habit had also become problematical. I had, from a young age, liked a drink and pubs had always held an attraction for me. When I was very young my mum and dad would take me and my brother and sister to a pub in Camden Town where my parents would meet up with their friends and relations. Of course we were too young to go inside the pub and so we huddled in the back of my dad’s big black Wolseley car.
Every so often my mum or dad would come out to check on us and hand over bags of crisps and orangeade. We were strangely happy and I would stare out of the car at the brightness and warmth coming from that huge pub window and imagine the merriment inside. Across the road my Aunt had a little stall, selling cockles and whelks.
Soon after leaving school, my mates and I sought out pubs in the Holloway Road that were prepared to serve us despite our being under age. The fare was, Watney’s Red Barrel, bottled Light Ale and Double Diamond. Alcohol was very much a part of my growing up.
By the time our first child arrived, Anne, I decided to keep a tight rein on my drinking and gambling. I had started a growing company selling batteries and this was going well and I was working long hours trying to build up a client base. That I was fully occupied kept me away from the pub and I was more settled with my family.
My problems began many years later when I sold my business and all of a sudden had time and money on my hands. After working so hard building up the business I had convinced myself that I deserved a break and a new type of lifestyle, away from the drudgery of long hours and worry about the company.
It had been a hot summer and with plenty of time on my hands I had taken to drinking at lunchtime and this would then often carry on through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Also I was gambling heavily and trying to chase my losses – something that is the worst thing you can do. Up until that time and that summer I had been quite disciplined, but I seemed to lose my way and it all became a problem and a habit that I found difficult to prise myself away from.
The next couple of years were something of a blur as I tried to get my life back on track. With coaxing from my wife and despite regarding myself as not being that far down the road I reluctantly attended Alcoholics Anonymous and Gamblers Anonymous. I thoroughly enjoyed these meetings, as to my surprise and delight, the talk was never about giving up drink or gambling but were comforting discussions where complete strangers opened up to each other. Talking about your demons and listening to other people’s problems was uplifting and helped me to think more clearly and confront my own weaknesses.
Later on a friend managed to get me a job in the print, but I had to spend a year going-cap-in hand to the union begging them to accept me. My drinking and gambling was now under control and how this had come about was odd. It was not as though I had made some sacrifice or summoned up great will power, it’s just that I couldn’t do it anymore. If you don’t have the money you can’t gamble, and as for drink, I had grown tired of not being in control and hangovers.
Now retired, and with a couple of small pensions, I am lucky enough to have a little bet if I so desire and I can still enjoy a drink without it being a problem.
Reflections on my past came to a sudden and abrupt halt. With my mind totally elsewhere I had run slam into the back of a woman cyclist. I apologised most sincerely. She seemed quite aggrieved and shot me a withering look before scooting away. I shook my head to clear my mind and told myself to cycle with a bit more care and attention. Ahead of me, and round the next bend, Molinar would come into view. Yes, I would stop; I would do Sidney a favour and collect that letter of his. The sun was shining, I was on holiday and in that relaxed mood one feels more open to an act of benevolence. All the same, I still felt suspicious as to why he wanted me to post a letter for him when he could easily do so himself.
As I approached the Café Plaza I could see Sidney sitting alone at a table under some shade. He smiled broadly as I wheeled my bike towards his table. Most of the customers that had been here at lunchtime had now departed.
‘Thanks so much for stopping by Adam,’ he said, his voice soft and enthusiastic as I pulled up a chair. ‘Let me get you a drink dear boy. What will it be, beer, brandy?’
‘Thanks Sidney,’ I replied, ‘but I won’t stop as I should be getting back.’ I said this knowing I was in no real hurry, but did not want to get involved in too long a conversation.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I have the letter and I would like to pay you for taking up your time and asking such a favour.’ He delved into his inside jacket pocket and produced a wad of notes.
‘Really Sidney,’ I said, trying not to sound reproachful. ‘I’m happy to do you a favour, there’s no need to pay me.’
‘You won’t take anything?’ he murmured, looking disappointed.
‘Definitely not,’ I said.
He picked up an envelope that had been resting on the table and extracted a letter, which he held up to me like an auctioneer might show an exhibit.
‘Does it look alright?’ he enquired in a low voice. ‘I use an old typewriter.’
‘It looks fine,’ I said.
He held the envelope upside down to show that there was nothing hidden inside and then replaced the letter which he sealed and then handed over to me. This little ritual was by way of assuring me that this was just a letter and I was not being asked to handle anything dodgy. I noted the address on the envelope.
Colin Hedley-Davies
c/o Warren Hedley-Davies
Loudon House Publishing Ltd. Bedford Square,
London WC2
‘As I mentioned Adam,’ he said in a slow soft voice, ‘the letter is to an old friend, someone I have not seen in forty-years. For now it’s best I stay in the background but at the same time I wish to let him know that I am still around.’ He gave a deep sigh and added almost in a whisper. ‘I know that must sound odd. Please forgive an old turkey like me.’
While he had been speaking I had considered him thoughtfully, trying to sum him up. There was something about this man, but what that something was I couldn’t pin down. I had met all sorts of characters that were living in Spain for one reason or another but Sidney was not like anyone I had come across before. He was very different. But beneath that refined exterior one thing was for sure – he had something to hide.
I put the letter in my rucksack. ‘I understand Sidney,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘You would rather the envelope did not show a Mallorcan post mark – is that it?’
He looked a little uneasy and gazed at the floor for a few moments. Then he turned his eyes to me, eyes that were now dull and faraway.
‘You see I have a story, but…’ He left the sentence unfinished.
I rose from my chair. ‘I had better get going,’ I said, feeling that his melancholy made for a timely exit.
Sidney raised himself and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Before you go Adam,’ he said quietly, ‘could I ask one last favour?’
He now looked contented and his expression gave me no cause for alarm.
‘If you should pass this way again, would you stop and have a drink with me? This is my local and I’m always here.’
‘Of course I will Sidney,’ I replied, ‘It would be my pleasure.’
I set off on the cycle path and gave him a farewell wave. I had to admit I liked the old chap; he was a most intriguing character and generous in wanting to pay me for doing him a favour. Very doubtful though, I thought to myself, that I would ever see him again.