A Singular Man – part 3

      That evening I was dispatched to the far end of the beach for dinner, where the hotel owner’s brother had a restaurant. If you look at an agency contract closely – it usually stipulates that Bed, Breakfast and Evening Meal will be provided. It says nothing about eating in the same hotel as you sleep.
The restaurant was empty except for three people – me, the youngster and the somewhat florid gentleman, whose face after a day in the sun now rivalled his shorts. Remembering my determination to enjoy this holiday, I asked if I could join them.
If I am asked, 'What is the most important event of 2006?' I will confess that it was taking that first step across the restaurant floor, although at the time I was consumed by misgivings.                            The youngster turned out to sensible, knowledgeable and possessed those earnestly dependable qualities that appeal only to bank managers, in a society based on credit bashing, binge drinking and clubbing. Ten years down the line he just might come into his own, when blond bimbos, having experienced an army of good-looking wasters finally accept that they do not make good life-time partners and begin the search for something more long term.       The large florid gentleman, in the vast pink shorts was either a paranoid schizophrenic, who regularly forgot to take his medication, or he suffered from an over-active imagination. With conspiracy theories to end all conspiracy theories; from Mrs Thatcher and British Telecom taking over the world, to a Thai doctor who injected wealthy business men with AIDS in order to steal all their money, talking to him was like a mystery tour; you were never quite sure where the sentence would end up. Exhausting, especially when he came out with such gems as, 'I was travelling on Rumanian Airways and there was a draught.'
Very much later, I returned to my room to sleep, thankful I had not eaten dinner alone but dreading my week in such company. The following afternoon after the trio returned from their day's excursion, it was as a matter of politeness that I strolled round the pool to say hello.      Alan appeared, the day's Lycra offering of black and purple. He sat down on the edge of the recliner, saying nothing, not really joining in, more waiting for someone to notice him. It was awkward and I would vehemently deny any accusation of snobbishness. It is just that – Lycra on a retiree is not really something a delicately brought-up lady wants to mix with!      Then John the Jazz arrived. He had spent the day working the crowd around the pool and needed a new audience to bewitch and bedazzle. Before long he was regaling some outrageous part of his history. He stopped suddenly, his aging memory refusing to recall a name.      'Is it …?' said Alan quietly.It was.      John swung round and for the first time registered the curious figure, including him in the circle he was so busily entertaining. The conversation became more general, turning to football. A question popped up, to do with a Chelsea player from a bygone era.
'Is it …?' asked Alan humbly. It was.
We stared and John succumbed to a mock apoplectic fit. Wild horses wouldn't have dragged me away from that circle now. I peered at Alan closely. Beyond the Lycra and the chin there were a pair of brilliant blue eyes through which he squinted, a set of perfectly even white teeth, and a masterly brain.      By the time the hilarious session reluctantly drew to a close, it had become clear to every one of us sitting there, that if you wanted to know anything, you asked Alan.
'Who played in the 1970 FA Cup Final?' 'What was the name of that film star who murdered his wife, and got off?''The President of Albania?' 'The beginnings of Jazz in London?'
      John the Jazz, upstaged, reacted like the typical showman he was, producing mock spluttering rage and mimed neck-wringing. All in all there was so much merriment that the poolside residents raised their collective heads from their books in shock.