Last Days of the Bus Club by Chris Stewart Page B

long time and so I will feel it inc-cumbent on me to make sure she wins … outof f-friendship you understand. And so because everybody knows that I know Cuqui – and I’ve known Cuqui for thirty years – I’m not allowed to judge the category she’s in. It’s b-bad enough my even b-being here, but then it was Cuqui herself who g-got me the g-gig.’
    ‘Gig’ is not a word that Michael uses that much.
    We had left the
autovía
now and were zooming along a long straight road between fields of garlic and cotton on the way to Campillos. Michael, as always on such occasions , was watching me with admiration and bewilderment as, nonchalantly and almost unconsciously, I controlled the headlong flight of the great steel beast in which we were so comfortably cocooned. Michael has never learned to drive. To impress him I casually switched on the windscreen wipers and sprayed the screen, ostensibly to clear the thick film of insects that had seen fit to immolate themselves against our hurtling juggernaut. It was easy, just an almost imperceptible flick of a finger. ‘I may not know much about art history,’ I enthused, ‘but after all these years I sure know how to drive a car.’
    The further west we travelled the more the beautiful blue
Echium
took over from the poppies. We oohed and aahed all the more as we wound among whole hillsides of deep blue. Michael, out of academic interest, was plotting our course on his accursèd iPhone, which was unnecessary as a) I knew the way, b) I had a printed route description off the internet, and c) it was signposted.
    ‘We’ll be in Olvera before long,’ he said, fingering the wretched device.
    ‘I know; I’m looking at it, on that hill up ahead.’
    In a similar vein, without actually looking at it, Michael announced our imminent arrival at Medina Sidonia.
    ‘I think it’s my favourite town in all of Spain,’ he continued . ‘It’s exquisitely beautiful, and there’s a bar that’s the most perfect bar and it does the perfect breakfast.’
    ‘Well, I’ve never been there, so perhaps we can have breakfast there on the way home on Wednesday morning.’ This, I figured, would be a useful gambit to get Michael on the move early so that we could each arrive home in time to put in a respectable showing on the respective books we were supposedly writing.
    ‘Yes, that would be good; we can get an early morning hit of pig fat.’

    The mere mention of the pig fat made us both think how hungry we were. It was getting on for that time of day. The last rays of the sun were setting over the sea as we pulled into Conil. I staggered from the car, shook myself and delved in the back for my needments: the beloved Marrakech Medina leather man-bag containing on this occasion the single necessary item for spending the night in places other than my own dear bed – that is, an ageing blue toothbrush. I also had with me a rather disgusting Panama hat with a brown sweat stain oozing from the hatband at the front, and a cherished pale corduroy jacket, part of the only suit I have ever owned. I bought it over thirty-five years ago and, although it costs me dear to squeeze the lower half of my person into the trouser, the jacket still fits – so long as I hold my breath and stand up straight – like the proverbial glove.
    Michael emerged from behind the car. To my surprise and delight, he was dressed almost identically: Panama hat,beige jacket, black jeans and leather man-bag. He stopped and looked at me in consternation.
    ‘God,’ he said. ‘We look like a couple of old, gay ice-cream salesmen.’
    I had to admit that he was right. I bristled a little, though, at the slight to my jacket. ‘This jacket, I’ll have you know, Michael, is proper class,’ and I held it open so that he could admire the prestigious if rather frayed label on the inside pocket. ‘It dates from the days when things were made well; I’ve had it for over thirty-five years …’
    ‘It certainly looks like it,’