Walcot by Brian W. Aldiss

Author:Brian W. Aldiss
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: British Literature, Family & Relationships, Fiction, Historical, Family Saga
ISBN: 9780007482269
Publisher: HarperVoyager
Published: 2009-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

11

A Break in Torremolinos

With the threat from the Soviet Union looming like bad weather from the East, the British people were the more inclined to tolerate dictatorships nearer at hand, and to flock to the beaches of Tito’s Jugoslavia and Franco’s Spain. The dictators of those impoverished states saw to it that charges were kept lower than prices on the more democratic shores in the south of France.

Your Uncle Claude realized that money was to be made out of package tours. Regarding you as a more reliable person than his own two sons, he persuaded you to accompany him to the town of Torremolinos in the south of Spain.

Torremolinos, with a convenient airport nearby, was undergoing rapid development as a seaside resort. Claude – good at drinking and making friends; the two habits often coincide – met a go-ahead young Spaniard, Francisco Lorca. Lorca was about to complete the construction of a large hotel called the Magnifico on the seafront.

Between them, the two men and their lawyers drew up a contract. Not that you were left out of the deal; Britannia was to provide the Magnifico with luxury furniture for its suites. ‘Torrid Tours’ was the name under which Claude operated. Lorca would receive a guaranteed number of bookings during the season.

The launch of Torrid Tours took place in a suite in the Savoy Hotel, a hotel favoured by the Fielding family. You were detained by traffic on the way there with Abby. The room was brightly lit, pop music played, the place thronged, so it seemed at first glance, with a number of young people, including attractive girls in miniskirts.

You did not recognize your uncle for a moment, although it was only a fortnight since you had been with him in Spain. In that time, he had shaved his moustache down to a thin line and had dyed his hair jet black. He now wore tight trousers and a black leather jacket.

As Claude shook your hand, he said, ‘Steve, I am now Justin, okay? Claude is yesterday. Justin is now, comprenez?’

‘Okay, uncle, but who are all these amazingly pretty girls you’ve got here?’

‘Not “uncle”. Justin. Okay? Just Justin. Justin of Torrid. Try to remember. The Press is here. I’ve got a gaggle of models – we’re giving them a free trip to Torremolinos. Well, almost free. Publicity, you savvy?’

‘But where did they come from?’

He took your arm in order to explain confidentially. Until yesterday there had only been women – mainly of the middle class – who dressed as their mothers dressed; dull, stuck in the mud. Now there were oodles of young girls, filling London, from the lower classes, who had their own way of dressing. Miniskirts up to their pert little bums.

‘That’s sociology, isn’t it?’ said Justin of Torrid.

Boutiques were opening up everywhere, he said. These girls, these boutiques, were changing London. London was swinging. Social history was being made, and old Justin was riding the new wave. New opportunities, new opportunities … Justin told you all this excitedly.

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