Jean Willoughby almost knocks me off my feet as I walk through the gardens to breakfast.
Jean Willoughby at least I think that is her name, so surprised am I at hearing my native tongue with only the slightest hint of an accent the niceties of names seems irrelevant, nearly sends me flying as she charges into me, binoculars in hand.
“ Jean Willoughby. Sorry, just missed a heron”. She is surely the most unlikely suspect in an Agatha Christie murder?
‘Lancashire?’ I yelp with delight.
“American I suppose” she crushingly replies, arching an eyebrow in contempt.
Having mortally offended each other, and missed the heron, this delightful, Yorkshire, Hercule Poirot suspect, stretches out her hand.
“Bird watching holiday.”
‘Ah, a twitcher’, I say, knowingly. I am not entirely ignorant.
She frowns, irritated.
“Are you determined to insult me? You won’t catch me chasing hundreds of miles at some unearthly hour and missing me breakfast. I’m no twitcher. I’m a bird watcher.”
‘Sorry.’ I am entirely ignorant.
She smiles, apology accepted, insults forgiven. We shake hands and for the next half hour I let Jean Willoughby’s soft Yorkshire vowels, wash over me in waves, soothing, familiar.
I hate her of course. She is 75 and has a flawless English rose complexion. How can anyone of 75 have a complexion like that? I peer at her unlined face and reach for my first cigarette of the day as she, mid flow, leaps back with the agility of an impala, to avoid the curling smoke…ah perhaps that’s why she looks so good.
We talk of travel insurance for the aged and the ‘Most Perfect Marigold Hotel’ and how it reminds us of Salam Palace. In truth Jean Willoughby does most of the talking, I am just thrilled to listen, like a child who, once lost in the park, is now safely reunited with its scolding parents.
A brief half hour later and the rest of the twi….bird watchers, prise her away, leaving me once again linguistically orphaned as Beatrice flounces into the dining room.
Beatrice shall from now on be known as Veronika (her chosen nome de plume). When I told her I would write about her, she was delighted. When I said that I would almost certainly mention all her past Moroccan lovers and describe in detail the heartbreak they inflicted on her and suggested she might prefer anonymity she demanded:
“What will my name be?’
“Euguene?” I timorously suggest, thinking that the choice of another princess would flatter.
“PAH!” Non! I will be Veronica!”
I write it down on my note book.
“NON! NON!” she snatches the pad and pen.
“V-E-R-O-N-I-K-A!”
She is not to be argued with. Aquarian, independent, 62, dark and sensual, I am sure Bea…Veronika is a traveller I can learn much from.
“We’re late! Come!”
I hadn’t realised the Sunday market had a time limit.
We hail a passing horse and carriage and fifteen minutes and 10 whatevers poorer, we are deposited on the outskirts of the market.
‘We wait ‘ere!. E ees late! I ATE late!”
Having no idea who it is who ‘E’ is but hopeful that it my be one of Be…Veronika’s past lovers, I wonder how big an appetite Veronika has. She ‘ATE’ cold, she ‘ATE hot, she ‘ATE bad manners.
An impeccably dressed “E is tres elegant”, Arab draws up on a bicycle, (he may be tres elegant but he certainly isn’t loaded).
We shake hands, Veronica kisses him on both cheeks and introduces me “This ees Keem”, she speaks no French!”
Without a clue as to what the gentleman’s name is (Sarami, I later discover), Veronika grabs my arm and, propelling me to certain death, we cross the road to the market.