The Scent Of Orange Blossom by Glenda Young

Sometimes people needed to get away from it all, and I knew just the place . . .

NICOLAS, the coach driver, sees the group coming before I do. “Here they are,” he tells me. I leap down from the coach, straighten my navy blue skirt and adjust the orange bow tie that I’m obliged to wear for work. Orange – the one colour that I know doesn’t suit me and does me no favours at all!

As I see my colleague head my way with the party of tourists behind her, I switch on my “meet and greet” smile.

“Dazzle ’em with your dentures, Sue!” Helen whispers in my ear as she passes me her clipboard.

She always tries to make me laugh when we do these handovers, but I’m too professional to give in to the giggles when I’m working.

“Hello, everyone,” I greet the throng of holidaymakers. “My name’s Sue and our driver is Nicolas. Once Nicolas has taken your suitcases from you and stowed them safely in the coach we’ll be on our way to the hotel.”

It’s a well-worn drill on these airport pick-ups. I do it every week in my job as a holiday rep for the Orange Blossom Tour company.

We’re in southern Spain, where the orange trees grow and where, at this time of year, the air is sweet with pungent white blossom. It’s a scent I adore and one I never want to get used to.

The orange trees grow in the streets and in the parks here, and breathing in the scent from the small white flowers is a joy. I also take the Orange Blossom tourists to visit churches and castles and give them a real flavour of Spain.

“Could I sit behind the driver, dear? I get travel sick if I don’t sit behind the driver,” a woman’s voice tells me when I’m checking off names as the passengers board the coach.

I turn to see a short, older lady fanning her face with her hands to try to ward off the intense Spanish heat.

Most of the holidaymakers look tired, their faces as crumpled as their clothes.

The flight here from England is only three hours, but I know that their day will have started far earlier than that, with taxis to the airport, queuing at checkin, then waiting, some nervously, in the departures lounge.

I understand how tired and disorientated most of them will be so I don’t bombard them with too much information when we meet for the first time. I smile and nod and say “Hello” and “Welcome aboard.”

I am as helpful, polite and professional as I can possibly be with an orange nylon bow tickling my neck.

A woman, about my age, is next to board the coach. She’s another one who looks tired, but there’s something else about her I pick up on. She looks miserable.

“Amanda Wilson,” she tells me quietly, and I check off her name on the clipboard. “And my husband’s Paul Wilson. He’s just putting the case in the coach with your driver.”

She turns and points to a man who is trying to help Nicolas put their suitcase in the coach.

Not only is it against company policy to let the holidaymakers lift their own luggage into the coach, Nicolas has too much macho pride to allow another man to help him.

The man that I now know as Paul Wilson is the last person to board and I’ve got a tick against every name on my list.

Nicolas takes his seat behind the wheel as I radio in to the Orange Blossom Tour HQ to let them know we’re ready to leave.

I jump on board, welcome the passengers and Nicolas pulls the coach out of the car park.

The journey to the hotel on the fast road, the Autovia, takes one hour.

The passengers are quiet at first, taking in the sights as the coach thunders along, but it doesn’t take long for the chatter to begin, tiredness giving way to the excitement

of being on holiday.

I walk through the coach to ensure everyone is OK, and I hand out maps of the small town in which the hotel is based. Most people greet me with a smile, although one or two are asleep. When I come to where Amanda and Paul Wilson are seated, I see Amanda nervously playing with her wedding ring while Paul remains aloof, looking out of the window as if his life depends on it.

As Amanda takes the map from me, we lock eyes for a moment and she attempts a smile.

“Everything all right?” I ask breezily, ever the professional.

Amanda nods but Paul’s gaze doesn’t move from the window.

The first day of the holiday is one with no tours, letting the holidaymakers acclimatise themselves to the hotel and the town.

It’s a beautiful place, one of the old white towns. I used to come here on holiday myself before I fell in love with the place and moved here for good.

The hotel is set high on a cliff top overlooking the sea. It was originally a paper mill and was left empty for years after the mill closed down.

But now it’s owned by the Orange Blossom Tour company, who renovated it beautifully. All of the hotel bedrooms have views from their balconies of the blue ocean beyond.

There’s not much for me to do on the first day apart from sit in the reception area and see if anyone needs any assistance.

I pass the time by chatting to the hotel staff. They all know me now, after all these years.

As I chat with Alvaro, the head receptionist, one of the holidaymakers walks towards me. It’s the older lady who insisted on sitting behind Nicolas.

“Is there a chemist nearby, dear? I’ve got an awful gyppy tum.”

I walk with her to the hotel entrance and point out the direction to the nearest pharmacy which is just one street away. The rest of the day remains quiet and it is not until the next day that I meet my holidaymakers again.

We are going to a nearby village where the castle and church are impressive and of historic worth.

The people who board the coach today are far removed from the tired, grumpy, crumpled group who rolled off the aeroplane two days before.

They’re dressed in bright clothes, some wearing hats and sunglasses, with brightly coloured bags slung over their shoulders.

Their phones are out, ready to take photos, and they’re all smiling and happy.

Well, almost all. Amanda Wilson still looks tired, her eyes red as if she’s been crying. Paul Wilson is as silent as ever and doesn’t return my greeting as he boards the coach.

Nicolas sets the coach in motion once everyone is aboard and we soon arrive at the outskirts of the village, where we park the coach.

Everyone is free to visit the village and the sights on their own. I ask them to meet back at the coach at the allocated time.

Many head straight for the castle, some for the cathedral, while others make a bee-line for the tapas bar opposite the coach.

Amanda and Paul Wilson are last to leave the coach and seem in no hurry to go anywhere.

“Do you need any help?” I ask Amanda. “Suggestions of places to see, perhaps?” She looks up at me shyly. “Can you recommend anywhere we could go for a coffee? Just somewhere quiet to sit and talk without too many tourists?”

I knew the perfect place. “When you reach the square, turn left and look for a green wooden door. On the door there will be sign that reads Mariana.

“Push open the door and go in. Tell them Sue and Nicolas from the Orange Blossom Tour sent you. They’ll treat you like old friends, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Amanda said, and she ran to catch up with Paul who was already striding away.

I knew from experience that Mariana’s coffee and home-made cakes could cheer up almost anyone.

It would be the stoniest soul that wouldn’t be softened once through that green wooden door.

From the outside it was just a battered door set in an old stone wall.

Once inside, there was a tiled courtyard with a fountain bubbling gently in which tiny, colourful birds bathed. Pots of cool white geraniums were placed around the courtyard and deep pink bougainvillea tumbled down a wall.

In the centre of the courtyard was an orange tree, heavy with sweetsmelling blossom.

I hoped that Mariana’s café would work some of its magic on Amanda and Paul, as it had once worked its magic on me.

When the time came for the group to assemble at the coach before our return to the hotel, everyone was on board except two people – Amanda and Paul Wilson.

I shot Nicolas a worried look but he shook his head and smiled.

“They’ll be OK,” he said. Sure enough, I caught sight of them walking along the cobbled street towards the coach. My heart lifted when I noticed that they were holding hands.

“Thank you,” Paul said to me when they reached the coach.

“Did you enjoy Mariana’s?”

“We did,” Amanda said. Paul boarded the coach but Amanda took me to one side.

“I can’t thank you enough. We came on this holiday because we . . . well, we’ve been going through a difficult patch.

“We thought coming on a coach tour holiday with lots of other people would be the best thing to do, that it would jolly us along and force us to join in with things.

“But being on our own at Mariana’s, away from everyone else, was just what we needed.

“We opened up to each other more today than we have done in months. So, thank you, Sue, we really appreciate it.”

With everyone seated on the coach, Nicolas strapped his seatbelt around him and readied the coach to leave.

Along the cobbled street at the café, Mariana

Almost all the holidaymakers are smiling and happy . . . “We’ve been going through a difficult patch”

watered white geraniums in pots and put out crumbs for the birds by the fountain.

The café was where I had first met Nicolas many years ago, when he was helping his sister Mariana serve coffee and cake to tourists, of which I was one.

I’d had no idea back then that Mariana’s café would become the venue for our wedding, where our guests would dance and sing under the orange tree festooned with lights.

Nicolas and I also have the orange blossom at Mariana’s café to thank for playing another vital role in our lives. It was where we decided on the name of our coach holiday tour company.

As Nicolas swung the coach out into the main square, I allowed myself a little smile and adjusted the orange bow around my neck once again. n