Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  I followed Joe who was already marching out of the door.

  “Where’s the town hall?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably near the Police Station. We know where that is.”

  “But that’s right on the other side of the town!”

  “Never mind, good exercise.”

  We set off on our mission in the baking heat, eventually standing in front of the building marked Policía.

  “I can’t see the town hall,” said Joe, panting and scratching himself in annoyance.

  Neither could I.

  “Excuse me,” I asked an old lady dressed in black. “Can you tell me where the ayuntamiento is, please?”

  She looked alarmed, so I repeated my question more slowly. The local dialect is very strong, in fact so thick that many Spanish people from further north struggle with it, so it was hardly surprising that this local ancient couldn’t understand my Spanish. She peered into my face, watching my lips move. This time she caught the word ayuntamiento and her face broke into a toothless smile.

  Breaded Rolled Jamón and Cheese

  Flamenquines

  Traditional flamenquines are a slice of pork, covered with a slice of jamón, rolled into a tube, breaded and fried.

  Ingredients (serves 2)

  4 pork cutlets

  4 slices of jamón

  4 slices of cheese

  2 eggs

  2 fistfuls of flour (doesn’t matter which type)

  2 fistfuls of breadcrumbs

  Oil for frying

  Method

  Break the eggs into a shallow bowl and whisk lightly.

  In a separate bowl, sprinkle the flour.

  In another shallow bowl, sprinkle the breadcrumbs.

  Pound the meat, or roll with a rolling pin, until the pork cutlets are as thin as you can get them.

  Layer each cutlet with a slice of jamón and a slice of cheese.

  Roll into a fairly tight tube and shove a toothpick or two through to secure it.

  Dip into the flour to coat it, then the egg, then the breadcrumbs.

  Fry in hot oil until golden brown. You can deep fry or just use an inch of oil, turning as it browns. Fry in batches so you don’t crowd the pan.

  Serve hot.

  2

  VALENTINA

  “Do you know where the ayuntamiento is?” I repeated.

  “Arriba,” quavered the old lady and pointed her walking stick in the direction that Joe and I had just come. “Up there!”

  “You’re joking,” growled Joe, but she wasn’t.

  “The town hall is near the bank,” croaked our new friend.

  “But of course it is,” said Joe.

  Luckily the irony was lost on the old lady and she hobbled away with a cheery wave.

  “I think I know a short cut,” announced Joe.

  Why do I always fall for that one? Why do I listen? Joe has an appalling sense of direction and his shortcuts are invariably disastrous. Perhaps it was the onset of heatstroke that made me agree to trudge after him through the back streets of the town.

  “Unfortunately we have to go up this steep road first,” said Joe, “but it should curve round and then it’ll be Ski Sunday.”

  “Ski Sunday?”

  “Downhill all the way.”

  It was too hot for jokes. The street climbed, and so did we, then wound round just as Joe had predicted.

  But then the street stopped without warning. A brick wall had been built across the road, from one side to the other. Why, we had, no idea, but there was no passing it.

  Sweat streamed into my eyes and I was panting. I was disgusted at how unfit I had become. However, it wasn’t me that I was concerned about, it was Joe. The effort had stolen all his breath and he was bent double, gasping. His skin wasn’t a good colour.

  “Joe…”

  “Give me a second…”

  “Joe, this isn’t normal. We have to find out why you become so short of breath.”

  Joe was beginning to recover.

  “I don’t…(puff)…want to talk about it…(puff). I’ll be fine…(puff). I’m just unfit.”

  I didn’t believe that. Unlike me, who was always the last to be picked for any teams, Joe is the sporty type. He used to run marathons, play football and squash. So why was he gasping after the slightest bit of exercise?

  It took much trekking, with plenty of wrong turns and numerous pauses for Joe to regain his breath, but we finally found ourselves back at the bank where we had started. If I hadn’t been so worried about Joe, I’d have enjoyed seeing the backstreets where old ladies sat outside their houses shelling peas, or sweeping their doorsteps until they gleamed. I loved seeing the scarlet geraniums bursting from window boxes. I would have preferred not to see so many caged finches and canaries hanging in windows, but their songs were a delight to hear.

  “So where’s the town hall?” Joe groaned.

  I asked a passing shopper, who pointed at a plaque on the wall beside a shadowy staircase.

  “Look, Joe! It’s up these stairs! No wonder we couldn’t find it!”

  Upstairs, at the counter, we asked for swimming pool abonos.

  “For one week? Or for one month?” asked the young man.

  “Un mes,” we chorused. “One month, please.”

  “That will be twenty euros each,” said the young man, stamping a sheet of paper with the town hall logo. “Take this paper to the bank and pay them.”

  So we did.

  “We’d like two season tickets for the public swimming pool, please,” I said to the bank teller, and received the response I expected.

  “Of course. How much would you like to pay?”

  “Forty euros for two,” I said confidently and handed her the sheet of paper.

  “Thank you, here are your cards.”

  Smiles all round.

  Quest completed.

  Happily, we headed off to the pool to use our season tickets for the first time, and to cool down. The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Alberto, who was on ‘duty’, accepted our season tickets without comment, and our swim was peaceful.

  At precisely two o’clock, we looked up to see one of our favourite sights. On the pavement outside, two rather overweight labradors were taking an elderly Spanish man for a walk, as they did every day at that time. When they reached the Enchanted Pool entrance, the dogs strained and pulled.

  “No, you can’t go in there!” the man said loudly, as he did every day.

  He dragged them away to continue their walk.

  “Poor things,” I said to Joe. “I bet they’d love to jump in the pool for a swim.”

  That evening, Joe and I sat outside under the vine with a bottle of Paco’s homemade wine. In the street, our neighbours, the Ufartes, were out in force. We could hear Papa Ufarte’s guitar and I knew that Mama Ufarte and the twins would be whirling and stamping, arms held high in exuberant flamenco moves.

  “Did you know the Ufarte twins are winning awards for their flamenco dancing?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I’m not surprised. I think flamenco is in the Ufarte blood.”

  “Yup. They told me they may be performing at the village fiesta this year.”

  We fell into a companionable silence.

  “Any plans for tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “You are going to start your book.”

  Joe groaned.

  “Come on, you’ve been talking about it for years. I think you should call it, One Young Fool in South Africa.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right. I know it’s not a pretty story but perhaps it’s time to get it all off my chest.”

  “Talking about chests,” I said, “I’m worried about yours. You get out of breath so quickly. Why don’t you let me make an appointment for a check up?”

  “No way! I’m perfectly okay! Now listen, I forgot to tell you what Marcia at the shop told me today.”

  I sat up, all ears. I confess that hearing gossip is one of my many vices.


  “Hello, Mum! Australia calling!”

  “Hello Karly! I was just thinking about you all. How did you get on with your pig-viewing at the farm?”

  “Indy loved it. She was fascinated by all the animals. Completely changed our minds about getting a pig though...”

  “Oh, really? Why?”

  “Well, the piglets were beyond cute, but we met the mother and father and they were HUGE! Pity, because we’d already thought of some great names, like Hammy Davis Jr or Swinona Ryder.”

  Receiving mail, whether letters or parcels, often posed a problem for us in Spain. Parcels frequently arrived on the fish van, or we’d collect them from Marcia at the shop, or the petrol station at the bottom of the mountain. It was one of those quirky things we just learned to live with.

  “Well? What’s the news?” I asked. “What did Marcia tell you?”

  “It seems that our fishy postal deliveries are going to be a thing of the past,” Joe replied. “El Hoyo has entered the 21st century at last.”

  “How do you mean? Is our mail going to be delivered by drones?”

  “No. Not that high tech, but close. We’ve got a new postie. Marcia introduced me.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, a very nice young lady by the name of Valentina. She’s going to be delivering our mail by moped in future. Starting next week.”

  “Wonderful! Any more news?”

  “Yes, well, I think so. Marcia was itching to tell me something but when Valentina arrived, she stopped.”

  “Oh? I wonder what that was about?”

  “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her.”

  I was disappointed, but resolved to chat with Marcia and find out what she had nearly divulged to Joe. Meanwhile, I had something else on my mind.

  Joe’s health worried me, but I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. On the other hand, there was plenty I could do about my own expanding waistline and lack of fitness.

  The night before, I had looked at myself in the mirror, something I don’t enjoy. I mean, really looked. Where had all that extra weight come from? Reluctantly I climbed onto the scales, ashamed of the layer of dust I disturbed, evidence of how seldom I weighed myself.

  No!

  That figure couldn’t be right! I tried leaning forward a little, then jumped off and tried again. It didn’t make any difference. Even when I moved the scales to a different place, they still insisted on that awful number.

  So I made myself a promise. I vowed I would lose a significant amount of weight by December, in time for our visit to Australia.

  It felt good having made the decision.

  I chatted with my daughter online about it.

  “Get yourself a FitFirst,” she suggested. (It wasn’t really called that, but I don’t want to advertise.)

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a device you wear on your wrist. It counts your steps throughout the day, and there’s an app online that keeps a record of everything, and tells you all sorts of stuff.”

  “Perfect! How many steps should you do a day?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Gosh. That sounds like a lot.”

  Carmen rolled her eyes when I told her about the FitFirst.

  “¡Madre mía!” she exclaimed. “Whatever next? I’m sure I do more than ten thousand steps a day running after Paco and the rest of the family. And with the wedding of Sofía and Alejandro next summer, I will be running around even more.”

  I believed that, but Carmen’s ample curves spoke of a fondness for food. Hardly surprising as she was a wonderful cook.

  Joe also rolled his eyes when I told him I’d ordered a FitFirst online.

  “I bet you can’t do ten thousand steps in one day.”

  “Bet I can!”

  I waited impatiently for the device to arrive.

  “Joe,” I announced a few days later, “I’m just popping down to Marcia’s to see if my FitFirst has arrived.”

  Joe looked up from his computer. He was busy at work on his book.

  “You really just needed an excuse to go and chat with Marcia, didn’t you?”

  I pouted and flounced off down the street towards the village square and Marcia’s shop. Joe’s taunt was partly true. I wanted to collect my Fitfirst, if it had arrived, but I was also curious to hear the village gossip.

  Lizards darted up the crumbling walls as I passed, and the weeds, so lush a month ago, were dry and crisp, no longer thrusting through every crevice. In the distance I could hear the buzz of a bee, the only sound to break the sultry silence apart from my footsteps on the dusty street.

  Before I reached the shop, I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare. The buzzing had intensified and I soon realised it wasn’t a summer bee busy pollinating at all. It was a yellow moped descending into the valley.

  The young lady rider and I arrived at Marcia’s door at exactly the same time. I smiled at her as she switched off the engine and unclipped the chinstrap of her helmet.

  “¡Buenos días!” I said. “You must be our new postlady!”

  “Yes,” she said, pulling off her helmet and shaking out masses of wavy black hair that gleamed in the sun and fell like a waterfall down her back.

  Somebody behind me gasped. I spun round. I hadn’t realised there was anybody there.

  “Geronimo, I didn’t see you,” I said. “Where are your dogs?”

  “Over there, resting,” he said, pointing, but he never tore his eyes from Valentina.

  Geronimo’s dogs lay panting under the shade trees in the square, floppy tongues lolling. Swallows dived low, snatching flies, their shadows darting like high-speed arrows across the baked ground.

  “I am Valentina,” said the young lady, seizing the initiative and shaking my hand.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “And how are you, Geronimo?” she asked, amusement dancing in her eyes.

  Geronimo reddened and he appeared to have difficulty meeting her gaze.

  “Geronimo, stop gawking like an idiot and help Valentina carry the mail inside,” said Marcia, appearing at the shop doorway.

  Geronimo, never one to say much unless it was to sing the praises of his beloved football team, Real Madrid, was silent as Valentina opened the back pannier on the moped and pulled out a bag marked Correos. He stepped forward, took it from her and carried it into the shop.

  “You are senõra Twead, yes?” asked Valentina, as we followed.

  “I am, yes,” I replied.

  I wasn’t surprised she knew who I was as Joe and I were the only foreigners in the village, and she’d already met Joe.

  “I have a packet and some letters for you. If you would like to take them now it will save me putting them in your mailbox.”

  She took the mailbag from Geronimo, brushing his hand ever so slightly with her own. Geronimo jumped as though an electric charge had sparked, and I heard Valentina draw a tiny breath.

  I looked at old Marcia behind the counter. She’d missed nothing. Our eyes met and she twitched one silver eyebrow ever so slightly.

  “Here is your mail,” said Valentina quickly, after a brief rummage in the mailbag.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Did you come for anything else?” Marcia asked me.

  “No, just a chat as I haven’t seen you for a while, Marcia. I’ll pop back another time. Thank you for these, Valentina, nice to meet you and I’ll see you again soon. See you, Geronimo.”

  I took my mail and left the highly charged atmosphere.

  “Did you find out Marcia’s news?” asked Joe as he carried two cups of coffee out to the table under the vine.

  “No, not yet, but I met Valentina, the new postlady.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “Seems very nice. And I think I may have witnessed something significant.”

  I told him about Geronimo’s unexpected appearance, how he’d been struck dumb by Valentina, how I’d seen them accidentally touch, and
the effect it had had on both of them.

  “Honestly, Vicky, you never cease to amaze me! Only you could create such romantic nonsense out of absolutely nothing. I’m sure you’re imagining things.”

  “I’m not! Any female would agree with me. Even Marcia saw it. I can’t help it if you men have absolutely no idea of what’s going on right in front of your noses. I won’t say another word about it, but just you wait and see. Right, now I’m going to open my mail.”

  I handed Joe the bills and concentrated on opening the FitFirst device.

  I spent a happy half hour setting it up. Ten thousand steps, how hard could that be?

  I walked round the garden a few times and checked it.

  Six hundred.

  Okay, how about if I climb the stairs and do a few circuits of the roof terrace?

  Determined, I began walking again. It was more tiring than I thought it would be, particularly with the sun beating down on me. I rested, leaning my elbows on the wall and looking down on the street. Neither the Ufartes or Paco’s family were outside their houses; it was too hot. In fact, the village looked deserted except for a couple sitting together on a bench, under a shade tree in the square. The yellow moped was parked nearby. At their feet lay Geronimo’s three dogs and Valentina was absentmindedly fondling one dog’s ears.

  How nice! I thought. Geronimo deserved a little love in his life. Perhaps his luck had changed at last. If only he could curb his drinking a little, then ladies would appreciate what a good sort he was.

  I glanced down at my FitFirst. One thousand four hundred.

  Right, so this was going to be a little harder than I had thought. Never mind. No pain, no gain. I set off again.

  “How many steps have you done?” asked Joe as I marched past him for the third time.

  “Four thousand.”

  “I told you you’ll never do ten thousand a day.”

  I guess it was at that point that the step obsession began.

  Grilled Asparagus with Ham and Cheese