Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  We love the Enchanted Pool, but perhaps we should go to the beach instead, I mused.

  Then I dismissed the idea.

  The Enchanted Pool was just too delightful, and going to the beach was downright embarrassing. I winced at the thought.

  Why embarrassing? Because Joe has this irritating habit of wearing his mask, snorkel (including mouthpiece) and flippers long before he reaches the water’s edge. Then he makes his way down to the water, lifting his knees high in the air like My Little Pony so he doesn’t trip over the flippers. His actions made me think of a duck stepping over invisible obstacles. All this is accompanied by loud heavy breathing because his mask and snorkel are already in place. I always follow at a distance, trying to look nonchalant, hoping nobody will think we are together.

  But the embarrassment doesn’t finish there. Oh no. Joe is not the type to walk straight into the water. Instead, one teeny-weeny baby step at a time, he inches forward, however warm the water is. He squeals through the snorkel whenever an over-enthusiastic wave laps his sun-warmed skin. He walks on tiptoes (not easy when wearing flippers) and his elbows point to the sky. It can take a long time before he submerges himself, and when he does, his muffled bellow of, “Wesh tryfig Farkinoñfeezm!” which I choose to interpret as “Goodness, it’s freezing”, can be heard by seagulls on the next beach.

  And the beach was fraught with other hazards, like jellyfish. Sometimes dead jellyfish are strewn along the beach, delivered there by the waves that hide many more. They lurk in the shallows, waiting to brush their tentacles against sensitive skin, causing indescribable pain and a rash. Some people blame over-fishing. Man kills the fish or turtles that normally prey on the jellyfish, thus the jellyfish thrive and increase in vast numbers.

  No, I conclude, swimming at the Enchanted Pool was much less stressful, even if we had to share the space with the Metronome.

  That afternoon, as we drove home, I tried to broach the subject again, but Joe refused to talk about it. Other than repeat that he wanted tests done in the UK, and that it was pointless for me to be with him, Joe refused to talk about it.

  I watched the mountain scenery flash past. I loved it all. The gnarled, ancient olive trees clothed in silvery leaves. The wild fig trees with leaves like giant hands, their fruit ripening in the sun. The little streams, now dry, that meandered through the rock. We always looked out for wild goats, and were often rewarded with a glimpse of a family group. Once, we saw a whole group grazing in olive trees. There is something very strange about seeing goats in treetops, but of course they are magnificent climbers.

  As we crested the mountain and swung down the road into El Hoyo, we had an excellent view of the village from above. I always looked for our house. That day I saw something a little unusual.

  “Joe, there’s a car parked outside the Little House.”

  The Little House, as we called it, was a tiny cottage across the street, opposite our garden gate. It was always empty, apart from fiesta times, when the owners, two elderly brothers and their sister, arrived and stayed for the weekend. Now a car parked outside, and I was curious.

  We waved to Marcia as we passed the shop, then turned the corner into our own street.

  The car parked outside the Little House was a rusty and rather dented model. It had its doors open, revealing all manner of suitcases and bundles. A young lady, probably in her thirties, was carrying an infant into the house. The lady’s hair was short and not styled. Her clothes were unremarkable, sensible, even dowdy, right down to her worn, open-toed, flat sandals. As they entered the house, the infant’s eyes stared over its mother’s shoulder.

  “I wonder who that is?” I asked, not expecting any answer from Joe.

  We parked the car in our garage and walked up the street, past the Ufarte house to our front door. The Ufarte house was quiet and Grandma Ufarte’s armchair stood empty outside in the shade.

  Just as Joe was putting the key in our lock, a head popped out from the front door on the other side, making me jump.

  “Pssst! Veeky!” hissed our neighbour, Carmen, her double chins shaking with excitement.

  Joe raised his eye-brows in question. Carmen shot out of her house and leaned in close to me. Her breath smelled of cinnamon. She didn’t greet me with the customary kisses so I knew she had something urgent to impart.

  “Did you see who is moving into the Little House?”

  “Um, yes, a lady with a baby. She was unpacking, by the looks of it. Has she come to stay for the summer? Do you know her?”

  “Yes, she is renting the house and has come for the summer, or maybe permanently... Do I know her? Of course I know her! So do you!”

  “Do I? Why, who is she?”

  “It is Lola Ufarte!”

  I was grateful for the technology which had made it increasingly easy to stay in touch with distant family. It allowed Karly and I to chat frequently, either by instant messaging, or video calls. I am old enough to remember when one had to book telephone calls to other countries.

  “Hi Karly. I’m up writing at stupid o’clock again and just wondered how you all were. My weather app tells me it’s raining in Sydney. How’s Indy? How’s the puppy?”

  “It is raining, yuk! LJ has started puppy classes and he’s easily the most obedient dog there.”

  “LJ?”

  “After the hotel at Lake Jindabyne where Cam and I met. He hasn’t learnt how to wee outside yet though. LJ, I mean, not Cam. And he’s in a spot of trouble with Cam’s parents for leaving a puddle on their Isfahan Persian rug. LJ, not Cam.”

  “Oh. And how’s Indy?”

  “Indy’s fine. Her favourite word is ‘ROW’ which she says loudly and insistently until you sing ‘Row, row, row, your boat’ with her.”

  “Oh, you used to love that song!”

  “Well, it’s attraction has rather worn off recently.”

  “I can’t wait to meet LJ and see Indy. And you and Cam, of course.”

  “Won’t be long now. Wish you were both coming, but I do understand.”

  According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a ‘bad penny’ is ‘the predictable, and often unwanted, return of a disreputable or prodigal person after some absence’.

  That was a very fair description of Lola Ufarte.

  Carmen had invited me in for a coffee. The house was quiet and cool. Paco was busy in his cortijo up the mountain, and we rarely saw little Paco who was now nineteen years old and had a car of his own.

  “I can’t believe she would come back,” I said, “but it’s good that the Ufarte family has forgiven her again.”

  “I was talking with Maribel, her sister,” said Carmen, spooning sugar into her coffee. “She says that Lola is a changed woman.”

  “How so?”

  “The way she dresses, for instance.”

  “Well, I must say, I didn’t recognize her. She looks quite different. In fact she looked quite, um, ordinary.”

  “Yes, Maribel says that since the baby arrived, she is more sensible. She has toned down her behaviour and is very sorry for all that has happened in the past.”

  “Really? Is Lola married now? Who is the baby’s father?”

  “I do not know. I do not think she is married and I do not know who the father of the baby girl is. Maribel has forgiven her sister for trying to steal her husband. She says Lola would never do such a terrible thing now and just wants to be a good mother and respected member of the village.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said, but was not totally convinced. I was thinking of Geronimo. I remembered he was one of the many men who had fallen under Lola’s spell in the past. “I hope she doesn’t spoil anything between Geronimo and Valentina. They seem to be getting on so well.”

  “Yes, I hope all will be well. Maribel told me that she and her husband discussed it for a long time and they decided that they would give Lola another chance for the sake of the children.”

  “Ah, I can understand that.”

  “The new little girl sho
uld get to know her cousins and aunt and uncle, and the twins will adore looking after her.”

  I nodded and crossed my fingers. I really hoped this would turn out well.

  Every summer the ayuntamiento, or council, showed a family movie in the square. Everybody brought their own chairs and settled down with friends and family to watch. It began when the sun dropped in the sky and the sound of the evening cicadas filled the air. Geronimo, his Real Madrid scarf absent for once, set up the big screen as the villagers gradually took their positions and the sun hid behind the mountains.

  As usual, Marcia had parked one of her dining room chairs by her shop doorway, and was settled nicely, knitting needles clacking. Every now and then, Geronimo would smile from across the square at Valentina who was sitting beside Marcia, holding her ball of wool.

  Other adults had also brought their own chairs, while the youngsters preferred to perch on the low wall that surrounded the square. Paco and his old friend, Alejandro, sat together, heads bowed, probably discussing politics. Carmen and Alejandro’s wife were equally occupied and I imagined they were discussing the forthcoming wedding of daughter Sofía to son Alejandro Junior. Little Paco sat on the wall, his arm round his girlfriend.

  The Ufarte family was there in force. Grandma sat on a folding chair and beside her on the stone bench sat Papa and Mama Ufarte. I was pleased to see them holding hands and felt relieved their marriage was still strong in spite of Lola’s return.

  Lola Ufarte was seated on another chair, a little distance away. Her baby squirmed on her lap. Lola looked at nobody, unless she was greeted, then she smiled and ducked her head. Her behaviour was impeccable.

  The Ufarte boys played football with a crowd of other village boys. They had grown tall, and Carlos, the clingy toddler we named Snap-On so many years ago, was unrecognisable. Now he was about eight and no longer glued to his mother, but just as football crazy as his big brothers.

  The Ufarte twins waved to us from across the square. They remained identical and I hoped they didn’t know that neither I nor Joe could tell them apart.

  “Tía Veeky! Tío Joe!”

  We waved back. The twins ran over to us.

  “The movie is called Buscando a Nemo,” said Twin #1.

  “It’s all about fish,” said Twin #2.

  We smiled. We had already watched the movie Finding Nemo, but hoped that watching it again in Spanish might further improve our language skills.

  “But now we are not buscando a Nemo,” explained Twin #1, shaking her head, her palms upward.

  “No, we are buscando a Pollito,” said Twin #2, sighing.

  “Oh no!” I said. “Has your little brother gone missing again?”

  Fish with Lemon

  Pescado al limón

  Ingredients

  If you like fish with crispy skin, then just prepare the sauce separately. Omit the capers if you wish as they're not vital.

  2 medium to large white fish fillets, skin optional, any firm white fish will do, such as cod or hake

  One lemon

  1 garlic clove

  1 teaspoon of capers

  A pinch each of coarse sea salt and cracked black pepper

  A pinch of dried fennel (optional)

  1 glass of dry white wine

  Olive oil for frying

  Method

  Fry the fish in a little olive oil to your personal preference.

  Meanwhile, grate the rind of the lemon and crush the garlic clove.

  Mix the grated lemon rind, the salt and pepper and crushed garlic into a paste.

  Add the lemon juice and glass of wine.

  When the fish is cooked, add the wine/lemon/garlic mixture to the pan and simmer for 5 minutes.

  Add the capers and dried fennel and leave simmering for another minute or two.

  Serve the fish with your favourite accompaniments, perhaps potatoes or rice.

  Drizzle any remaining sauce on top.

  5

  VISITORS

  The Ufarte twins’ little brother was affectionately known as Pollito, which means ‘little chicken’. Unlike his older brother, Snap-On, who remained glued to his mother for years, Pollito had been blessed with an adventurous spirit. Although only four and a half years old, he would wander off to explore whenever the opportunity arose.

  Luckily, El Hoyo was a very safe place. Traffic was sparse and all the families were either related or had known each other for years. Older children looked out for younger ones, and although Pollito’s exploring had often earned him scraped knees and grazes, he had never really come to any harm.

  “Yes, but this time we think we know where he is,” said Twin #2.

  “He is looking at the kittens.”

  “Next to the shop.”

  “In the old ruin.”

  “Mama told him not to.”

  “Because the mama cat is wild.”

  “And the kittens will scratch him.”

  “Oh dear!” I said. “Would you like me to help you find him?”

  Before they could answer, we all heard a howl coming from the direction of Marcia’s shop.

  “¡Madre mía!” chorused the twins.

  A grubby little urchin emerged from the shadows, his mouth wide, preparing for another bawl.

  “Pollito! Over here!”

  The little boy raised his head and saw his sisters. His howls grew in volume for their benefit and his clenched fists rubbed his eyes.

  The girls galloped over to him and enveloped him in their arms, dabbing his scratches with their hankies and kissing the pain away.

  Pollito was a brave little fellow and soon quietened. His sisters took a hand each and led him back to their parents, passing us on the way.

  “We told you the kittens would scratch you.”

  “If you tried to pick them up.”

  “Mama brought some candies.”

  “To eat while we watch the movie.”

  “If you’re good, I expect she’ll give you some.”

  “Look! The film is starting now.”

  “You’ll like it, it’s about fish.”

  Music flooded the square. Pollito forgot his scratches and settled with his family to watch the film. His big brothers stopped kicking the ball and sat on the wall, legs swinging as they sucked on candies.

  Geronimo, satisfied that his job was done for the moment, returned to Valentina’s side. She smiled up into his face and reached up to run her fingers through his long hair as he bent to kiss her.

  “Joe!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think Geronimo is drinking! Look, he’s not clutching a beer bottle and I can’t see one poking out of his pocket.”

  “That’s good. Perhaps Valentina is a good influence.”

  I hoped so.

  As the movie played, my mind wandered.

  So much to think about.

  I’m an optimist so I was positive that Joe’s checkups would reveal nothing too sinister. Of course, I was relieved that he’d finally agreed to be examined, but I was bitterly disappointed that he wouldn’t be joining me on the trip to Australia.

  Never mind, if he gets the tests done quickly, then he can join me Down Under for a few weeks.

  That thought cheered me.

  Felicity, the village cat who considered our garden to be her personal territory, was raising kittens. We only fed them the occasional scrap because we didn’t want them to be dependent on us. Felicity, never as tame and trusting as Sylvia and Gravy had been, watched us warily, but allowed her kittens to snatch up the scraps and run for cover.

  In the evenings, Joe and I often sat outside and watched the kittens at play as the night closed in.

  “Becky will enjoy watching these little tykes,” I said, as Kitten #1 dived on Kitten #2 from a plant pot where he had been lying in ambush.

  “Oh, have you heard from her? Is she visiting us as usual this year?”

  “Yes, I was chatting to her online today. You’ll never guess what!”

&
nbsp; “What?”

  My niece, Becky, visited us quite often, always alone. She wasn’t married, but she had a fairly busy social life and was frequently dating.

  “You know you can bring whoever you like,” Joe and I repeatedly told her.

  “Nah,” she had replied every time, “I like coming out here on my own. I’d have to meet someone really special before I considered bringing him with me.”

  “Well,” I said, enjoying the news. “Becky asked if she could bring her boyfriend!”

  “Really? That’s a surprise!”

  “Yes! I reckon this may be a serious relationship.”

  “What’s his name? Do you know anything about him?”

  “His name is Gresh. I don’t really know anything about him except that he’s never been married. And, like Becky, he doesn’t have any children.”

  “Sounds perfect. I shall look forward to meeting him.”

  At the airport, we picked out the couple easily. Becky was holding hands with a tall man.

  “This is Gresh,” said Becky.

  Gresh grinned. He had warm, friendly eyes and an easy smile.

  “Good to meet you,” he said. “Thank you so much for having us.”

  We exchanged kisses and handshakes.

  “It’s a real pleasure,” Joe and I chorused.

  We loaded their luggage into the car and drove home along the coast as Becky pointed out various sights. Then we turned off into the mountains, following the meandering roads we knew so well. Soon we were descending into our valley.

  “Welcome to El Hoyo,” said Joe. “I hope you won’t be bored, it’s very quiet here.”

  “Perfect!” said Gresh. “A whole holiday with nothing to do. Just what I need to unwind.”

  Becky snorted. I looked at her in question.

  “Gresh doesn’t know how to unwind!” she said. “He never stops! He’s always doing something, and if there’s nothing that needs doing, he’ll find something.”