Little Paco danced with his girlfriend, and Mama and Papa Ufarte stood some distance away, holding hands. I couldn’t see Lola Ufarte anywhere.
“Would you like to dance?” asked Joe, uncharacteristically.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I replied as he swept me onto the dance floor.
Thankfully, at that moment, the band slowed down the tempo and the lead singer began to croon a plaintive song. I had plenty of time to peer over Joe’s shoulder and indulge myself in one of my favourite hobbies: observing. Joe may call it ‘nosy-parkering’ but I maintain that there is nothing wrong with being a keen observer.
People were still arriving, mostly in family groups or as couples. My eyes were drawn to a beautiful girl who appeared to arrive on her own. She walked tall on high-heeled strappy sandals that made her hips sway. Long tanned legs were barely covered by her shocking pink mini-dress. She tossed her head and her short, dark hair caught the light.
I happened to glance at Geronimo and was surprised. He stood with his mouth open, staring at the new arrival as though mesmerised. Valentina, at his side, stared at him, then back at the newcomer. There was a shocked expression on her face.
I frowned. Who was this girl? Why was Geronimo reacting like that? Of course, I should have worked it out immediately, but it was the gypsy bangles on the girl’s wrists that confirmed it.
Lola Ufarte.
That is, the old Lola Ufarte, as she used to be, was back.
Dressed to kill.
I briefly wondered where her little girl was and guessed that the elderly abuela, Granny Ufarte, was probably on babysitting duty at home.
To be fair, Lola didn’t even look in Geronimo’s direction, but the harm had been done. I saw Valentina pull Geronimo into the shop, and I had no problem reading her body language. She was not happy.
Oblivious, Lola Ufarte made her way to the rest of the Ufarte family. The twins were delighted to see her, and dragged her onto the dance floor.
The band began another energetic number and Joe and I admitted defeat, preferring to watch instead of dance. I found it interesting that Lola was writhing and undulating to the music just feet from where the young priest stood. Was he her quarry? He didn’t appear to notice her, but she wriggled and her hips swayed as though the whole of Spain was watching her dance.
I didn’t see Valentina again that night.
Sadly, I watched as Geronimo emerged from the shop, a bottle of beer in his hand. Marcia caught his sleeve as he passed her chair but he shook her off.
At around one o’clock, the church clock probably struck, but the music was too loud for anyone to hear it. Geronimo dived into the shop, and emerged with another load of fireworks. He looked a little unsteady on his feet but that didn’t stop him signalling to the band who finished their number and moved aside, allowing him to take centre stage. He set down his bottle of beer, flicked a lighter and lit the first of many touch-papers. Rocket after rocket exploded into the sultry night sky, sending forth showers of multicoloured sparks that crackled and boomed around the valley.
“Good fireworks show,” remarked Joe, as we walked home.
“It was.”
“It all went very smoothly, I thought.”
“Except for Geronimo and Valentina.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I think they’ve probably broken up. And Geronimo is drinking again. And Lola Ufarte is up to her old tricks.”
“Vicky, we’ve been together all evening. How can you possibly know all that?”
“Just observing.”
We slept soundly that night, in spite of the music which continued to throb for hours. And nobody was allowed to sleep late on Sunday morning because at nine o’clock, Geronimo set off more fireworks and a marching band from a neighbouring village stamped up and down the streets.
Then the churchbells clamoured, summoning the villagers to prayer. I noticed Lola Ufarte hurry past our house, pushing a baby stroller, heading for the church. She wore white jeans and a top, but the tightness of the jeans, the scoop of the top’s neckline, and the jangling of the gypsy bangles were designed to turn men’s heads.
“Was that Lola Ufarte walking past?” asked Joe.
“It was.”
“Gosh, she looks different somehow…”
“Yes. She does.”
Nobody could accuse Joe of being observant.
Sunday was packed with more activities, including the wine tasting event, which Paco always refused to enter. Joe and I had heard the reason why many times.
“Pah! It would not be fair,” Paco argued. “If I entered my wine, I would win every year. Ask anyone, they will tell you that Paco makes the best wine in El Hoyo.”
There was the Pudding Contest, judged by the mayor and his wife, won again by a delicious-looking arroz con leche, or rice pudding, complete with cinnamon, vanilla and lemon peel shavings.
But the main event was the procession. It passed our front door so we didn’t need to watch the beginning that emerged from the church, but waited for it to pass our doorstep. The procession was headed, as always, by the clergy. Father Rodrigo hobbled along, supported by the new young priest. Their colourful robes reflected the joyousness of the occasion. They were followed by a statue of Santa Barbara who was borne on a flower-bedecked pedestal, supported on the shoulders of Paco, Geronimo and six other male villagers. Then came the statuette of the Virgin Mary, seated on her bed of flowers, carried by the village ladies. This year, Carmen, Sofía and Mama Ufarte were supporting the platform on one side, while another three ladies took the weight on the other, one of whom we easily recognised.
“Isn’t that Lola Ufarte?” hissed Joe.
“Yup!”
“I had no idea she was the religious sort.”
“Hmm… Neither did I.”
The marching band followed and the trumpets drowned out any further conversation.
Murcian Salad
Mojete Murciano
This recipe requires no cooking and is fast and simple to put together.
Ingredients (serves 2)
1 standard tin of chopped tomatoes
2 standard tins of tuna (in oil, brine or vinegar – your choice)
2 hard boiled eggs – quartered
½ medium onion – coarsely chopped
Fistful of black olives – pitted
Good quality extra virgin olive oil
A pinch or two of coarse sea salt (omit this if your tuna came in brine)
Method
Place all the ingredients in a bowl except for the olive oil and salt. Mix if you like, or just layer them.
Refrigerate for half an hour to let the flavours absorb.
Finish off with a good drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt.
Serve.
7
CHIMNEYS
“Hi, Mum, how are you?”
“Great, can’t believe how fast the time is flashing by now. Only a few weeks until I’m with you in Australia!”
“Indy and I’ve been painting your lair.”
“Oooh! Exciting!”
“And you are the proud owner of a TV aerial.”
“Lovely! What’s the weather like?”
“Sydney is warming up nicely. It’ll be beautiful by the time you get here. How’s Spain?”
“The fiesta was as crazy as usual, and the weather is still good, but it’s getting cooler.”
The fiesta was over for another year and temperatures began to drop. Soon Marcia would go down the mountain to spend winter with her sons in the city where it would be warmer. We, too, began to plan for the weeks ahead. Days were still pleasant and sunny, but cold nights were tiptoeing in.
“We still have plenty of firewood,” said Joe. “I reckon as we’ll be away most of the winter, it isn’t worth ordering any more.”
“That’s good,” I said, “but we haven’t cleaned the chimneys for a long time, do you think we should?”
“No, I’m sure they ar
e very clean, they won’t need doing yet.”
“I’d be happier if we just tested them.”
“Honestly, Vicky, you do worry about nothing! Okay, if it puts your mind at rest, we’ll just light a quick paper fire in both fireplaces and make sure all is well.”
“Thank you.”
We had two wood-burners, a stove in the kitchen and fireplace in the living room. We were in the living room at the time and I turned to look at the fireplace in question. It had a glass door and should have been empty, apart from a few dusty cobwebs that may have appeared over the summer months.
“Joe!”
“What?”
“There’s something in the stove!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“There is! Look! It’s moving!”
Old Spanish houses are not like modern houses. Windows were built small in an effort to keep out the heat in summer and preserve the warmth inside in winter, but the reduced natural light made rooms darker.
Joe bent down and squinted into the blackness of the stove.
“I wish you’d admit you need glasses!”
“I can see perfectly well, thank you.”
“Look! It’s moving again! It’s some kind of animal…”
Joe reached to open the glass door.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t open it, let’s see what it is first! We may need to catch...”
Too late.
Something black shot out, swooped round the room and clung sootily to a picture frame.
“Aaaagh!” I yelled. “It’s a bat!”
I’m not at all frightened of bats outside in the fresh air. I think they are wonderful creatures, and they certainly did a grand job of devouring El Hoyo’s flying insect population. I loved the way they flitted round the lamp posts, catching moths.
But I have to admit, I don’t like the idea of bats flying round my head indoors. Especially scared, sooty bats.
“Quick, open the front door,” Joe ordered.
I flung the door open but the bat was too frightened to move, and merely blinked.
“Perhaps we should throw something over it,” I suggested, using the royal ‘we’ as I had no intention of doing it myself.
“Hmmm… Good idea,” said Joe, grabbing my favourite white T-shirt which I’d foolishly left lying around.
He hurled it at the poor creature, but the bat sat tight, its tiny hands gripping the picture frame, its eyes regarding us over its shoulder. My T-shirt slid to the floor, soot-smeared.
“I know, I’ll get the little fishing net,” Joe suggested, “if I can find it. Stay there and watch the bat. We don’t want it hiding somewhere in the room and coming out later.”
“Can’t I go and look for the net?” I argued, but Joe had already gone.
“Right, Batty,” I said quietly. “Just you hang in there and behave until Joe comes back with a net. We’ll soon have you outside.”
But the bat was restless. To my horror, it looked around, twitched, then sprang into the air.
“Aaaagh!” I yelled, crouching down and covering my head, trying hard to follow its flightpath as it circled the ceiling.
“Beaky!”
I must have jumped a foot in the air.
“Beaky! What are you doing?”
A figure stood in the doorway, blocking out the light. I knew that voice. It was Pancho, the mayor.
I half-straightened up, my eyes searching the ceiling, but during that fraction of a second when I’d been distracted, the bat had disappeared.
“Poor Beaky!” said Pancho, walking into the room. It didn’t matter how good his English, his nasal voice still made my name sound like Beaky. “Are you sick?”
“No, no!”
“You must not be afraid, there is nothing here.”
“But…”
“Why were you crouching on the floor, poor Beaky? And why do you keep rolling your eyes to the heavens?”
“I’m not rolling my eyes!”
“Poor Beaky,” said the mayor, taking my hand and raising it to his lips. “You look pale. I am thinking your husband does not look after you properly. Perhaps he would let me take you out for a soothing drive. Or a quiet drink in my office at the town hall.”
My mouth dropped open. Where was Joe with that wretched net?
“Pancho, there is nothing wrong with me. There was a …”
Try as I might, I couldn’t think of the Spanish word for ‘bat’.
“A what, dear Beaky?” he asked gently. “You can tell me anything...”
I snatched my hand away.
“Bat!” I said in English.
“But what, my dear?” he asked, following my lead and speaking in English.
“Not ‘but’! I said ‘bat’!” I flapped my arms. “Bat!”
Pancho raised his eyebrows. I could see concern in his eyes.
I shook my head in exasperation.
“You know, a little mouse with …” Now I couldn’t remember the word for ‘wings’.
“A leetle mouse with clogs on?” he smiled. “This song I have heard the children sing in the English class at the school.”
A movement behind his head caught my eye. The bat! It was clinging to the curtain rail, staring balefully down at us.
“Allí arriba,” I said, pointing triumphantly. “Up there.”
Pancho looked up, and the bat chose that second to launch again.
“¡Madre mía!” squealed the mayor, his eyes huge, all chivalry and counselling forgotten. “¡Es un murciélago!”
Oh! I thought. So that’s the Spanish word for a bat!
In that moment, I forgot to be afraid of the bat and watched the proceedings with fascination. The little creature flapped round the ceiling, searching for an exit.
“¡Madre mía! Go away!” gibbered Pancho, covering his head and backing out of the front door into the street. His fear far outstripped mine. A casual observer might be forgiven for thinking that a giant mutant vampire had invaded our home, not merely a small, harmless, common, Spanish bat.
Unfortunately, the bat spotted the escape at exactly the same moment as Pancho and swooped out after him.
“¡Ayuda! Help! Help! It’s chasing me!” yelled the mayor as he galloped down the street.
I sank onto the sofa, unable to stifle my giggles as I heard Pancho’s footsteps receding.
“Oh!” said Joe, coming in, clutching our shrimping net. “Where’s the bat? Am I too late?”
“It went out by itself.”
“Did it? Oh, good. Funny thing, I just saw the mayor pelting down the street shouting something. No idea what he was yelling.”
“I think I might know,” I said, and started laughing again.
Joe crumpled up an old newspaper and threw it into the stove. He struck a match, allowing the little flame to curl around the paper until it burst into life. Smoke poured from the burning paper, but instead of being drawn up the chimney, it swept back into the room.
“Blast it,” coughed Joe, scratching his nethers. “Looks like you were right. This chimney does need cleaning. And if this chimney needs cleaning, then I suppose the kitchen one does, too.”
“Shall we call in a chimney sweep?”
“No, we can do it easily. It won’t take a minute.”
Huh!
“Shall we go and buy a chimney brush?”
“No need, all we have to do is poke something up there.”
“What sort of something?”
“Anything. Like a bundle of rags on the end of a stick, or something. What’s this?”
“Well, it was my favourite T-shirt, but I guess it’s no good now since you used it as a bat catcher.”
The irony, and my annoyance, were completely lost on Joe.
“Perfect,” he said, and before I could stop him, he’d rolled it into a ball and was poking it up the chimney with the shrimping net.
Soot fell in soft clumps, spraying a fine black dust over everything in the living room.
“Can’t yo
u wait until I’ve covered stuff up?”
“Oh well, I’ve started now… Oh dear, I can’t seem to get any higher. Have we got a longer pole?”
“What do you mean, have we got a longer pole? How should I know? We both live here, you know. Okay, I’ll go and look for something.”
I stomped off, furious at the way the job was being tackled. I couldn’t find a long pole, but I found a couple of bendy bamboo poles and brought them back.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“We could tape them together?”
That worked, except the poles went straight past my T-shirt and made no impression on the soot whatsoever.
“Hmm… I think the rag has got stuck,” said Joe, stating the obvious. “I’ll find some more rags and see if we can dislodge the blockage.”
The more items Joe pushed up the chimney, the blacker he got and the more the blockage grew. I almost lost track of what he’d pushed up there. In the old days, he could have climbed up inside, but now the chimney was lined with much narrower metal tubing.
“Looks like I’m going to have to go down the mountain and buy a proper chimney brush,” he said.
I wanted to remind him that I’d suggested that at the start, but I graciously held my tongue.
While he was gone, I swept, dusted, and stripped off the covers of the couch and armchairs.
“Honestly, girls,” I said to the chickens as they crowded round the fence to watch what I was doing. “You’re better off without a husband. If he’d just waited, I wouldn’t have to be outside shaking soot off these covers.”
Then I dragged out the dust-covers and spread them over the furniture in the living room. Better late than never.
Just as I was finishing, Joe returned with a shiny, new, extendable chimney brush, and this time, the job went smoothly. He went up to the roof terrace and stuck his new purchase down the chimney, giving it a good jiggle as he thrust. Years’ worth of soot crashed down amidst the bundle of rags. RIP, favourite T-shirt. More black dust floated round the room.
Two Old Fools in Turmoil Page 6