Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  Original of the check-in labels and boarding passes.

  - Original receipts for the expenses in which you incurred for the purchase of essential items.

  - An Inventory of the Contents and an approximation as to the value both of the contents and the suitcase (including any pertinent receipts if at all possible).

  We thank you in advance for sending us this information, which will help us to deal with your claim.

  Hmm… This was going to take time.

  Have you ever tried remembering everything that you packed in a suitcase several days ago? And could you recall how much you paid for each item? It took me all day to gather the information they wanted. Still, if they were going to compensate me, it had to be done. After all, accidents do happen.

  I posted the letter to Madrid. A week went by, and I had no response.

  Later that month, I was having a coffee with Carmen, next door. It was a Thursday, not a day that Paco and Carmen usually spent in the village.

  “Paco was owed a day from work,” she explained. “You know what he’s like, he’d much rather be up here than down below. We have not seen much of you since you came back from Australia,” she said, pouring coffee into two glasses. “Is everything well with you and Joe?”

  I patted Yukky’s soft head and looked into the plump face of the lovely lady who had always made us so welcome. Family photos smiled down at us from the whitewashed walls. I could smell coffee, and cinnamon. The domed quail cages with their noisy occupants were missing from the wall, so I guessed Paco was out shooting. I always felt extremely sorry for the poor females, confined to tiny cages and used as decoys to lure out males. In spring, no male quail could resist the females’ clacking call and Paco rarely returned home empty-handed.

  “Have they found your suitcase yet?” asked Carmen.

  “No, no sign of it so far.”

  “Madre mía, what a nuisance!” She peered at me closely. “Is anything else worrying you?”

  So I told her about Joe’s health. She already knew about his high blood pressure but the COPD was news to her, as was the possibility of prostate cancer.

  “¡Madre mía!” Her hand clapped over her mouth in shock. “That is terrible news. What will you do? It is at times like this you need your family around you.”

  I hadn’t breathed a word about our possible move, and her reaction rocked me. Was Joe right? Was I being unrealistic in wanting to stay in Spain, so far from family?

  A face appeared at the door.

  “Ah! Valentina! ¿Qué tal?” said Carmen, getting up. “How are things? Come and have coffee with us.”

  I’d been so absorbed in my own thoughts I hadn’t even heard the postlady’s moped buzz up the street.

  “I would love to, Carmen, but I’m late for my round already. Here, I have a letter for you.” She suddenly noticed me and reached back into her sack. “And one for you, too.”

  “Thank you,” we chorused as she handed over the mail.

  “You can spare five minutes,” insisted Carmen. “Look, I have made polvorones de canele.”

  But even cinnamon shortbread wouldn’t detain Valentina. With a cheery wave, she was gone.

  “It is a pity she did not stay awhile,” remarked Carmen. “I wanted to ask her why Geronimo is moping round El Hoyo with a face like a dog who has dropped its bone down a well.”

  I couldn’t help smiling at that image.

  “From what Marcia says, I think if Geronimo and Valentina just sat down together and talked, they would resolve their differences easily,” I observed.

  “Yes, but he is too shy and proud, and she is too stubborn,” agreed Carmen.

  “I must go,” I said. “Thank you for the coffee and polvorones.”

  I popped back next door and looked at the envelope in my hand. I was expecting it to be from Iberia about my lost luggage, but it wasn’t. It was an official-looking letter from the UK, addressed to Joe.

  “Joe, this is for you,” I said, and stood while he tore open the envelope.

  He frowned as he pulled out the letter and began reading.

  “It’s from the hospital. Not good news, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh no!”

  “It seems I do have prostate cancer.”

  “Oh no!”

  I sat down quickly. I was terribly shocked. I had convinced myself that the tests would show that he was clear of any cancer.

  “So what happens now?”

  “They’ve made an appointment for me for the 2nd of April. I have to see the specialist prostate nurse.”

  “But that’s less than two weeks away!”

  “I guess they need to start treatment as fast as possible in these cases.”

  Joe’s calmness impressed me. I glanced up at the kitchen calendar.

  “That’s Easter week! April the 2nd is the Thursday before Easter. We’d better book flights immediately.”

  “Yes, we must, but there’s no point in you coming, too. Besides, you may be really busy while I’m away.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on, Vicky. We agreed. If I was diagnosed with cancer, we would put the house on the market.”

  Shocked by the bad news, I had forgotten the bargain we had made. I gaped at him and the blood drained from my face. That letter in his hand had changed our lives.

  “Mum, are you serious? You are going to come and live in Australia permanently?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not a joke?” Karly squeaked. “You haven’t been drinking?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “That’s amazing news! I can’t take it in! I can’t wait to tell Cam and Indy!”

  “Obviously we have to sell the house, and apply for Australian visas. It’s going to take some time.”

  “I know, but it’s just the best news! I wish the prostate cancer thing hadn’t happened, of course, but I’m so glad you are both going to be here. How do you feel about leaving Spain?”

  “Terribly sad, but it’s the right thing to do. I know that. And being near you is going to be fabulous.”

  “Kurt?”

  “Yes, this is I.”

  “It’s Vicky here. How are you?”

  “I am vell.”

  Kurt was the German estate agent who had sold us our house in 2004. Now, eleven years later, we were going full circle and talking to him about selling it.

  “Kurt,” I took a deep breath, “we have decided to sell the house. Can you help us?”

  “Of course, yes,” he said, but I heard the surprise in his voice. “I vas always thinking that you stay in El Hoyo.”

  “We thought so, too, Kurt. But things have changed a little. We love the house and we love living in El Hoyo, but now we’ve decided it’s time to leave.”

  I explained the situation to him and he listened carefully.

  “I understand,” he said. “I vill help you get the best price, but you have chosen a bad time. Nobody has any money and property prices are at the bottom rock.”

  “I know,” I said. “It can’t be helped.”

  “Okay. I vill come and take some measurement and photograph. There are many things ve must do.”

  Telling my friend and neighbour, Carmen, and also Marcia at the shop, that we were selling our house and leaving El Hoyo was a task I dreaded. What I hadn’t taken into account was the enormous value Spanish people place on family, which made my job much easier.

  “¡Madre mía!” said Carmen. “Prostate cancer is very common, and I believe they can treat it if it is caught quickly. But as I said to you before, it is at times like this that you need your family around you. We will miss you, but I hope you sell the house quickly, even though it is a bad time to sell.”

  “Of course you must go,” said Marcia. “Your family will give you strength. I will tell all the villagers that your house is for sale. Sometimes buyers come as a result of word of mouth. Somebody may have relatives who would like a house in El Hoyo.”

  That hurdle overcome, I could
now concentrate on the house itself.

  I didn’t allow myself to think much about Joe’s diagnosis. Instead, I threw myself into preparing to put our beloved home on the market.

  I decided to tackle the massive tasks ahead in my usual way. Lists.

  Starting from the front door, I conducted a walk-through with my notebook in hand, trying to imagine I was a prospective buyer and seeing everything for the first time.

  Our window boxes, crammed with pink geraniums, looked glorious, but a couple of pots, one either side of the front door, wouldn’t go amiss. The front door itself could probably benefit from another coat of varnish, and the porch had a cobweb or two that needed whisking away. High above my head, the pair of house martins chittered at me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to them. “I won’t disturb you. You are welcome here, it’s just spiders that I’m evicting.”

  I continued inside, and my list grew alarmingly. I would need to buy white paint, filler, tile grout, a new handle for the bathroom door, some window cleaner, a new broom, and many bits and pieces.

  I never grew accustomed to the empty chicken coop. Filled with ghosts of chickens we had loved and lost, it now served as a reminder of our uncertain future. I found myself saving all our vegetable scraps as I had always done, then remembering we had no hens. Now, the highly-fertilised empty run had sprouted vigorous weeds. Another job for me. I certainly wasn’t going to be bored while Joe was away, and neither would I have much time for brooding.

  Cinnamon Cookies

  Polverones

  These taste very similar to shortbread, and although common in Spain at Christmas time, they are well worth making all year round.

  Ingredients

  For the dough

  1 cup of butter

  ½ cup of icing sugar (confectioners’ sugar)

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1½ cups bread flour

  For the coating

  1 cup of icing sugar (confectioners’ sugar)

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  Method

  Preheat oven to 180°C (350°F).

  Cream together icing sugar and butter. Stir in the vanilla.

  Combine flour, salt, and cinnamon in a separate bowl. Mix into the butter/sugar mixture to form a stiff dough.

  In a third bowl, combine sugar and cinnamon. Shape dough into 1 inch balls and roll in cinnamon mixture.

  Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until lightly browned.

  Cool cookies on wire racks.

  18

  APPOINTMENTS

  We had just one weekend together before Joe returned to the UK, and it was a busy one. Kurt visited, and took a great many photos and measurements.

  “Zis is a good house,” he said, which he always did when he visited.

  “We’ll miss it,” I said.

  “And do you think how much you vant to ask in price?”

  “We’ve discussed that,” said Joe, and named a sum.

  Kurt looked concerned. He drew a property newspaper out from under his arm and spread it on the table.

  “Five years before, yes, that price exactly,” he said. “But now it is more different. Look at this house, it has eight bedrooms, a swimming pool and field with many orange trees. It is more cheaper.”

  We read the description with mounting dismay.

  “And this one. Five bedrooms, double garage, footpath to the beach. It is more cheaper.”

  “This house has a private cinema and grandmother apartment. It is more cheaper.”

  “Yes, yes,” Joe cut in. “I can see we were being too optimistic. How much would you suggest?”

  The figure Kurt quoted caused us both to gasp.

  “Really?” exclaimed Joe.

  “But that’s about what we paid for it eleven years ago, when it was a ruin!” I whispered. “You know how much work we’ve done on this house...”

  Kurt looked unhappy.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “It is the Crisis.” He pronounced it the Spanish way, sounding like ‘creases’. “Please to think around it and tell me on the phone. I understand if you vant to exchange your minds.”

  We looked at him, speechless.

  “Thank you,” we said, but without much enthusiasm.

  “What a shock!” I said, when Kurt had left.

  “What terrible luck,” said Joe bitterly. “I knew we’d have to take a hit, but a hit this size? It’s hard to believe Spanish property prices have dropped so low. It’s going to make buying a property in Australia very difficult. Their property market is soaring.”

  It was all very depressing.

  “I don’t suppose we have much choice, really,” I said. “We have to go, I know that.”

  “I wish it hadn’t come to this. It’s all my fault,” said Joe.

  “No! Let’s concentrate on getting you better. Don’t worry about the house, I’ll sort all that. I’ll phone Kurt and tell him we still want to go ahead.”

  Spring was in full swing. Sparrows twittered from dawn to dusk, nest-building and preparing to bring the next sparrow generation into the world. A pair of eagles had chosen a crag in our valley to set up home, and could be seen soaring overhead, silhouetted against the cloudless sky. Our house martins’ new nest, neatly tucked under the eaves was an architectural wonder, perfectly domed and secure from Felicity and the village cats.

  In April, the sun is kind and it is a pleasure to be outside, absorbing the rays without feeling as if one has stepped into a furnace. Joe and I sat on the roof terrace, savouring our coffees and enjoying the wonderful warmth and scents of spring.

  If we looked down onto our own garden, we could clearly see the grapevine’s bulging buds, some of which had already burst to reveal fresh green leaves that would grow to the size of my hand. Beyond was the cemetery with its large, ornate gate. Turn around, and the village rooftops came into view, most below us, but a few higher on the mountain slope.

  It was Sunday, and at this time of day, the village was unusually quiet. Earlier, Geronimo had rung the church bells, a solemn summons for the village faithful. Most of the population heeded the call to prayer and headed to church. From our vantage point, we watched them troop past below us.

  Lola Ufarte, carrying her little girl, hurried past. Our other neighbours, Federico and Roberto, passed by, marching in step. Their adopted daughter, Emilia, looked a picture in her pink dress with matching shoes. Next came the Ufarte family, except for the grandmother, who preferred to doze in her armchair in the street beside their front door.

  “Hurry, boys,” called their mother, Maribel. “Father Samuel told me he has some new games for you.”

  Her sons’ expressions and rolling eyes said it all.

  Who cares! We’d rather play football in the square.

  Carmen popped out of her cottage next to ours. Like everybody else, she wore her Sunday best. Today a lacy shawl was draped over her shoulders and her feet were squeezed into shiny, heeled shoes that clacked as she walked up the street.

  “No sign of Paco,” remarked Joe.

  “No, he always gets out of going to church if he can. I expect he’s got some urgent quail business to see to.”

  “I didn’t see the twins, or little Pollito, did you?”

  Before I could answer, the Ufarte door slammed again and light footsteps ran up the street.

  “You must not hide away, Pollito!” said Twin #1.

  “You’ve made us late!” said Twin #2.

  Pollito’s chubby hands were firmly in his big sisters’ grasp. There was no escape. The twins hurried along, almost dragging their little brother off his feet. Unseen, Joe and I smiled down at the scene.

  “If you are late, Father Samuel may not have any bon bons left.”

  That seemed to do the trick, and Pollito’s feet scampered a little faster.

  The village was quiet except for the sounds of nature and a distant tractor labouring high above us on
the opposite mountain slope.

  An hour passed, and the church bells began to ring again, more joyously this time. I saw the first villagers begin to emerge. Instead of hurrying, as they had earlier, they now sauntered along in knots, deep in conversation. I knew Carmen would take a good ten minutes to get home, even though I could already see her heading up our street.

  The Ufarte boys barrelled out as though escaping from a prison, nearly knocking over old Marcia. They headed towards the square and another never-ending game of football.

  The twins appeared, Pollito between them. Pollito was clutching a large, rather crumpled sheet of paper. As they drew closer, we could hear their conversation.

  “Did you have fun today, Pollito?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did Father Samuel give you a bon bon?”

  “Yes, and tía Lola gave me another. I had two!”

  “Lucky boy!”

  “And did you do painting?”

  “Yes.” Pollito waved the big sheet of paper. “Father Samuel told us to paint a picture of God.”

  “But nobody knows what He looks like!” teased one of his big sisters.

  “They will when they see my picture!” announced the little boy as they disappeared into their house.

  “I shall miss all this, while I’m away,” said Joe, smiling.

  “Well, I don’t believe you’ll be stuck in the UK for long. I wonder what the treatment is?”

  “I don’t know, but I guess we’ll soon find out.”

  While I remained in Spain, busying myself with the house sale, Joe was in the UK. He had already been assigned two specialist prostate nurses, Debbie and Angela, who had rooms in the Acute Services Division of the hospital. Joe’s first appointment was with Debbie, a very business-like Scots lady.