Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

“No!” said Valentina, probably louder than she had intended.

  Geronimo looked at her directly for the first time.

  “I must,” he said gravely.

  “It’s so dangerous,” I said. “The police will be here very soon. They’ll know what to do. Perhaps you should wait…”

  Geronimo shook his head once, his long hair flying out.

  “I want to go home!” wailed Pollito’s voice, sailing up from below, then subsided into hiccuping sobs.

  “When we were boys, we used to climb down this shaft using a rusty old ladder,” said Geronimo, pulling away at more of the undergrowth at the lip of the shaft. “Ah, here it is, just like I remembered.”

  The metal ladder he had revealed was bolted into the rock, another relic of the mining era. He grabbed it and gave it a tug. A little shower of small dislodged stones cascaded into the hole. However, the ladder held. Geronimo got into position and tested the top rung with one foot, putting more and more weight on it until he was satisfied.

  “Pollito! Did you see some stones fall down?”

  “Yes!”

  “Pollito, you must cover your head and keep out of the way. I’m coming down the ladder and some more stones may fall. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bravo! You are a brave boy. I’m coming down now.”

  Toast with Salted Chocolate

  Tostada con chocolate y sal

  If you have a sweet tooth, you’ll enjoy this Spanish recipe for tostada. Of course children love it, and it’s perfect for adult late night snacks.

  Ingredients (per person)

  A couple of slices of toasted bread per person

  Chocolate (as much as you like, your choice of type)

  Olive oil

  A pinch or two of chunky sea salt

  Method

  Fill a saucepan a third full of water and bring to a very gentle boil. Place a heatproof container on top and break the chocolate into pieces. Heat it gently, stirring occasionally.

  Alternatively, carefully melt the chocolate in a microwave.

  Drizzle a little olive oil over the toast.

  Once the chocolate is melted, spread on the toast.

  Sprinkle with a pinch or two of the chunky sea salt.

  Serve warm.

  29

  THE HOLE

  “That ladder is so old, it may not hold you,” somebody said.

  “I am accustomed to old ladders,” smiled Geronimo. “Don’t forget how many times I have climbed the church tower!”

  Slowly, he descended, testing each rung as he went. Like a professional climber, he moved just one limb at a time. I noticed that he always maintained three points of contact with the ladder, either two feet and a hand or two hands and a foot. More and more of his body disappeared, until the hole swallowed him completely.

  “Pollito, can you see me coming down to you? Are you okay?” echoed his voice.

  Pollito didn’t answer but the heartiness of his bawls reassured us all that there was not much wrong with him.

  I have no idea how deep the shaft bored into the mountain, but it seemed like an age before we heard Geronimo reach and make physical contact with the little boy.

  “It is okay now,” he said so softly that Valentina and I had almost to lean into the shaft to hear his voice. “I’ve got you. You are safe. Mama and Papa are coming, they have been very worried about you.”

  Pollito howled, but the urgency had gone.

  “Soon you will be home, and your sisters will make you toast with chocolate.”

  The howls subsided.

  “You were very clever to stay here on this big ledge.”

  Sniff.

  “Show me your foot. Where does it hurt?”

  Silence.

  “There, when I rub it, does it feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you walk on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I think you just bumped it when you fell.”

  Sniff.

  “Now, Pollito, I need you to be really brave again. Do you think you can be really brave for me?”

  No answer, but I guessed Pollito was nodding.

  “I’m going to pick you up and I want you to put your arms round my neck, and your legs round my waist, and hold tight.”

  Pause.

  “Like this?”

  “Sí, exactamente. Exactly like that.”

  “Like a monkey?”

  “Exactamente, just like a monkey.”

  Pause.

  “Now, you must keep holding tight, because I need both hands to climb the ladder. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good boy.”

  “Will my mama be waiting for me?”

  “Yes, she knows you are safe and will be waiting for you.”

  “And Papa? And my sisters?”

  “All of them. Now, are you ready?”

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “¡Hola!” Geronimo called up the shaft. “Can you hear me?”

  “We can hear you clearly!”

  “Tell the Ufartes that Pollito is not hurt at all. We are coming up now!”

  Everybody was smiling at the good news, but I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing. Would the ancient ladder hold?

  “Be careful, Geronimo! Hold tight, Pollito!”

  “Look!” said somebody, pointing in the direction of the village.

  The messengers, Emmanuel, Felipe and Juan Pablo, had carried out their task efficiently. The whole village had heard the news that little Pollito had been found.

  Like a giant, colourful crocodile, all the villagers and their guests were hurrying along the mule track. Dogs bounded alongside, delighted at the unexpected adventure. The sun shone down, and tiny white puffs of cloud scudded across the cobalt sky. The scene must have resembled a Sunday village picnic.

  At the head of the crocodile was the Ufarte family, the boys scampering ahead, the twins right behind their parents. Then came the familiar figures of the mayor, Paco, Alejandro and Manolo followed by the rest of the village. Every generation was represented, from tiny babies to old Father Rodrigo and Marcia, hobbling along, bringing up the rear.

  “Pollito!” Valentina called down the shaft. “We can see your mama and papa! They are coming! Everybody in the village is coming to see you.”

  Slowly, the distant figures grew larger and larger until they reached the bottom of the crumbling flight of steps.

  “How is Pollito?” called Juan Ufarte.

  “He’s fine!” we all replied. “Geronimo is bringing him up the shaft.”

  Papa Ufarte began scrambling up the steps, followed by his wife and the twins, helping each other. Those who were sufficiently able-bodied, followed. Soon a crowd had gathered around the shaft, looking down into the blackness, such a contrast to the bright sunshine above ground.

  “Pollito! We are here!”

  “Mama? Papa?”

  Pollito’s voice sounded very close.

  “Stand back!” said Papa Ufarte. “They are coming!”

  We all held our breaths. Slowly, the top of Geronimo’s head appeared, his hair dusty and soaked in sweat. Then came Pollito’s face, tear-stained and filthy. The ladder had held.

  The whole gathering burst into a spontaneous round of applause, and I doubt there was a dry eye amongst us. Below us, those who had waited at the foot of the steps caught the applause and joined in. I saw Father Rodrigo make the sign of the cross.

  A dozen hands reached out to pluck Pollito from the shaft, then help the hero, Geronimo, out of the hole and onto solid ground. Geronimo’s hands were bloodied and stained orange with rust. He looked exhausted.

  Mama Ufarte swooped, enveloping her little son and smothering him in her embrace.

  “Pollito! How could you worry us so!” she cried, but her voice lacked any anger and tears of relief rained on his head.

  “Pollito! Pollito!” cried the twins, and joined the embrace.

 
; Now no part of Pollito was visible as the Ufartes hugged him and each other.

  Papa Ufarte turned to Geronimo.

  “My friend,” he said, “I will be forever in your debt.”

  “Think nothing of it, anybody in the village would have done the same thing.”

  “No, not many of us would be brave enough to climb down into that evil hole with nothing to trust but God and a rusty ladder. I will never forget what you have done today.”

  Far away on the other side of the valley, three police cars, their blue lights flashing, crested the mountain and descended their winding way into the valley.

  “Well, they are a bit late,” somebody remarked, voicing all our thoughts.

  But it didn’t matter, Pollito was safe. Papa Ufarte took his son and began their descent down the mountainside to join the waiting people below. We followed behind, all delighted with this story’s happy ending.

  “Thank the Lord,” said Father Rodrigo, making another sign of the cross. “Jesus was watching over you today, Pollito.”

  Men clapped Papa Ufarte on the back and ruffled Pollito’s hair. Women stroked Pollito’s dirty cheek and smiled at him.

  “¡Madre mía!” they said. “What a fright you gave us, Pollito.”

  “We are so happy you are safe.”

  “Keep away from the mine, Pollito.”

  The mayor held up his arm, and we all fell silent.

  “I will organise workmen to fence off the mine,” he announced. “It is a dangerous place and our children must not be allowed near it.”

  “Pah!” said Paco. “As soon as possible! This cannot happen again! Who will help me build a fence?”

  “¡Sí, sí!” said Papa Ufarte, nodding vigorously.

  “I will!” called Manolo.

  “And I!” said Alejandro.

  “And I!” volunteered another dozen voices.

  “Good, we will begin work tomorrow.”

  “Bravo!”

  Everybody clapped, and we turned and began the trek back to the village. The sun smiled down on the procession, and the mood was light.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Geronimo come down the mountain. And where was Valentina?

  I stopped and looked back along the track, then raised my eyes. There on the mountainside, at the top of the steps stood a figure. I shaded my eyes from the glare of the sun to see more clearly.

  No, I was wrong. It wasn’t one figure. It was two.

  Geronimo’s arms were wrapped around Valentina, and her head was resting on his shoulder. Neither moved.

  It had taken a little lost chicken to bring them together.

  Like water from a dripping tap, our time in the village had trickled away. September had arrived, and the evenings were cooler. Dew-spangled spider webs decorated the grass in the early mornings, a sure sign of autumn. Our house martin babies had grown up and flown away. Soon the swallows and other migrating birds would leave, heading south for warmer climes.

  And so would we.

  Next year, the birds would be back, but we wouldn’t. We’d be on the other side of the planet.

  It was difficult to believe.

  Karly phoned me from Australia.

  “Everything is ready for you here, can’t wait! Indy keeps telling people, ‘My Nanny’s coming to my house.’ She even told the parcel delivery man.”

  “Haha!”

  “And we had friends to stay last weekend, and she said, “Why are you sleeping in Nanny’s bed?” Made us laugh.”

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for Indy’s birthday.”

  “Never mind, you are going to be there for all her next ones.”

  “Can’t wait to see you all.”

  “How long before you leave now?”

  “Five days, fourteen hours, twenty minutes and five seconds.”

  “Haha!”

  Now only a handful of days remained and almost every item on my To Do list had been crossed off.

  Iberia Airlines, in spite of all my efforts, sent me another cheque for exactly the same amount they had sent before: 96.24 euros. It was doubly insulting now than when they had sent it the first time because of all their empty promises, and the time I had wasted on phoning and writing to them. I was in the process of closing my Spanish bank account so I decided that enough was enough. I cashed the cheque and put the matter to bed.

  My Australian visa had been granted. I’d had to undergo a police check, both British and Spanish, which hadn’t been easy. Not because of any criminal record, I hasten to add, but because of the red tape involved.

  I also had to fly to Madrid for a health check at one of Australia’s approved clinics. To my relief, I was pronounced fit and well.

  Finally, I had paid the massive sum that the Australian visa office demanded which entitled me to permanent residency.

  And so the deed was done.

  Later, when Joe was ready, we would apply for his visa.

  The major tasks had been accomplished, including taking the car to a garage to have a roof rack fitted. There were many items that we didn’t want to throw away, so Joe decided to take them back to Britain to give to friends and family.

  Whatever tasks we still needed to do, we made it a rule to visit the Enchanted Pool daily. The water, warmed by natural springs, was still very pleasant, despite the onset of autumn and the cooler nights. The children had just begun a new term at school, and in a few days, the Enchanted Pool’s gates would be locked.

  Then the pool would be drained, and over the winter months, it would be abandoned. Rain would fill it. The wind would add leaves and debris. Winter storms would throw in broken branches, and by next spring, the neglected pool would look very unattractive. The water would be sludgy and dark green, with litter floating on the filthy surface. We’d seen this happen year after year.

  But in May, the council workmen would arrive. They would set to work and restore the Enchanted Pool to its former pristine condition. Once more the water would sparkle in the sunlight, and the railings and building would boast fresh coats of paint. The sun loungers would be set out under the shade trees, and the Enchanted Pool would be ready to welcome its first visitors in June.

  But the English couple from El Hoyo would not swim there again.

  Our last journey to the Enchanted Pool was a poignant one. I drank in the scenery on the journey, trying to commit to memory every crag and silhouette of the dramatic views. We passed the row of olive trees that grew close to the roadside, and I recalled the herd of wild goats we had once seen feasting in the branches.

  “I hope we see some ibex today,” I said. “We haven’t seen any for a while, and it would make our last day very special.”

  We passed the Mustard House and I marvelled yet again that the owner of this house had been permitted to paint his dwelling such an unpleasant colour, when Andalucía is famed for its whitewashed villages.

  We drove through the deep, steep-sided ravine that we had named Vulture Gulch after the young vulture that we saw falling off the crags high above and into our path, more than ten years before.

  Such memories.

  “I hope all the regulars are at the pool today,” I said. “I want to remember them all.”

  Fried Chicken Livers

  Hígados de pollo

  Ingredients

  200-250g (8oz) of chicken livers, washed, trimmed and drained

  A few spoons of any flour for coating

  1 egg

  Dribble of milk

  ½ teaspoon of paprika

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Plenty of oil for deep frying

  Method

  Set out 2 shallow bowls.

  Bowl #1: Mix the flour, paprika, salt and pepper and mix well.

  Bowl #2: Lightly beat the egg and add just a dribble of milk, stir well.

  Dip the chicken livers in the egg mix, then in the flour mix.

  Deep fry for 4-6 minutes until golden brown. Test by cutting into a piece to check it is cooke
d through. Pink is good, red is not.

  Serve immediately with fresh bread and maybe a squeeze of lemon juice.

  30

  SEPTEMBER

  My wish was partially granted. Alberto, the least attentive and laziest lifeguard in the history of Spain, perhaps Europe, was sitting under a tree rippling his muscles and playing games on his phone. He had the grace to look up when we arrived, but just waved us through. Clearly the task of snipping off the small pieces on our abonos, or season tickets, was simply too much effort for him.

  There was nobody in the pool apart from the elderly couple who always stood in the shallow end, leaning on the side and chattering. I wondered whether they ever ran out of things to talk about, but it was charming that they enjoyed each other’s company so much.

  Joe and I left our belongings on a couple of loungers, and entered the water. Golden autumn leaves floated on the surface of the water but I knew they would be ignored by Alberto, so I navigated my way around them.

  I was happy to see a few of the beautiful Red Darter dragonflies that always swooped near the water’s surface. These scarlet-bodied creatures loved to settle on the edges of the pool, allowing us to examine their exquisite gossamer wings at close quarters before they darted away. Now they were not in such abundance as they had been, when their mating dances had added to the enchantment of the pool.

  The Metronome arrived, and placed her towel on the sun lounger next to ours.

  “Can you believe it?” hissed Joe as usual. “Probably twenty others to choose from, all round the pool, and she has to plonk herself right next to us.”

  For once, I didn’t mind. And when she began to swim her widths that rudely interfered with our lengths, I didn’t mind that either. I wanted to remember everything just as it always had been, however irritating.

  But the next event panned out rather differently than it normally did.