The Reluctant Expat: Part Four - Settling Down

by Alan Laycock

  “How many?”

  “Oh, about half a dozen. Each time you break up the earth a little more, you see.”

  I chuckled. “You’re not going to turn into another Jesús, are you?”

  “Course not, though ploughing can be a bit addictive. Despite the noise, it’s quite soothing. I tell Cathy it’s my way of meditating, but she just laughs.”

  “Is she at home?” I said, looking forward to seeing my sis.

  “No, she’s meditating and doing yoga. She gone on a retreat to the Sierra Espuña,” he said, referring to a mountain to the south-west of Murcia.

  “Right. She must be getting keen on her yoga then.”

  “Yes, and the folk she meets there. They’re mostly women, locals and foreigners, and she loves going. She still sees her oldies too, of course.”

  “So I suppose she’s feeling more satisfied at last.”

  “Yes.” He looked up and sighed. “And I’ll be satisfied when my field gets a good dousing and I can get the olive trees planted. It’s a waiting game at the moment.”

  I pictured the field dotted with little olive trees, but couldn’t imagine what he’d do there except plough, as they wouldn’t need pruning for a long time. I hoped he wasn’t getting bored and spending too much time in the bar.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the allotment.”

  After harvesting mediocre crops of potatoes, onions and garlic, a few bags of which he’d taken to the bar, Bernie had planted some more. The rest of the allotment lay fallow and composted, awaiting the transplantation of the dozen or so seed trays which he brought out into the sun each day, before covering them on the porch at night, or even taking them inside when night-time temperatures had fallen too low. Much of this he’d done since we returned from our trip.

  “The really cold nights have been over for a while now, and it’ll soon be time to transplant the tomatoes, spinach, aubergines and whatnot. I’m trying some coriander and a few other things too, but I shan’t bother with radishes again, as no-one seems to like them.”

  “I’m impressed, Bernie.”

  He shrugged and tipped back his hat. “I’m just doing what most country folk do around here.”

  I pictured the blackening almond trees on our abandoned strips of land and felt ashamed. There I was, involving myself in a luxury hotel which well-heeled foreigners would visit to mess about with paintbrushes, pens or musical instruments, while my own backyard was a complete disgrace. Typical guiri, the neighbours must think – apart from Álvaro, who lived a life of the mind – though I consoled myself with the thought that they too might own abandoned land, as there were many more fields like mine in the upper reaches of the valley.

  I sighed. “I really should do something with our land.”

  “I can’t drive Spartacus over there, I’m afraid. You could get someone to rip out the trees and plough it, but then you’d have to get them to plough it regularly, so you might as well just leave it for now. It’s not coming to any harm, after all. I’ll tell you what you could do, though.”

  “What?”

  “Has the annex got an outside tap?”

  “Yes, and Arturo put a new one on.”

  “Well, you could dig over the nearest bit of land, then water it with a long hose and dig it over again. Then I’ll give you a few of these pots to plant and you could try some seeds too.”

  “Yes, I could,” I said without much enthusiasm.

  He slapped me on the back. “Ha, you’ll soon finish grafting at the hotel, then you can dig it over in May. Don’t do too much and keep it simple, then at least you’ll have made a start. It’s nature who does most of the work anyway, and she won’t be slow like last autumn. Now things’ll really grow.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “I can’t wait to see everything starting to shoot up.”

  Although this was by no means the first pep talk Bernie had given me over the years, it was a surprisingly successful one, as no sooner had I cycled home than I changed my shoes and set about the nearest bit of field with the mattock he’d lent me. As it was rock hard I decided on a plot of about five square yards, doing the corners first in order to force myself to finish it. While I was thwacking away I saw a hunched figure out of the corner of my eye. This turned out to be Zefe, trying to sneak into the annex without me seeing him.

  “Hey, you old devil, I thought Álvaro was supposed to be taking you home yesterday,” I cried, raising my mattock in a menacing manner.

  He cowered comically. “Oh, Alan, he was going to, but… his car broke down.”

  “Ha, I bet I could go there now and start it straight away.”

  “Yes, you could, because he fixed it.”

  “What was up with it?”

  “Er, a dirty carburettor.”

  Although I couldn’t imagine Álvaro dismantling a pen, let alone a carburettor, I let it pass, because one must respect one’s elders, even rogues like Zefe. As I still felt a bit guilty about banishing him during Natalia’s fictitious visit, I said he might as well stay and go home the following Thursday.

  “Without fail,” I added sternly.

  “Thank you, Alan. Now that the sun is getting warmer, my old joints are becoming less stiff. Look.” He walked around in a circle with his stick over his shoulder. “Here I feel younger every day, and I can even walk up onto your marvellous new patio, but in my damp flat my rheumatism plays up.”

  “Your flat isn’t the least bit damp, but I see what you mean.”

  I recalled watching the film of Alan Bennett’s book, The Lady in the Van, shortly before coming to Spain, and later discovering that the main reason the lady had camped on his drive for so many years was because she’d obtained squatter’s rights. Did squatter’s rights exist in Spain and might Zefe get them if he stayed for too long? I wondered.

  “Do you always wear cycling clothes when you work on the land, Alan?”

  “Not always,” I said, before explaining what I intended to do.

  “That’s wonderful, Alan.”

  “Yes, er… why?”

  “Because in summer when one wishes to make a salad, one will be able to step outside and pick the ingredients.”

  “Yes, one will, unless one never eats salads, like you.”

  “Hmm, will you plant onions?”

  I laughed. “Yes, if you like.”

  When I’d changed into more appropriate clothing and eaten some lunch, I returned to my plot and saw that Zefe had gone down to Álvaro’s again. I wondered if it would ever occur to the retired teacher to take Zefe in as a lodger. That would avoid a lot of toing and froing and he might be rewarded for his altruism by inheriting his estate, and what riches might Zefe have amassed during his adventurous life? A goldmine in Brazil? A croft in Iceland? Probably just the flat and a bit of money in the bank, I mused as I hacked away at the earth.

  15

  On Monday and Tuesday I mostly stayed out of Gerardo’s way, only emerging from the bedroom I was putting the finishing touches to with Arturo to spy on him periodically. My spying consisted of walking downstairs and around the ground floor for no reason whatsoever, pausing whenever I saw him and observing him pointedly for a few seconds, before moving on. I didn’t do this merely to annoy him, but because Angela had asked me to keep an eye on things, so when he asked me if I was looking for someone I smiled enigmatically and slowly shook my head. He then shook his head, presumably in exasperation, before clumping stiffly back into his office. On telling Arturo that I had the little twerp rattled, he said I was being childish.

  “It’s his fault. If he spoke to me in Spanish I might answer him,” I said with childish petulance. “And why does he have to dress up every day as if he were going to a wedding?”

  Arturo laid his trowel on the tray and shook his head. “Alan, for a man of fifty you’re remarkably immature in some ways.”

  “Fifty-one,” I muttered, having celebrated my birthday quietly with Inma the previous month.

  “The poor guy’s just trying to ass
ert himself. He dresses well because new recruits are arriving every day and he must show them he’s the boss. He wishes to speak to you in English so that people see that he can. All this is perfectly normal in his position. The world of work is like that. At least give the man a chance, Alan.”

  “Ha, he’ll see who the real boss is tomorrow when Malcolm arrives,” I said with a cackle, but as the day wore on I reflected on Arturo’s wise words and realised that I ought to shelve my infantile side and give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being, though I still wouldn’t answer him in English if we were alone, oh no, not that.

  On arriving home Inma told me she had some good news and some bad news.

  “Tell me the good news first.”

  “Bernie sold my car, for €850.”

  “That’s a great price for the old thing. And the bad news?”

  “I spoke to Natalia on the phone earlier.”

  “Is she coming? That’s not bad news at all, dear, as we’re getting on fine.”

  “I haven’t finished.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “She wants to know if you’ve arranged her summer job at the hotel yet.”

  “Ah, yes, well, that’s a bit tricky just now, what with this new idi...” I remembered my resolution just in time. “…manager. Tell her I’m doing my best to arrange it.”

  “She needs to make plans, she says.”

  I reviewed my current standing at the hotel and remembered that the courses were going to be my thing.

  “Tell her I’ll arrange it after the first course, assuming it’s a success.”

  “All right, I’ll tell her that you’ve already fallen out with the manager and that the courses are her only hope.”

  I told her about my new, mature attitude towards Gerardo.

  “Well, I hope you stick to it. In the world of work one must try to behave professionally.”

  “Ah, the world of work has been a closed book to me.”

  “Well try to open it, at least for a while.”

  The next time I saw Gerardo I was with Malcolm and Angela, so I was able to speak to him in English without offending my linguistic sensibilities. When they arrived in a posh hire car I happened to be outside, so I greeted them warmly and headed towards the door, but the big man called me back.

  “I want to see my Hymer first. Have you got the keys?”

  I trotted over to my Clio to fetch them. “We cleaned it thoroughly,” I said.

  He smiled. “I don’t doubt it, but I’m dying to see her again.”

  “He’s been looking forward to this all morning,” Angela said as he bounded around in the van, seeming truly delighted to be there.

  “There’s something about motorhomes that I love. Shame I was so busy for so long. We’ll put her round the side though, as I don’t want to see everyone coming and going all the time.”

  “We thought you might,” she said.

  “No, the hotel’s your thing, love. Do you play golf, Alan?”

  “Er, I’ve played pitch and putt a few times,” I mumbled.

  He grimaced. “Still, until I find someone decent to play with you’ll have to do.”

  I began to gulp, but my Adam’s apple stayed put. “You know, I think I’d enjoy that.”

  Angela laughed. “He takes it terribly seriously though. He’s ever so competitive.”

  “No, not with a rookie. Come on, I suppose I’d better meet the man of the moment.”

  “Gerardo seems to be doing a very good job,” I said.

  Angela smirked. “Have you been drinking, Alan?”

  I chuckled. “No, just being positive. I’ve realised that in the world of work you have to put your personal feelings aside.”

  “I never did,” said M.

  “You didn’t need to,” said A.

  “And he really has been working hard,” said I, before telling them about his recruitments and other sundry matters that seemed to interest Malcolm little or not at all.

  “He’s determined not to get involved if he sees that things are going well,” Angela said.

  Malcolm had stopped and was looking at my feet. “What size do you take?”

  “Usually tens.”

  “My spare golf shoes’ll be no good then, as they’re thirteens. Right, lead me to him.”

  Gerardo looked especially small and weedy beside Malcolm, but his smart attire did lend him an air of authority; that and the fact that he soon began to reel off a list of his accomplishments, which included securing almost all of the staff, liaising with the assessors, ordering everything that Angela had overlooked, and ensuring that Cristóbal stuck to his schedule. Malcolm nodded, grunted and glanced out of the window at the acre or so of fallow farmland behind the hotel.

  “What are you planning to do with that, love?”

  “Nothing yet, just keep it tidy. Eugenio will plough it before we open,” she said, referring to the elderly caretaker cum security man.

  “Hmm, a great big lawn would look nicer,” he said, moving both his hands to the right as if about to make a swing.

  Angela spotted this and stroked his arm. “No, dear, we’re not having any golf facilities here.”

  “I could knock a ball around a lawn,” he muttered. “So, Gerardo,” he boomed. “You seem to have everything under control, so we’ll leave you to it for now.”

  “Yes, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm turned to leave.

  “I’ll stay with Gerardo for a while,” said Angela.

  “OK, love. Come on, Alan.”

  As we were making our way out, Cristóbal appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Everything all right, Chris?” Malcolm bellowed.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Good, good,” he said, before stomping outside with me in his wake. “Can’t be bothered talking to him right now.” He looked me up and down, as if for the first time. “Why are you dressed like a navvy?”

  “Because I’m working here, for Cristóbal, with Arturo.”

  “Not today, lad, because we have work to do.”

  It transpired that our work consisted of finding the best golf course in the area, so after driving me home to change – ‘Nice cave house you’ve got here, Alan. Hurry up.’ – we headed north and then west to the town of Villena where the first course on his list was situated, next to a big tennis academy. Fortunately we’d had time for a bite to eat in the restaurant before Malcolm discovered the true nature of the golf course.

  “Bah, it’s just a glorified pitch and bloody putt course,” he growled, tossing the revelatory leaflet onto the table.

  I folded it and put it in my pocket. “It might be a good place to practise though, and it’s only twenty-odd miles from the hotel,” I said, as the par-three holes appealed to me. I hadn’t been too bad at pitch and putt, you see, but had never wielded a wood in my life.

  “Hmm, we’ll see. Right, we’re off down the motorway towards Alicante now to see another one.”

  The Font del Llop Golf Resort, just past the small town of Monforte del Cid, proved to be more to Malcolm’s liking, and as we wandered along the edge of its proper eighteen-hole course he expressed his approval of the rolling fairways and smooth greens.

  “This is more like it. Looks tricky but not too tricky.”

  “It’s got nice ponds and lovely views.”

  “Hmm, let’s go and see what the crack is,” he said, before leading the way – Malcolm always led the way – into reception.

  It turned out that one could just turn up, pay and play a round.

  “This’ll do for a start then,” he said after leading the way back to the car.

  “I wonder where they find the water to water it. They must consume a lot and the reservoirs are ever so low right now,” I said, my conscience pricking me even before I’d pushed in a tee.

  He looked at me and wrinkled his stubby nose. “Who cares? It’s green, which is the main thing, and I hope it stays green all summer. We’d better get you kitted out before we p
lay. Don’t want you showing me up.”

  “What kit?”

  “Proper jacket, trousers, shoes, gloves. You can use my clubs at first, before you buy your own.”

  I gulped. “I’m… I’m not that keen on golf really,” I stuttered.

  I expected him to scowl, but he grinned. “How do you know?”

  “Well, it’s just something I’ve never really taken to. Pitch and putt was enough for me, now and then, when someone suggested it.”

  “I haven’t met a man yet who didn’t take to golf.”

  “No?”

  “No, apart from weaklings who can’t walk or hit a ball or stand a bit of rain. You’re not one of them, are you, Alan?”

  “No, I’m not one of them. I don’t mind having a go.” I glanced across the road and made a fortuitous sighting. “Look, those two blokes have normal clothes on, and trainers.”

  “Hmm, I was going to drive you to Alicante and buy you the whole caboodle, but if you think you might get cold feet we won’t bother yet. It’s not like I want to force you to play, after all.”

  Emboldened by this rare moment of mildness, I expressed my desire to have a go on the Villena pitch and putt course first.

  “Hmm.”

  “I might make a fool of myself on a proper course, you see.”

  “Hmm, you might. We’ll go back to that mickey mouse course tomorrow then.”

  “Ah, yes, I’d love to, but I’m working for Cristóbal, remember? We could play on Saturday.”

  He looked at me in an almost, but not quite, pleading way. “I’m itching to play, Alan.”

  “I suppose I could have another afternoon off.”

  “Ach, stuff Cristóbal. He can soon find someone else.”

  “He does pay me though.”

  He clapped his hand on my shoulder and left it there, exerting considerable downward pressure. “Alan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be a penny pincher.”

  “No.”

  “Think in the longer term.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sooner or later I’ll be having a house built.”

  “Yes.”

  “Assuming we like it here.”

  “Yes.”