Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  The tour had ended and Kurt turned to us, his blond eyebrows and shoulders raised in question.

  “We love it! We’ll take it,” said Joe.

  I swung round and gaped at him, open-mouthed with horror.

  When it comes to shopping, even for houses, Joe is impetuous. I am far more cautious. I need to make lists. I need time to think, to weigh things up, to decide.

  Buy this house? Was he crazy? I tried to protest but no sound came out.

  I couldn’t speak because there was an unexpected battle going on in my head. Heart was fighting with Common Sense. It was a funny thing, but without warning, the house was growing on me. I found my mind churning with ideas for rooms. How to create a kitchen opening onto that walled garden. Perhaps have roof terraces to take in the stunning mountain views.

  “Think of the work!” said Common Sense. “The place is a disaster!”

  “Yes, but imagine how it could be... Imagine being part of this little village. Look at those views...” said Heart.

  “We’re looking for a project,” said Joe. “I think we could do wonders with this cottage. And perhaps we could build a couple of houses in the orchard over the road. It’s just an overgrown eye-sore at the moment, and the old ruin up there is positively dangerous.”

  “Permission from the council vill not be a problem,” said Kurt.

  Common Sense gave up the fight. It didn’t matter about frayed electric cables sticking out of walls like discarded spaghetti. Never mind the heaps of grit like dusty molehills in every room where the walls were forever disintegrating in avalanches.

  Yes, I could see past all the decay. I could visualise this place as our home and project for the next five years, maybe longer. My heart hammered.

  So that was it. We had found The House.

  If Kurt was delighted at our decision to buy the house, he didn’t show it. However, he wasted no time. We drove straight back down the mountain to the city.

  “We must make all things lawful,” he said. “It is lucky. The paperverk is correct. Alonso already has an escritura for the house.”

  I had read about escrituras, or deeds to houses. Very few owners bothered with them as most houses were passed down from generation to generation. Buying an old Spanish house with its paperwork already in order was a rarity.

  Kurt marched us into the bank in Almería to open bank accounts and pay a deposit. The bank was large and airy. There were comfortable easy chairs, sweets in bowls, free coffee, ashtrays and magazines laid out on coffee tables for those waiting. I mentally compared it with the grim, unwelcoming banks I was familiar with in England. I knew which I preferred.

  We were introduced to our new bank manager, Lola. Another surprise. Could this really be our bank manager? Lola was lovely; sable haired and sultry. When she spoke (in flawless English) her husky voice was like dark treacle running through sugar cane. I caught Joe gaping and kicked him under the table.

  There were no formalities, we were on first name terms immediately. Efficient as well as beguiling, Lola beckoned seductively over her shoulder, led us to her office, then helped us sign on the dotted lines. I recalled the stuffy suited bank managers I had met in England. West Sussex suddenly seemed a long way away.

  Joe stopped drooling long enough to hand over a credit card to pay the deposit, and that was it. The die was cast. We were going to live in a tumbledown cottage in a quirky little village in the Alpujarra mountains.

  We were given four months to pay Alonso the balance for the house. Meanwhile, the papers would be prepared ready for the official completion of sale. Nothing more to do now except return to England.

  “I can’t believe we’ve done it!” I said outside the bank. “We’ve paid a deposit on a house here in Spain! I wish we didn’t have to go back to England. I wish we could just stay here for ever.”

  “Well, we can’t,” said Joe. “And don’t forget, when we do move out, life’s not going to be a picnic. We need to get that house up to scratch if we’re going to make a good profit in five years.”

  “But if we love it, we might stay permanently,” I said, clinging to my dream.

  Joe snorted. “We’ll see,” he said.

  The holiday was over. Back to England to plan and wait for the paperwork to be completed. Time to exchange sapphire skies for steel.

  ∞∞∞

  Back in England we began preparations. We found a letting agent to handle the rental of our house. We transferred money through cyber space to Luscious Lola at the Spanish bank. We took crash courses in Spanish. We waited while winter melted into spring. And then, at long last, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Kurt.”

  “Oh! Hello, Kurt. How are you?”

  “I am vell. The papers you vill sign now. I haf made an appointment vith the Notary for you May 23rd, 12 o'clock.”

  “Right, I'll check the flights and…” but the line was already dead.

  Which was why, on May 23rd we found ourselves in the Notary’s office. Venetian blinds cut out the sunlight and bright fluorescent strip-lighting flickered above. We all sat round a huge oval polished table. The Notary presided in an important looking upholstered chair. The rest of us sat in red plastic ones. Besides ourselves, there was Kurt, his business partner Marco, Luscious Lola and Kurt’s solicitor wife Paula. Opposite us and dressed in their best clothes, all in a row like swallows on a telegraph wire, sat Alonso and his wife, his three grown up sons and their wives, his daughter and son-in-law.

  The Notary straightened the stack of papers in front of him and raised one finger for silence. Alonso’s family stopped twittering instantly and sat still. Order restored to his satisfaction, the Notary began. Slowly, he read aloud the deeds of the estate, all sixteen pages of it. He may as well have been reading instructions on how to split the atom; we understood nothing. I entertained myself by watching the others. Kurt sat straight and tall, staring directly ahead, occasionally twitching the blond forelock from his eyes. His solicitor wife Paula nodded wisely every few moments. Marco looked bored and kept clearing his throat. Alonso beamed but was clearly out of his depth. His wife and daughter held hands and glanced at each other frequently. Only the son-in-law listened intently, head on one side, eyes furtively flicking from the Notary back to us.

  Eventually, papers were signed and Luscious Lola produced several piles of banknotes from her briefcase. These were pushed over to Alonso. Before he could reach them, the son-in-law’s hand shot out like a trap-door spider, and intercepted the piles. More papers were read aloud to the accompaniment of ‘flip,flip,flip,’ as the son-in-law counted the banknotes. Paula and the Notary finalised a few small points and still the ‘flip,flip,flip,’ continued.

  We didn’t notice who finally pocketed the money, but at last we were presented with a huge bunch of keys. This acted like a signal, and the atmosphere changed dramatically. The transaction was complete and celebratory smiles wreathed every face. Chairs scraped as everyone sprang to life. A fest of handshaking and back clapping commenced. All the women were seized, embraced and kissed.

  Kurt and Marco were the last to leave.

  “Thank you, Kurt,” I said. “Thank you for sorting out everything so efficiently.”

  “It is no problem,” he said. “I haf arranged the electricity and the vater, also.” We shook hands yet again, and Kurt and Marco walked away.

  No going back, we’d done it, we now owned a house in a tiny Spanish village. I tightened my grip on the bunch of keys then danced a little jig on the pavement.

  “We’re moving to Spain! We’re moving to Spain! No more England! No more rain!”

  Passers-by looked amused, Joe just shook his head.

  “Don’t use up all your energy,” he said. “Remember what work we’ve got to do this week.”

  As it was the school half-term break in England, we had allowed ourselves a week in Spain. Now we had the house keys, our week was going to busy. We wanted to move in the summer and planned to clear
the house now, in readiness, but with only a week, it was a tall order.

  First thing - buy a wheelbarrow in the shopping mall. All wheelbarrows in Spain seemed to be bright yellow with green handles. I took a photo of Joe wheeling it through the shopping centre but we were never to see that photo, or any of the others we took that week.

  Our hotel room was on the third floor with a balcony overlooking the gardens. I was the first to wake one morning, and couldn’t find my handbag.

  “Joe? Have you seen my bag? I thought I left it on the armchair, but I can’t seem to find it.”

  “No, haven’t seen it. Wish someone would give me a euro for every time you’ve lost your bag! Huh! I’d be a rich man. Can’t be far. Have you been out on the balcony this morning?”

  “No, why?”

  “Well, the sliding door is slightly ajar.” Joe opened it further and stepped out onto the balcony. At exactly the same moment, the man from the room next door stepped out onto his balcony.

  “Morning,” said Joe, stretching.

  “Oh, hello, there,” said the man. “Just escaping the missus. She’s lost her bloomin’ handbag again.”

  “You’re joking!” said Joe, amused. “So’s mine! She’s looking for it now.”

  It took a couple of seconds for the penny to drop, then they both stared at each other, wide-eyed.

  Bethina’s Ham, Tomato and Garlic Toasts

  Jamón, tomate y ajo con pan

  Slices of bread (baguette, cut diagonally)

  1 clove garlic, cut in half

  1 very ripe tomato

  Slices of jamon serrano or ham of your choice

  Extra virgin olive oil

  Preheat the grill.

  Toast the bread and, while still warm, rub with the halved garlic to flavour the slices.

  Then rub the bread with the halved tomato. Squeeze in as much of the flesh as you can.

  Sprinkle with a pinch of salt and some freshly-ground pepper.

  Drizzle with some extra virgin olive oil and top it off with the ham.

  CHAPTER 4

  PACO AND BETHINA

  Simultaneously, Joe and our next door neighbour gripped the handrail and peered down over the balcony. There were clear black scuff marks on the white wall below. Someone had scaled the side of the building in the night, using the balcony railings to hold onto.

  Joe and the man stared at the shoe scuff marks, then at each other.

  “Was your sliding door open this morning?” asked the man.

  “It was,” said Joe. “I think we’ve been burgled.”

  And so we had. My handbag containing mobile phone and camera were stolen. My purse had gone. Joe went and had a look outside and made a discovery. The thieves, probably kids, had hung the looted handbag on some railings outside, along with our neighbour’s bag. I suppose we were lucky; they hadn’t taken my address book, passport or return airline tickets, but it was still a blow. And such a waste of time as we had to wait for fingerprints to be taken from our room, and give statements down at the Police Station. Time much better spent clearing the house.

  “So much for Spain having less crime,” grunted Joe as we left the Police Station. Of course the burglars were never found.

  Every day we drove up the mountain to our new house. It smelled damp and neglected. House martins had built nests in the porch above the front door. Inside, cockroaches scuttled back into dark corners. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling. Each room was still stuffed with Alonso’s abandoned clutter. The weeds in the garden, celebrating Alonso’s absence, had grown to waist level. Like explorers in an Amazon jungle, we hacked a path through the garden from the back gate to the future kitchen door.

  The wheelbarrow was well used. We crammed it full of clutter from the house: old pictures, rotten cupboards, wasps’ nests, weird tools, cages, mildewed mattresses and a chipped china statue of the Last Supper. We transported the junk to the orchard above. Then came the bigger furniture pieces. Dismantling the rusty iron beds wasn’t too bad, neither was shifting the broken tables and chairs. (The promised German television was nowhere to be seen - probably snaffled by the son-in-law.) But the yellow vinyl sofa was much more of a challenge.

  The only way to dispose of it was to lug it out of the front door, along the street, up into the next street, and so to the orchard. The sun was hot, the sofa heavy and the street uphill. Sweating and panting, we rested halfway. Joe returned to the house and brought back drinks. Sitting on the sofa in the middle of the street, we refreshed ourselves with cans of Coke. Leaning back, we slowly regained our breath and admired the view. I fiddled with a decrepit transistor radio we were also dumping and, surprisingly, it crackled into life. Tinny music filled the air.

  “This is the life!” said Joe, basking in the sun, sipping from his can.

  I nodded, eyes closed, enjoying the break and the sun’s warm rays. I swung my legs off the ground and put my feet in Joe’s lap, stretching luxuriously, wriggling my toes.

  And that was how we first met Paco.

  About our age, short, dressed in working clothes, Paco rounded the corner and stopped in astonishment. Then his swarthy face split into a huge grin. We jumped up off the sofa, silenced the radio and shook hands.

  “Los Ingleses!” he shouted, pumping our hands, slapping us on the backs and roaring with laughter. Next around the corner came his wife, apron-clad, round as a Teletubby, rosy-cheeked and smiling. More handshaking and Spanish kisses.

  “Soy Paco,” he announced, pointing at himself with a horny finger. Then, poking his wife, “Bethina!”

  We introduced ourselves likewise.

  “Ah, Joe and Veeky,” repeated Paco.

  In case he thought English people usually relaxed on sofas in the middle of the street listening to music, we explained using a mixture of bad Spanish and hand signals. Our Spanish lessons hadn’t prepared us for situations like this. Paco seemed to grasp that we were carrying the sofa to the orchard to be dumped. He nodded but cut us short.

  “Come with me,” he said, and dismissed Alonso’s sofa with a wave of his hand.

  The sofa was abandoned in the middle of the road. Joe was frog-marched back down the street while Bethina and I followed, my arm clamped in a vice-like grip.

  Just before we reached our house, they stopped and pushed open the front door beside ours. It became clear that these were our next door neighbours, and we were herded into their little house. What a contrast! Where our house was dusty and damp, their house smelled of herbs and the white walls gleamed. Framed family photographs hung in neat rows and a vase of wild flowers stood on the table.

  “You will have something to eat and drink, no?” said Paco and pressed us into chairs. “Here, I have something for you to try.”

  “Thank you…” we said, watching him wrestle with an unlabelled bottle. He puffed and blew until the cork surrendered with a satisfying pop.

  “Home-made,” he said, smacking his lips. “Taste the Andalucían grapes, taste the sun!”

  “Delicioso,” I said, taking a sip. “This is delicious!” And it was.

  “Last year was a very good year. Plenty of rain in spring, then a long hot summer. In September, I will show you how we make the wine, no? You will come with us to my cortijo, you will see how wine should be made.”

  “Thank you, that will be lovely.”

  “And now you must try this one, too.” His face turned red from the effort as he uncorked bottle Number Two. “This is from the year before, also a very good year.”

  We quickly drained our glasses and held them out to be refilled. I couldn’t taste the difference, but it was very nice.

  “Aha! Now you must taste this one! Tell me what you think… ”

  He battled with a third bottle and finally won. Joe and I obediently drained our second glass and waited. Paco, still breathless from effort, splashed the red wine Number Three into our glasses. We tasted it and nodded at Paco.

  “Delicioso,” I said again. It tasted the same as the other two.<
br />
  “¿Delicioso?” said Paco, outraged. “¿Delicioso? This is the wine of my friend, Juan Pedro. It is rubbish wine! See how clear my wine is, then look at Juan Pedro’s wine! His wine is cloudy, no?”

  Alarmed, Joe and I stared at the three bottles, comparing them. They all looked identical.

  “Pah!” His fist slammed down on the table making me jump and the glasses rattle. “That Juan Pedro has no idea! He should take a lesson from me! I try to teach him how to make good wine, but does he listen? No!”

  “Yes, I can see the difference,” said Joe, betraying me utterly. “Your wine is much clearer, and tastes much better.”

  Paco beamed again, his outrage forgotten.

  “Women!” he said, putting his arm round Joe’s shoulders. “What do they know about good wine?”

  Bethina clattered around her tiny kitchen while the red wine flowed freely. She put plates of smoked ham, tomato, cheese and bread on the plastic tablecloth then joined us to sit at the table. A goodly amount of her body spilled over the edges of her chair.

  And so our first serious Spanish lesson began. Although we understood most of what was being said to us, it was hard constructing sentences ourselves. I was grateful that the burglars had left me my Spanish/English dictionary, now ever present in my pocket.

  Paco and Bethina were fascinated by us. They asked about our jobs in England, why we were moving to Spain and about our children.