Joe was brave. He seized the trotter as he had seen Paco do, and pulled off a piece of cold fat with his teeth. He chewed courageously and smiled at Bethina who beamed with pleasure and turned back to her cooking. Paco clapped Joe on the back and refilled everyone’s glasses again. The cousins cheered in approval and all started talking at once. Joe masticated valiantly, using the wine to wash down the rubbery lumps of fat. At last the plate was clear and Joe leaned back in relief.
Bethina appeared again with saucepan and ladle. “¿Te gustó? Did you like it?” she asked.
I couldn't resist. “He loved it!” I piped up. “He said he'd like some more.” There was murder in Joe’s eyes as yet again the ladle descended to his plate.
∞∞∞
With Kurt’s help, we wrote a letter of apology to the Mayor. We offered to pay for the repair of the lamp-post and fountain. We never received a reply.
It was the end of July and the clock was ticking. In four weeks’ time Joe would fly back to England to complete his time in the army. August was going to be a frantic month of preparation before he left me, all on my own in Spain.
And August was an awesome month. The blue sky stretched to eternity punctuated only by swallows cavorting like Spitfires. Each morning the sun rose and bathed our world in warmth and the extraordinary light unique to Spain. Minute by minute the sun grew fiercer, forcing folk to take cover in the coolness of their houses. Until evening, the streets stayed deserted and silent except for the panting of dogs under cars. The mountain ranges, once so lush, now reclined, hot, dry and yellow, like lions resting in the midday sun. The olive trees stood bowed, silvery leaves shimmering listlessly in the heat haze.
“I know we hate talking about it,” said Joe, one day, “but at the end of August, I’ll be gone. There’s no way round it. I have to finish my last four months in the Army.”
“I know.”
“Well, you don’t have to stay here on your own. You could come back with me, and stay with someone in England until Christmas. Perhaps Juliet? Or you could stay with your sister, or Grace and Paul on their boat? Then we’ll come back to Spain together.”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely sure you’ll be okay on your own?”
“I’ll be fine. I want to stay here. I can get lots of stuff done on the house in four months.”
“But you’ll be all on your own.”
“I don’t mind.”
“But you’ve got no kitchen, or proper bathroom yet.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll manage.”
“Paco said it’s going to get much colder.”
“We’re in southern Spain! It’s not going to get as cold as Britain, is it?”
“Paco said they have frost sometimes.”
“Well, we’ll have to get that wood-burning stove we saw. If we put that in, I’ll be absolutely fine.”
Joe gave up. He had one month’s leave left, so we would have to use that time as profitably as possible. In the searing heat of August we had to prepare for winter. The clock kept ticking.
Top priority was acquiring the wood-burning stove. We chose a big black monster which the shop kindly loaded onto our long-suffering jeep with a fork lift truck. The poor little jeep sank visibly under the massive weight and we set off gingerly up the mountain road, back to the village. Shifting it up the garden path to its final destination in the living room took a whole day. Inch by inch we heaved the colossal lump of cast iron. The length of our small garden seemed to have grown to several kilometres. And connecting the metal tubes and pushing them up the chimney proved testing. The only way to do it was for Joe to climb up into the chimney to make the adjustments.
“We're about a bloody metre short,” echoed his disembodied voice down the chimney. He clambered out, like a creature from a horror film, spitting soot and swearing. Fifty years of soot and grease plastered his profusely sweating body. Only his eyes were distinguishable, red rimmed and shiny.
“I’ll have to drive back down the mountain and pick up another length of tube.” Joe was not happy.
“Do you have to?”
“No choice. Only way to finish the job. Hell, why do the shops have to be so far away?” Living half an hour away from a big town was sometimes a distinct disadvantage. “Wouldn’t have to do this if we lived in Britain.” He grabbed the car keys.
“You can't go like that!” I protested. “You'll frighten small children.”
“Just watch me. It's not worth washing or getting changed because I've got to go up that bloody chimney again.” He had a point. I helped him throw some covers over the car seats and he departed, growling.
I kept checking my watch, and the church-bells marked every hour, reminding me how long he was gone. I knew the journey down took about half an hour, allow fifteen minutes for buying the tube in the shop, half an hour back. So why wasn’t he home after three hours? At long last he returned, tube in hand.
“What happened? What took you so long? I was getting worried…”
“Huh! I was halfway down the mountain when I got a puncture.”
“Oh, no! What did you do?”
“Pulled over, of course, and started changing it. Then this posh car came along. You know the sort - flashy sports car type of thing. There was this young bloke in it. Anyway, he got out of his car and came over.”
“Did he offer to help?”
“Yes, that’s the funny thing. He was dressed in a smart business suit … and you can see what I looked like.” Joe pointed at his black face and sooty clothes.
“How d’you mean, ‘funny thing’? D’you mean because he was dressed in a business suit?”
“Well, yes, but I mean - would you offer to help someone looking like me?”
I shook my head. He was right.
“I was really taken aback. I know how I must have looked, and I was sweating and swearing…”
I thought about it. How kind of this young man to offer help, regardless of soiling his smart expensive clothes. Of course Joe refused, but we never forgot the generosity extended, just one example of many we were to experience.
Armed with the final length of tube, the wood-burning stove was at last installed to Joe's satisfaction. Only one chore left to do … test it. Even though the temperature was already in the 40’s, we lit the fire and the room became an inferno of heat. The villagers looked at the smoke pouring from our chimney with bemused expressions. Crazy English!
Another important job was renovating the bathroom, but this was doomed to failure. It was possible take a shower standing in the midget bath, so that was okay. The chipped old sink was fine for the moment, so long as you didn’t lean on it. But the toilet cistern leaked so badly the floor was perpetually wet. We blocked off the water flow feeding the cistern and resorted to flushing the toilet with a bucket of water. Completely renovating the bathroom would take time and planning. We didn’t have the time as the end of August was looming, and we couldn't plan because we didn't know where the soil pipe was leading. To plan and relocate a new toilet and bathroom suite, we would need to know exactly where our cesspit was.
Sewage is a subject I had never troubled myself with before, but living in a Spanish village, sewage (euphemistically called ‘aguas negras’ - black water) was something Joe and I discussed daily. When we bought the house, it never occurred to us that we were not on mains drainage. So where was our cesspit located?
“We’ll have to search every inch of the ground floor. It must be somewhere…” I started pacing, eyes downcast, searching for a clue.
“Stamp your feet, see if it sounds hollow anywhere.”
“All sounds solid to me. Where can it be?”
“Dunno. But if it’s not in the house, it must be in the garden.” We continued our stamping dance outside.
Paco saw us, removed his hat and scratched his head, bemused.
“What are you doing, English?”
“Trying to find our cesspit. Do you know where it is?”
Paco s
crewed up his face in thought. “No, I don’t know where it is. Every house is different, no?” He shook his head and began walking away. Then he stopped and called over his shoulder, “If it smells, you must throw a dead chicken down the toilet.”
“Oh, right. Why?”
“That will start the bacteria working again.”
Helpful advice, but we still hadn’t located the wretched cesspit.
“Let’s ask Marcia at the shop,” I suggested. “She might know, and if she doesn’t know, Geronimo might be there. We could ask him, too.” So we strolled down to the shop.
Marcia knew everybody and everything about the village, she was the obvious person to ask.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. A hairpin escaped and bounced on the counter. “I don’t know where it is. Ask Geronimo. He might know.”
We’d met Geronimo many times and liked him very much. In his forties, periwinkle blue eyes, long curly hair flowing past his shoulders like an ageing rock star, Geronimo was probably Marcia’s best customer. Several times a day he would pop into the shop, and despite Marcia’s reluctance and severe scolding, would exit bearing bottles of beer. He worked for the council and resurfaced streets, cleared roads, whatever was needed to keep the village running smoothly. He was always accompanied by his three dogs and plenty of liquid refreshment. In his spare time, he helped fellow villagers, particularly the elderly. Nothing was too much trouble for him. He would fix roofs, chop firewood, whitewash houses, anything. He flatly refused payment, unless of course it came in a bottle.
Geronimo was always easy to find. If he wasn’t working round the village, he would be sitting companionably with Marcia’s husband, Old Sancho, and his black cat outside the shop. Old Sancho would doze and smile while Geronimo, bottle in hand and dogs at his feet, extolled the virtues of his beloved football team, Real Madrid.
Yes, Geronimo was the one to consult. We found him halfway up a ladder outside the church.
“Buenos dias, Geronimo,” we said. “How are you?”
“Malo,” he said as usual. “Bad.” He reversed down the ladder, his three dogs watching with interest.
“Geronimo, do you know where Alonso’s cesspit is? We can’t find it.”
Geronimo stood with his head on one side, deep in thought, then took a swig from his beer.
“Follow me,” he said after another swig.
Summer Pork with Sherry
6 - 8 thin pork fillets
2 onions
3 carrots
2 bay leaves
1/4 ltr (8 fl oz) Fino de Jerez or similar dry sherry
Salt
Pepper
Olive oil
Peel the onions and carrots and chop into small pieces.
Sprinkle a little salt and pepper over the pork. Then, in a large frying pan, heat a little olive oil and brown off the pork fillets on either side. Remove the pork from the pan and set aside.
In the same oil as the pork, gently fry the onions and carrots until soft, don't allow them to go brown.
Return the pork to the pan, adding the bay leaves, sherry, salt and pepper.
Cover and cook gently for about 40 minutes, adding water if necessary, until the pork is tender and the sauce has reduced.
Serve with creamy mashed potato, rice or a jacket potato.
CHAPTER 8
SATELLITES AND PARTIES
The three dogs, Joe and I trailed after Geronimo back to our house. In the street outside our garden gate, he stopped.
“I don’t know where your cesspit is,” he said, shaking his long hair from side to side. “But this is yours.” His toe was tapping the manhole in the road. Setting his bottle down, he knelt and lifted the cover. In a circle, we all peered solemnly down into the darkness: Geronimo, Joe, myself and the three dogs.
“It’s brand new,” observed Joe, his voice echoing down the hole. “It’s never been used.”
“Sí, señor,” agreed Geronimo. “It is new.” With much arm-waving and body language, he explained that the sewage system was all in place for the village, but not yet connected.
“When will it be connected?” I asked.
Geronimo shrugged, palms upward. “Pronto, soon. When the Mayor is ready.”
“Why is there no pipe running from our house to the manhole?” asked Joe.
“You must do that,” said Geronimo, pointing at us. “You must put a pipe in and join it here, at the manhole.”
“What, everybody has to put in their own tubes?”
“Sí.”
“But we don’t know where our cesspit is…” We were back to square one.
Geronimo shrugged some more, and took another thoughtful pull from his bottle.
“Thank you for showing us the manhole, Geronimo,” I said. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“A drink?” Geronimo looked shocked. “This early? ¡Madre Mia! I couldn’t possibly! Well, perhaps a small drink, but nothing alcoholic, you understand.”
“That’s fine. A coffee, maybe? Or a Coke? Or juice?”
“Well, perhaps one small brandy…”
So we sat in our overgrown garden watching the level on the brandy bottle descend. I noticed that Geronimo’s power of speech declined in exact proportion with the amount of brandy left in the bottle.
“Real Madrid…never has a team played with such skill, such beauty…” His eyes were moist with passion.
Then later: “… every kick … poetry … just poetry …” Another swallow. “Such grace, such…” He sighed deeply, then shook his head, hair flailing. Fat tears squeezed from his eyes. “Ah, Real Madrid…” he whispered, overcome. He drained his glass, words having now entirely deserted him. Dumbly, he waved his arms, tears running down his cheeks as he tried to convey to us the magic that was Real Madrid.
The brandy bottle stood empty, so he left us, shoulders still shaking with emotion. The three dogs loped behind, heads hung low in sympathy.
We were grateful to Geronimo but still did not have an answer to our question. So, as a last resort, we phoned Kurt. Kurt contacted Alonso, the previous owner, telling him we had some questions about the house.
Two days later, Alonso appeared on our doorstep and we invited him in. He was exactly as I remembered; weather-beaten and gnarled. Twisting his cloth cap in his hands, he was clearly ill at ease. We were very pleased to see him, but his Andalucían dialect was so strong that we had more problems than usual communicating. Our questions baffled him and he didn't understand what we wanted to know. At a loss, I phoned Judith.
“Judith?”
“Yes, m’dear? How can I help?”
“Judith, we’ve got Alonso with us. We’re still trying to find our cesspit. We’ve looked everywhere and we can’t find it. Alonso can’t understand us, and we can’t understand him. Can you talk to him, please?”
“Bloody Spanish drains!” Judith shouted. “Don’t you fret, dear. Pass the receiver over to Alonso, I'll soon find out what is bloody what!”
Alonso took the proffered receiver and held it to his ear, then jerked it away again as though it had stung him. Judith was in full flow and although we couldn’t make out the words, we could appreciate the volume. Alonso listened quietly, receiver now held several safe inches from his ear, merely interrupting Judith’s tirade with the occasional, “Tranquilo, tranquilo.”
Phone call completed, Alonso beckoned us and trotted off to the workshop. In one corner, he exaggeratedly mimed pulling his trousers down and squatting. “Caca!” he explained, pointing to the ground beneath his feet.
Great! So now we knew where the cesspit was. But there was no point in creating a luxury bathroom if at some later date we would have to dig it all up again to connect to mains drainage. Reluctantly, we let well alone and left the bathroom as it was, bucket of water, midget bath, cesspit and all.
The next job Joe wanted to tackle was satellite television. Judith suggested an excellent hardware shop that supplied dishes, so off we went to buy one. The dish seemed
enormous, but we assembled and fixed it. Printed instructions are things to be ignored, according to Joe, so it wasn’t until we’d wasted a day on it that we realised we needed an even bigger dish. This one was too small.
Back to the hardware shop. Luckily they took it back and ordered us the bigger dish. This one was a colossus. We could barely wedge it into the back of the jeep and we felt like a ship in full sail as we drove home back up the mountain.
Paco helped Joe fix it to the roof, but however hard we tried, we couldn’t get a picture. Joe was not pleased; he was desperate to watch the Olympics.
“Ask Judith if she knows any satellite companies,” he called down. “I give up with this thing.” In a fit of pique, he took the dish down again and laid it on the roof.
I did as asked and called Judith. She recommended Satellite Installers Inc. who kindly agreed to come that same afternoon. Joe paced the floor impatiently waiting for them to arrive.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a freak gust of wind blasted through the valley, causing our shutters and doors to bang. Something crashed outside and the look of horror on Joe’s face must have mirrored my own. We knew exactly what had happened.
We charged outside but it was too late. The wind had caught the giant satellite dish and dashed it to the road below. To our dismay, the dish now sported a sizeable dent. Alas, its former perfect symmetry was damaged beyond repair.
Satellite Installers Inc. arrived. They turned out to be a British father and son team, very earnest and utterly dedicated to the fascinating art of satellite installation. They had driven a long way so I plied them with cold drinks and tried unsuccessfully to engage them in small talk. Only when satellite dishes were mentioned did they become animated, their eyes brightening as they warmed to their favourite subject.
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools Page 6