“His wife?” I asked, puzzled. “He told me he didn’t have a ‘mujer’ (woman, wife).”
Kurt rarely smiled, but this time his face threatened to crack into something closely resembling a grin.
“Ja, I believe they haf just got married. They are, how you say, newly-veds. It was a special ceremony.”
“Oh, that’s nice!” I was pleased for Roberto, but disappointed my match-making plans for Sofía had been dashed. “What’s his new bride’s name?”
“Roberto’s new vife is a chap named Federico.”
“What?”
“Ah, here they are now.”
Roberto and Federico came up the garden path holding hands. They smiled into each other’s eyes, and then at us. Joe’s jaw had dropped, but he quickly collected himself, remembered his manners and shook hands.
∞∞∞
Roberto and Federico soon became part of the village. When they moved in, I took them some eggs as a welcoming present, following the example set by our neighbours. Spanish people are extraordinarily generous. From the first day we moved into El Hoyo, we were showered with gifts, albeit sometimes unwanted ones.
CHAPTER 26
GIFTS
Our house was a hovel when we first moved into it and it seemed that the villagers felt sorry for us. Carmen-Bethina frequently popped round with plates of food, aware that we had no kitchen in the early days. We dreaded these gifts, these bowls of brown sludge with suspicious looking objects bobbing balefully just under the surface. The floaters were probably just Spanish sausage, but they looked much worse.
Two of our Egg Ladies shared the name Isabel, so we nicknamed them Isabel Arriba and Isabel Abajo (above and below) because of where they lived in the village.
Isabel Arriba presented us with a cloth she had embroidered herself. We were touched by the gift but unsure what to do with it. The house was thick with brick dust from our labours, so we just folded the cloth neatly and set it aside for the moment.
The other Isabel, Isabel Abajo, took one look at the chaos we were living in and beckoned us to follow her down the street. She unlocked a garage and pointed with a flourish to something lurking in a dark corner.
We peered at it. Impatiently, Isabel brushed its surface with her hand, sending up clouds of ancient dust.
“It is a table and four chairs,” she said. “You must take them, then you can sit down.”
Joe tried the ‘grateful-but-no-thank-you’ approach. “Thank you,” he said. “But we haven’t built the dining room yet. Perhaps later, when we’ve finished the house.”
But Isabel was already dragging the furniture out for our inspection. Joe jumped to help her which only succeeded in convincing her that we were just being polite by declining.
“You must have somewhere to sit,” she said. “And this is a very good table, and very good chairs.”
One of the chairs only had three legs and the table rocked drunkenly. Someone had used it as a workbench at some time and its surface was furrowed with dents and gouges. Woodworm holes peppered the legs in crazy random patterns.
“We already have furniture…” I tried, but was swept aside.
“You can fix it up easily,” said Isabel. “A bit of varnish and it will be like new.”
Helpfully, she stacked two chairs and handed them to me. Joe gave up the fight. He picked up the table and carried it outside. Isabel followed with the remaining two chairs. She was delighted, whether by her act of charity, or because she’d successfully cleared a corner of her garage, I couldn’t say.
The unwanted table set was a constant annoyance. It cluttered up the house and we were at a loss at what to do with it. We couldn’t put it on the village skip in case she saw it, and we didn’t want to offend her.
“Let’s burn it,” said Joe one cold evening. “I’ll chop it up into pieces so it fits in the stove.”
We burnt most of it that night, just a few chair legs remained in the log basket.
I suppose it was inevitable that Isabel Abajo called for eggs the next day. The bell clanged and I went down the garden path to answer it.
“¡Hola Isabel!” I said very loudly, praying that Joe would hear me and act quickly.
“Buenas tardes,” said Isabel, following me back to the house. “I’d like a dozen eggs, please. They’re always so fresh and tasty.”
Judging by Joe’s guilty expression, he had picked up my hint and acted quickly. I stole a glance at the log basket hoping he had removed all incriminating evidence from Isabel’s view. To my horror, he had picked up the nearest thing to hand and thrown it over the firewood in an effort to conceal the chair legs.
“That is a beautiful cloth,” said Isabel. “Isn’t it the one the other Isabel embroidered for you?” There was reproach in her voice. The question ‘why put such a beautiful cloth over a log basket?’ hung unspoken in the air.
But we had got away with it. She didn’t see the chair legs waiting for that night’s fire, and went away thinking the English had even stranger customs than she had imagined.
∞∞∞
Often, when we visited Marcia and Old Sancho’s shop, we were given presents. Marcia would hand us a plastic carrier bag containing almonds, tomatoes, peppers or melons. Sometimes she presented us with a plate of rice pudding. On Old Sancho’s eighty-third birthday we were given slices of cake.
The first time they gave us a sack of stale bread we thanked them politely, but were puzzled.
“A gift from my son,” said Marcia, pushing a hairpin back into her bun. “It is stale bread from the bakery.”
Marcia and Old Sancho’s sons owned the bakery in the next village. Okay, so now we knew where the bread came from, but we still didn’t understand why it was being given to us.
Sometimes bags of stale bread would be hung on our gate, or left on our doorstep. It was a mystery.
I popped next door to ask Paco.
“For the chickens!” he said. “Soak the bread in hot water and give it to the chickens. And give your eggshells to the chickens, too. Eggshells will make the next eggs strong.”
It seemed an almost cannibalistic practice, giving back the eggshells the girls had produced, but we followed his advice. The girls liked the eggshells and enthusiastically hoovered up the soggy bread. So now we accepted our gifts of stale bread gratefully, and the mystery was solved.
∞∞∞
There was one gift that always made me smile, even though it wasn’t presented to us. On Little Paco’s birthday, I popped next door to give him his present and a card. Birthday cards are difficult to buy in Spain so I gave him a home-made one. He opened both card and present and thanked me politely.
“Did you get lots of presents?” I asked.
Little Paco nodded his head, but his eyes were downcast. He was obviously upset.
“He has games for his Playstation, toys, footballs, all sorts of things,” said his mother, drying her hands on her apron.
“What’s the matter, then?” I asked him. “You don’t seem very happy. Didn’t you like your presents?”
Carmen-Bethina tossed her head impatiently. Little Paco hung his head. His bottom lip trembled and his dark eyes filled.
“What I really want,” he quavered, “is a puppy…”
Carmen-Bethina snorted. “A puppy?” she said. “I’ve told you over and over again, no puppy! I do not want a dog in the house, do I make myself clear? Puppies are messy, and they need looking after. And who will end up looking after it? Me! You are not having a puppy, and that’s final!”
Paco came into the house and caught the tail end of his wife’s rant.
“Pah! We already have two dogs,” he said, meaning the hunting dogs that were kept outside. A fat teardrop trickled down Little Paco’s cheek. “Your mother is right, we do not need any more. Now, that is enough! You are not getting a puppy and I do not want to hear another word about it.”
“Claro,” said Carmen-Bethina firmly.
Next weekend, Paco’s Range Rover screech
ed to a halt outside as usual. Out climbed Paco, Carmen-Bethina, Sofía and Little Paco. Thunderous knocking on our door. I opened up and they all came inside. Paco was looking rueful, Sofía was smiling and Carmen-Bethina shrugged with a helpless gesture. Little Paco’s head was bowed low over something he cupped in his hands, something snuggled under his chin.
“What have you got there?” I asked, but I already knew. Little Paco lifted his head and revealed his treasure. A tiny puppy slept, oblivious to its surroundings.
“This is Bianca,” whispered Little Paco. “She is English.”
“Don’t know where he got that name,” grunted Paco. “What is wrong with ‘Blanca’? That is a proper name for a dog.”
“She is beautiful, no?” said Carmen-Bethina, her previous reluctance at puppy ownership forgotten. Paco rolled his eyes heavenward but extended a few fingers to stroke the silky ears. So Bianca, the brown and white Cocker Spaniel, entered all our lives and wriggled her way into our affections.
During the first month, Bianca was not well. Little Paco’s big sister, Sofía, appointed herself as Chief Nurse. We were told she stopped going out in the evenings, staying in to watch over the sick puppy instead. She fed Bianca by hand, tempting her with tasty nutritious morsels.
“She even missed the big Fiesta in Almería,” said Paco wonderingly. “She is staying up with that puppy every night and still goes to work early.”
Sofía’s devotion paid off. Bianca began to thrive and grow. We noticed the difference because we saw the family and puppy only at weekends and Bianca’s growth spurt and increase in energy were obvious. At first, she was too small to climb our doorstep. Soon, she could put her front paws on the doorstep but needed a push from behind. Later, she bounded over the doorstep with ease.
I’ve never owned a dog so I have no personal experience of dog behaviour. However, whether it was the breed, or Bianca’s unique nature, I found her to be utterly charming. Such enthusiasm, such joyfulness! Every time we saw her she treated us to huge welcomes. Her laughing face and excitement was infectious. Not just her stumpy little tail, but her whole body wagged in delight. The wag started at her wet black nose, travelled down her neck and body, over her back and round tummy, past the hind quarters and finished with the delirious twitching of her tail.
There were down sides, of course, but aren’t there always? She would charge into our house, hurl herself ecstatically at us and pee on the floor, or on our feet, in excitement. I took to leaving a mop and bucket of water with disinfectant handy in anticipation of Bianca’s flying visits.
Bianca grew so quickly that even she did not realise how big she’d become. She still thought she was small enough to sleep on the back of Carmen-Bethina’s sofa. This was fine until she started dreaming and twitching. Inevitably, she would fall off, landing on her back, wedged between sofa and wall. There she would lie, panting, tongue lolling, until someone rescued her.
We couldn’t walk past Paco’s house to collect our bread from Marcia without Bianca. Even if we tiptoed, she would torpedo out, ears streaming behind her, bouncing around us with excitement like a giant furry rubber ball.
“Bianca! Bianca!” came the shout from inside Paco’s house. “Bianca? Come back here!”
“Bianca, go home,” Joe and I chorused, but to no avail.
So all three of us would go to the shop, two walking, one dancing. Geronimo, sitting outside, would tighten his grip on his beer bottle in anticipation of Bianca’s exuberant greeting. His three dogs rolled their eyes at the youngster’s undisciplined behaviour. Old Sancho smiled at her cavorting. His black cat narrowed her eyes and arched her back, ready to spit if Bianca came too close. But Bianca was oblivious to hostility - everyone was her very best friend. Despite receiving a scratch on her nose from the cat’s lightning paw, Bianca still greeted the cat like a long-lost friend.
I wondered if Bianca’s diary would read something like this:
Extract from Bianca’s Diary
Saturday
07.00 - Wake up. Hooray! My favourite thing!
08.00 - Breakfast. Hooray! My favourite thing!
10.00 - Get under Carmen-Bethina’s feet. Hooray! My favourite thing!
12.00 - Help the English fetch their bread. Hooray! My favourite thing!
13.00 - Chew Sofía’s best shoes. Hooray! My favourite thing!
14.00 - Play with Little Paco. Hooray! My favourite thing!
17.00 - Get scolded by Paco. Hooray! My favourite thing!
18.00 - Dinner time. Hooray! My favourite thing!
22.00 - Bed time. Hooray! My favourite thing!
We collected the bread and mail from Marcia, delivered Bianca back home and squeezed our front door closed before she could follow. Until next time.
But perhaps the most unusual gift we ever received came from the sky. Well, not exactly, but it was thrown over the twelve-foot high wall to land in our garden.
Baked Peppers
Pimientos a la Catalana
An ideal tapa or accompaniment to meat or fish.
3 - 4 large red peppers
6 cloves of garlic
olive oil
salt
black pepper
The day before serving, bake the peppers whole in a hot oven for 30 - 40 minutes. (You can also cook over a barbecue.)
During cooking, turn the peppers regularly.
When you notice the skin beginning to peel away, turn off the oven but leave the peppers for a further 10 minutes.
The following day, chop the tops off the peppers and remove seeds. Then peel away the skin.
Cut the peppers into slices and place in a large bowl.
Peel and crush the garlic and add to the peppers.
Season with salt and pepper, add a generous drizzle of olive oil and mix well.
Place in the fridge for an hour before serving.
CHAPTER 27
AND MORE GIFTS...
We were inside the house drinking coffee, when we heard a strange noise coming from the garden. It was a flapping, scrabbling, metallic noise. Joe stepped out to see what had caused it. I watched him, framed in the doorway. He stood looking around, turned on his heel, then bent over, obviously peering intently at something on the ground beyond my line of vision.
“Hello…” he said, using the voice he reserves for small children. “Where did you come from?”
My curiosity got the better of me. I went out to join him.
“What is it?” I asked.
There, looking up at us, not flustered in the least, was a chicken. A rather ugly chicken, if I’m perfectly honest. She was very dark brown and tattered, with ragged tail and feathers that stuck out at all angles. She was very young as her comb was barely visible. Her beak was short and blunt where it had been singed off over-zealously by somebody. (Singeing chicks’ beaks is a nasty practice still carried out by some who believe it will stop chickens pecking at their own eggs.)
But perhaps the most remarkable thing about this chicken was her boldness. She was not frightened in the least. On the contrary, she took several steps forward and looked up at us quizzically with her head on one side.
“Who are you?” I asked her. “And what are you doing in our garden?”
Chickens can fly quite well, but reluctantly. They only take to the air as a last resort if chased or in a rush to get somewhere, like at feeding time. They never fly high. Therefore we concluded that she did not soar over our twelve-foot wall; she must have been thrown. The noise we had heard was her flapping and her claws trying to grasp the metal staircase that ran up the inside of the wall. Anyway, she landed unharmed and quite unfazed by the experience.
Joe opened the garden gate and looked up and down the street. Nobody there.
“I’ll get her something to eat and drink,” I said, “while we decide what to do with her.”
I walked back into the house, and to my astonishment, she followed me. Usually, chickens head straight for the flower beds, intent on horticultural demolition. But thi
s chicken stayed glued to my heels like an obedient sheepdog. I tested her by changing direction. Still she shadowed me. Wherever I went, she was one chicken step behind.
“Well, you’re an odd chicken,” I told her. “We’ll call you Regalo because you were a present, a gift.”
We only had one chicken coop so there was no other option; we were forced to put her in with The Mafia and the others. They were clearly not impressed with Regalo. Attila the Hen led a ferocious attack which sent poor Regalo scuttling up the ramps to the top level.
Meanwhile, Joe and I walked to the shop to collect our bread. Geronimo and Old Sancho sat outside, Geronimo’s three dogs slumped at his feet like piles of old carpet.
“¿Qué tal?” we asked.
“Malo,” Geronimo said, shaking his head grimly.
We entered the shop and Marcia handed us our loaf of bread.
“Marcia, somebody threw a chicken over our garden wall this morning,” I said.
“¿Sí? I have your post here. To me it looks like a lot of bills. Another loaf of bread tomorrow as usual?”
“Yes, please. Do you know who it belongs to? The chicken, I mean,” I persisted.
Marcia shook her head, and the inevitable hairpin flew out. “I saw a chicken walking past the shop this morning,” she said. “Wait, I will ask Sancho.” She went outside.
“Sancho, the English say today someone threw a chicken over their wall.”
Old Sancho listened carefully, a grave expression on his face. He pondered, forehead screwed in concentration. Then he smiled and spoke. Marcia bent low to catch his reply, ear close to his lips, then straightened.
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools Page 21