This was a sad day. I was only a lowly supply teacher but most of my time had been spent in this school. I knew every child’s name and the staff were close friends.
I reached the front and cleared my throat. I fear public speaking along with hairy spiders and quadratic equations.
“Thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, and I will miss you all. This school is very special and I have really enjoyed working here and being part of it. Thank you for making me so welcome.” I meant it.
“However,” I added, pointing to my name badge pinned on my blouse above ‘Supply Teacher’ and the school crest, “I won’t throw this badge away just yet. You never know, I might be back and need it...” Below me, the sea of little upturned faces smiled back.
Silently I prayed to whoever was up on high that this would never be the case. I so wanted our Five Year Plan to be a huge success. I wanted Joe to love Spain as much as I did, to agree to live there even after our five years were completed.
That evening, relaxed with glass in hand at the end-of-term Staff Barbecue, I allowed my eyes to roam round the garden. I tried to freeze-frame the memory to be pulled out and cherished later, sometime in my new life. The young American teacher who deserved a Nobel Peace Prize for her ability to inspire seven year olds. The ‘in’ jokes and the teachers who’d made me laugh in the staff room until my ribs ached. The friends who’d joined me at belly dancing evening classes.... And not just the people; the very English flowers in the beds, the lush trees, the unmistakably English feel of it all...
I was exchanging all of it for strangers speaking a foreign language in a country whose customs I didn’t understand. Andalucían landscapes as different from West Sussex as hedgehogs are to bluebells. (Did they have hedgehogs in Spain? Or bluebells?) I was swapping a comfortable house and well-paid job with a derelict cottage and hard manual labour.
You bet I was ready to swap, and I couldn’t wait! No more endless grey, no more early morning telephone calls from schools inviting me to replace a sick teacher, no more traffic fumes, no more queues in Tesco. Bring it on!
The Staff Barbecue was in full swing and I drifted between groups. Conversations that evening followed roughly the same script:
“Hello, Vicky, you lucky thing! You must be so excited! When do you leave?”
“Sunday.” The boxes were packed, the ferry booked.
“So, do you know lots of people out there already?”
“Well, no, not really.”
“Well, you’ll soon make friends. And is your house nice?”
“We love it."
True, but I didn’t add that it had no kitchen. The toilet didn’t work and the bath was only big enough for a gnome. The floors were cracked cement or earth. The walls were a metre thick, made of rubble and disintegrating. The roof beams had woodworm. The electrics were disastrous and the plumbing a joke. Just to name a few little drawbacks.
A pause. “So you speak Spanish?”
“A bit. We’ve been going to Spanish classes. Enough to get by, and I’m sure we’ll pick it up.”
“Gosh, good luck to you, Vicky, I think you are very brave.” Privately, I agreed.
A shout came from somewhere in the garden behind me. One of my closest friends, Juliet, gin and tonic welded to her hand, yelled, “We’ll come and visit you, won’t we, Sue?”
Juliet and Sue, the ‘Gin Twins’ I called them. I was going to miss them.
“Of course we’ll visit!” Sue was slurring just a little. “Get on the Internet tomorrow, Jules. Book a flight for October, half-term.”
I smiled to myself. They were more than welcome but had they forgotten our new house had no kitchen or working bathroom? I assumed it was the gin talking and forgot all about it. I was wrong.
Later that night I was presented with armfuls of leaving gifts. I unwrapped drawing pads, charcoal, pastels, tubes of paint, everything required for a hobby artist with plenty of leisure time. My lovely friends had obviously pictured me seated quietly on the mountainside, sombrero shading my eyes, painting Andalucían landscapes. I knew better. It would take years of intensive labour and stretching of our DIY skills to merely make our house habitable. I was far more likely to be mixing cement than delicately daubing paint on canvas. However, I promised myself that one day, when it was all done, I would indeed sit and paint the mountain scenery.
Meanwhile, one thousand five hundred miles away, in a tiny village in the Alpujarra mountains, a crumbling cottage waited for us, empty and decaying.
They say that moving house is equally as stressful as divorce and only marginally less traumatic than bereavement. With this in mind, I can give you some advice; never hire a Man with a Van. No, splash out - have it all done professionally. Choose a reputable company, sit back and let them get on with it. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
It started off well enough. I got removal quotes from three separate companies, then suffered an attack of the vapours when I read the figures on the bottom line.
“Have you thought about asking Matthew’s father, Dick Smithers?” asked someone in the staff-room. I wish I could remember who first made that suggestion so that I could stick pins in her effigy.
“Dick Smithers! That’s a good idea,” said someone else. “He’s driven lorries taking charity stuff to the Eastern Block loads of times. You know, humanitarian supplies for orphanages. Why don’t you ask him? I bet he’d do the move for you.”
“I know Dick,” I said. “He comes into school sometimes to help out, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s him. I don’t think he’s got his own lorry, but you could hire one.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll ask him if he’s interested.”
So I asked him the very next time I saw him. He seemed ideal, and he was enthusiastic.
“No problem at all,” Dick said. “You hire the truck, and put me down as ‘main driver’. I’ve got a mate who’ll come along to help.”
“That sounds brilliant!” I was delighted.
“You pack everything up in boxes in advance, we’ll load up, and Bob’s your uncle!” he said cheerfully.
“Right!”
“Then me and my mate’ll go in the truck, and you can follow behind in your car. No problem.”
“Excellent! That sounds perfect!” I couldn’t wait to tell Joe. We settled on a price; a huge saving compared with the professional quotes.
Joe was based at an Army barracks in the north of England and only came home at weekends leaving me with most of the packing. I didn’t mind, I was very organised. I made lists to my heart’s content. Gradually, all our possessions were packed. Boxes containing breakables were labelled ‘FRAGILE’ in huge red letters.
Of course, on moving day it poured with rain. Dick turned up but his mate did not. We let Dick take charge, assuming that his experience in packing lorries was far superior to ours. I suppose that’s when the warning lights should have started flashing.
Dick’s modus operandi was to load boxes and furniture as swiftly as possible, regardless of shape or size. Very soon, the lorry was in danger of being full and Dick was using my washing line to tie things down. To cram more in, we had to scramble like monkeys over chests of drawers and chairs to fill spaces towards the back. The load was precarious and frequently shifted, reminding me of Steptoe and Son’s cart. For me, as self-proclaimed Queen of lists and organisation, it was purgatory.
Then Dick’s mate turned up. Dressed in a fetching yellow tracksuit, Dale was an out-of-work actor from Brighton. An actor he may have been, a manual labourer he was not. While Joe and Dick strained, muscles knotted in effort, Dale skipped from box to box, always picking the lightest to carry. His half-hearted efforts were accompanied by “Oops-a-daisy!” or little girlish squeals until I could sense Joe’s blood pressure and temper rising at equal rates. Mercifully, Dale had to leave early to do his pizza delivery shift. He was not missed.
Dick chose that time to make a public announcement. “Can’t hang about
in Spain,” he said. “Got another job. Gotta be back in the UK by Tuesday.”
Joe stared at him. “What do you mean? Are you seriously expecting to drive all the way across France and Spain, unload the lorry, drive back again, all by Tuesday?”
“Yeah, should be able to do it if we don’t hang around.” Dick was defensive.
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Nah, we just do it in one hit, no overnight stops.”
“You must be joking!” Joe was nearly speechless.
I agreed. Both Joe and I drive like geriatric tortoises. We are every young person’s nightmare; we never exceed the speed limit and stay glued to the slow lane on motorways. Our vision of tootling slowly across the Continent with the roof down on the jeep vapourised instantly. Gone was the plan to enjoy the scenery. No pausing awhile to take in the views. No leisurely meals in some French or Spanish bar. No nights spent in quirky hotels. Now we were destined to hare across France and Spain in the wake of the rattling, overstuffed lorry with a demented Michael Schumacher wannabe at the wheel.
“Right,” said Dick, impervious to Joe’s wrath. “I’m off then. I’ll pick Dale up in the morning, and we’ll see you on the ferry.”
That night Joe’s temper continued simmering just below boiling point. Our nerves were frayed and we turned on each other like cornered animals. We slept on an inflatable mattress (the bed was packed) in the living room, scarcely speaking. In the morning we locked up, packed the last of our possessions, and headed towards Portsmouth. I checked my list for the last time. All present and correct. Until the last item…
“Oh, no!” I wailed. “We’ve forgotten Great Aunt Elsa!”
6 Beware the Man with the Van
Spanish Potato Salad
Vegetable Kebabs
Forgotten Great Aunt Elsa? Joe’s forehead creased. We were a couple of miles into our journey and this was not good news.
“We’ll have to go back and get her,” I said. “We can’t leave her in England.”
Joe knew better than to argue. Great Aunt Elsa had been with me since I was a child. Not Great Aunt Elsa herself, of course, but the oil painting of her. Painted in 1897, she had stood the test of time. Still in her original frame, she smiled serenely down at me from every wall I hung her on over the years. She’d watched me grow, marry, raise children. She was part of my life. If I was leaving the country, so was she. And not in the removal lorry, either. She was coming with us, where I could keep an eye on her.
So we turned back, collected Great Aunt Elsa, wrapped her tenderly in a blanket and set off again. We still reached Portsmouth in good time, boarded the ferry and waved good-bye to England’s grey receding shores.
As we stood on deck, I tried to analyse my feelings. Now that moving was a reality, was it a wrench to leave England behind? Perhaps I was unusual, but I felt only excitement, no regret. What would I miss? I could think of nothing except Marmite and Heinz baked beans. What about friends? Well, they were welcome to visit us and we were bound to make new friends in Spain. And the Internet ensured easy contact with all our family.
I recalled the neat modern house we’d left behind. Well, we would work hard and soon make our Spanish house into a home. I was fifty, Joe fifty-three, but we weren’t ready for Zimmer frames yet. I caught my breath, overwhelmed by the excitement of it all. Joe misread my sigh and his big warm hand closed over mine on the rail.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “If it all goes wrong we can always come back. Don’t forget, it’s a Five Year Plan.”
But I was sure we had made the right decision. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was utterly positive we were doing the right thing. And in five years time, I would try to convince Joe we should stay.
The ferry crossing was uneventful except that we avoided Dick and Dale at all costs. We ducked behind bulkheads, dived into rest rooms, anything rather than being forced to sit and chat with them. Joe insisted that we didn’t need to drive in convoy. After all, we had the Google route directions and could keep in touch by mobile phone when necessary. Dick had Kurt’s number just in case.
“Dick by name, Dick by nature,” Joe growled. “Dick and Dale - sounds like a bloody double act. I’m not going to break my neck trying to keep up with that pair of clowns. Huh! We’ll go as fast as we comfortably can, but that’s it!”
We were much more optimistic when we arrived in France. We didn’t see Dick’s lorry disembark, but we had the Google directions so we knew we weren’t far behind. However, I’d clearly overestimated my own navigation skills.
We were lost even before we left Le Havre. The Google directions were hurled out of the window amidst curses unbecoming to a lady. At the first service station we bought a map that covered both France and Spain, and chose the route we thought shortest. Mile after mile we drove, through rustic towns, past acres of vineyards, alongside fields of sunflowers and up into the mountains. On and on and on. By nightfall we were exhausted but had still not quite reached the Spanish border.
“This is ridiculous,” muttered Joe for the fiftieth time. “I’ve had enough! We’re stopping, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Perhaps we’re ahead of them?” I said as we pulled into a particularly grotty service station that offered overnight accommodation. “My! This place looks awful!”
“You’re right, it’s horrendous, but it’ll have to do. I can’t drive anymore tonight.”
“Do you think they have a star system in France, like in Britain? You know, Five Stars for the best…”
“Judging by the outside, I’d say this is a Minus Five. Come on, let’s get Great Aunt Elsa in, have a wash and go to bed.”
We didn’t complain anymore, we were too bone-tired. Joe, Great Aunt Elsa and I put up with the grimy decor and moth-eaten carpets. In spite of the grey sheets, Joe and I slept the sleep of the truly exhausted.
Morning arrived too soon. Another day of solid driving. At least the jeep’s roof was folded back now and we could bask in the heat. It was a bit of a shock when we reached the edge of the map and realised that we were still four hundred miles away from Almería.
And then the mobile shrilled.
“This is Kurt.”
“Oh, hello...”
“Here is Dick and Dale.” The signal was weak, the voice faint.
“Kurt? Kurt? Where is Dick and Dale? I mean, where exactly are they?” It sounded like a comedy sketch.
“...unfortunate event...” The signal died.
“Kurt? Kurt! What unfortunate event? I can’t hear you! Damn!”
But the mobile refused to connect us. Unfortunate event? Had they driven off the mountain road in their haste? Was the lorry upside down in the bottom of a valley, wheels spinning in the air, our worldly possessions strewn through olive groves?
“They beat us,” Joe said glumly. “They got there first.”
The rest of the journey was a game of ‘Guess the Accident’. It was nightfall when we reached the village but, being July, the village was packed. Children played in the square, people sat chatting on the benches. Everybody froze and heads swivelled to watch us pass. I smiled and waved, feeling like the Queen on a drive-past. Hearts racing, we pulled up outside our house, behind the lorry. It seemed intact, until Joe silently pointed. It had a huge dent in one side and heavy black scrape marks. No sign of the Dynamic Duo.
Then Kurt’s car pulled up and Dick and Dale leaped out, looking fresh and immaculate.
“What kept you?” said Dick. “We got here at lunchtime. Phoned your bloke Kurt. He showed us where to come and took us back to Almería. Booked in one of them ‘hostal’ places - had a meal and a bit of a siesta. So where you been?”
“Just driving,” I said. Why did I feel guilty? We had got there as fast as we could.
“And where did he get that tan?” accused Dale pointing at Joe. Joe’s face and bald head shone like a red pepper, burned by the sun through the jeep’s roof.
“Well, we gotta get this job done quickly,” said Dick
and exaggeratedly rolled up his sleeves in readiness.
I unlocked the front door and turned back to speak to Kurt and thank him for directing the Dynamic Duo, but he and his car had vanished. It was then that I registered the lamp-post. Like an inebriate outside a pub at closing time, it leaned precariously, the lamp lolling loosely like a drunken man’s head. That explained the ‘unfortunate event’ and the damage to the truck. I was mortified. This was not how I wanted to make an entrance to the village.
So began a night of work unloading the lorry. Dick and Dale exercised as much delicacy and care for our possessions as a pair of particularly bad-tempered airport baggage handlers. Boxes clearly marked ‘FRAGILE’ were crashed down. The washing machine was dropped. Drawers spilled out of chests and trails of debris began to mark the path from house to lorry. Dale got away with doing as little as possible. Dick checked his watch every few minutes. Joe was totally exhausted and pale under his sunburn.
Unlike us, Great Aunt Elsa had travelled well. She still looked as fresh and serene as she did in 1897. I carried her carefully to a safe, quiet place, away from the mayhem. I chose the bathroom.
Paco appeared from next door.
“Pah!” he said, thumping a box marked ‘Fragile’ and making the contents rattle. “We will soon finish moving these.” The only cheerful one of the group, he threw himself into the task and lifted boxes as though they contained feathers. We were overcome by his kindness and gratefully accepted his help.
“Veeky, do you have glasses?” he asked, hours later.
“Yes, but I don’t know which box they’re in.”
Paco disappeared for a few moments, then reappeared with a bottle of whiskey and glasses. Joe looked at Paco’s smiling face, then at the whiskey bottle. I witnessed his pallor change from pale to green as he bolted to the bathroom, his hand clamped to his mouth. Joe made it to the bathroom, but unfortunately Dale was relieving himself at the time. He was singularly unimpressed by the contents of Joe’s stomach being sprayed forcefully all over his designer tracksuit.
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