Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  “He was arrested!” she said. “¡Madre mia! He’d been smuggling drugs from Morocco for years. The police had been watching him, and then they caught him.” She sat back, deflated, shaking her head sadly, setting the double chins wobbling again. “Seven years in prison he got, seven years… Lost his house in Almería, lost his fleet of lorries, lost everything. All he’s got left is his house in the village. He had to go back to working for a company, driving a lorry all over Europe.”

  Quiet, courteous Antonio an ex-drug smuggler and convict? I was fascinated. I began to look forward to Pepa’s visits and her colourful stories.

  “The elections for the new Mayor are going to be held in a few months,” she said one day.

  “Oh, really? Who are the candidates? Who do you think will win?” I asked.

  “Well…” she said, shaking her head and pursing her lips. “There is that Angelo Covas Sanchez. But he doesn’t stand a chance. He was caught in a broom cupboard with the cleaner at the Town Hall and his wife is threatening to leave him.”

  “Oh dear. Who else is in the running?”

  “Well, Manuel Gomez. He’s a member of my family.”

  “Is he popular?”

  “Manuel Gomez? Goodness, no. He made a terrible mess of the water rights for the village. And anyway, he married his first cousin.”

  “Oh,” I said. “But what about Pancho Marcos Martinez? He’s the Mayor at the moment, isn’t he? Do you think he’ll win the election again?”

  “¡Madre mia! Not a chance! They call him Pancho Pinochet. He’ll never get voted for Mayor again with that attitude.”

  “How many candidates are there?” I asked.

  “Just three.”

  The mayoral elections were going to be interesting. I made a mental note to follow them closely when the time came.

  But selling eggs was a mixed blessing. However much entertainment the sales brought, it also caused problems we had not envisaged. The ship’s bell would clang at all hours of the day, a constant interruption. Many a barrow of plaster or cement was ruined, abandoned while we served and chatted with an egg customer. Sometimes the bell would ring at eleven o’clock at night. Joe was not pleased.

  And woe betide if I had no eggs left. “But it’s for the children!” the lady would wail as though I was a hard hearted witch to deprive them.

  Sometimes the egg sales even caused fights outside our gate when two customers arrived at the same time. I could hear their conversation from inside.

  “Oh, Maria! How are you?”

  “Not bad, not bad. And you?”

  “Fine, I’m just getting my eggs from the English.”

  “Yes, me too. I need them for a cake.”

  “I need them for the children.”

  “Well, I was here first. The English know I always come on Sunday mornings.”

  “No, Maria. I already told the English I was baking a cake today.”

  The voices would be growing in volume and I’d nervously check our egg supplies. Then I’d go down and open the gate and let them both in. Their faces would be wreathed in smiles belying the fact that they’d nearly come to blows in the street. We’d all agree that the eggs were very fresh and tasty. If there were enough eggs, the purchases would be made and the ladies would leave triumphantly. If not, I would have to send Joe to the orchard to see if there were any more while the ladies sat glowering at each other and me. Sometimes the chickens simply could not lay fast enough, which resulted in the two ladies not speaking to each other, or me.

  Often, the Egg Ladies would give me instructions. “I need eggs next weekend. Keep them for me, please. Don’t sell them to that Maria.”

  The next lady would arrive. “Keep a dozen for me next Saturday, I’ve got family staying. Don’t sell them to that Teresa.”

  Egg orders had become complicated and my calendar was a hotch-potch of names, promises and reminders. Unwittingly, we had got ourselves into a situation that would be difficult to escape. Demand for eggs far outstripped our ability to supply. The only solution would be to add more chickens to our flock. And we couldn’t do that because our plans to build on the orchard were progressing. Soon we would have to move the chickens out, so getting more now would only have exacerbated the problem.

  Joe once suggested (only half jokingly) that we buy extra eggs from the supermarket to make up the shortfall. That way we wouldn’t upset any of our Egg Ladies. And perhaps we could have eggs, too, as during that period we rarely tasted an egg ourselves. We never did resort to buying supermarket eggs, although it was tempting at the time.

  Judith visited to view our progress with the house renovations and meet the chickens.

  “Good Lord!” she said. “You’ve done wonders with this place! I hardly recognise it!”

  We basked in her praise. We had chipped away at walls to expose the dry crumbling rocks beneath. We had cemented, smoothed, plastered and finally whitewashed. We had replaced doors, laid tiles, overhauled the electrics and plumbing. We were always exhausted, cut and bruised from our labours. A bit of praise from Judith was exactly what we needed to buck us up.

  “Right!” said Judith, rubbing her hands together. “Now introduce me to those chickens!”

  Off we trooped to the orchard, drinks in hand, and settled ourselves on the yellow sofa. Judith was enchanted by Ginger who perched on the arm, as usual, and told us all the latest gossip from the coop. The cicadas chirruped noisily, invisible in the bushes. Bugger and Fuck had uncovered an ants’ nest and were pecking furiously, like woodpeckers beating tattoos on a tree trunk. Mala preened her snowy feathers.

  I sighed. “We’ve really made problems for ourselves selling eggs in the village. We never seem to have enough. And if we give them to one customer, we upset another.”

  “Good heavens!” said Judith. “Don’t you let those women bully you! Give ‘em an inch and they take a mile. Hell’s bells! First come, first served, I say… Or you could always get some more chickens.”

  “If only we could,” said Joe, looking sadly round the orchard.

  We explained our building plans for the orchard, and how, if we succeeded, the sale of the houses would leave us mortgage-free. It was a daunting project, one we would have preferred not to undertake. We loved the orchard and wished we weren’t forced to lose it.

  We sat for a while longer, until Judith drained her glass, stretched and stood up. “Must go, dears. Mother will be wondering where I am. She’ll be fascinated when I tell her all the things you’ve done to the house. And your chickens are simply divine!”

  We walked her to the orchard gate and exchanged kisses. Judith took a last look round the orchard. The girls were busily scratching in the dirt and carrying on with their chickeny business.

  “Nothing quite like free range eggs,” she said. “So fresh and tasty. You haven’t got a dozen you can spare, have you? Mother is very partial to a new laid egg.”

  Evidently dear Judith had become as Spanish as our customers.

  For a while nothing changed. We kept selling the eggs we had, doing our best to keep the sales fair. Nothing changed except, sadly, I lost my favourite customer and friend.

  Lovely Pepa, with all her naughty gossip, still popped in for eggs most weekends. It was very gradual, but I began to notice a change in her. She started to lose weight which suited her at first, but when her clothes began to hang off her, I was concerned. Her colour changed from healthy to sallow and the dyed red hair grew thinner revealing grey roots. Her visits became less frequent and I was shocked at her decline.

  One day she rang the bell and asked for eggs as usual. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any as I wasn’t expecting her that day. She looked terrible, weakness forcing her to grip the door frame for support. The wicked, dancing expression in her eyes had gone, replaced by a haunted, frightened look that tore at my soul. She explained that she had to go into hospital for tests and that she wouldn’t need any eggs for a while. Her eyes filled with tears and she admitted to me that she was scar
ed. She was scared that she would never leave the hospital.

  I never saw my friend Pepa again. She died in hospital. It’s a silly thing, but I so wished that I had had eggs to give her that last time.

  Her grave is in the village cemetery, a stone’s throw from our house. The plaque says Josefina Maria Teresa Martinez Sanchez. But I will always know her as Pepa.

  17 The Equators

  Beef in Fruit Sauce (Ecuadorian recipe)

  Renovating the house took up all our time and we had to admit that some projects were beyond our capabilities. We could knock down walls, build new ones and tile the floors. Joe could carry out plumbing and sort the electrics. But that wasn’t enough; we had set our hearts on creating two roof terraces. Old Spanish houses have no foundations and we had no idea if the dry crumbling walls would support the load of another floor. We needed expert advice and professionals to do the job. However, finding these proved to be no easy matter.

  Paco’s brother-in-law, Fausto, was a wealthy property developer, the owner of several apartment blocks on the coast and some resort hotels. He came to have a look, accompanied by Marisa, his five year old daughter, to help interpret. Little Marisa was exquisite. Perfect olive skin, rosebud lips and dark velvet eyes with sweeping lashes; she took our breath away. She was attending a school in Almería that concentrated on learning English early and her command of the language was already remarkable. We walked around the house and pointed out what we wanted.

  “We’d like to make this window into a door, and build a terrace on that roof,” Joe explained.

  Fausto scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then he shook his head with regret, and delivered his verdict. His voice was very nasal and he scarcely moved his lips when he spoke which made understanding him very difficult. We looked at him blankly. Fausto repeated it, a little slower and a lot louder, but to no avail. Still looking at us, he nudged his daughter.

  “My father, he say not possible,” piped up Marisa, hopping from one foot to the other. “My father, he say all the house not strong. My father, he say better make house flat. Then make new one.”

  “Knock the house down and start again?” I echoed.

  Little Marisa had found a hole in the wall and was poking at it, picking out little bits of masonry that tumbled to the floor. “Yes, my father he say house is rubbish.”

  Joe and I exchanged horrified glances. Nevertheless, we thanked Fausto for his advice and I fetched a juice for Marisa. But all was not lost. After encouragement from her proud father, Marisa made the visit worthwhile by launching into a rendition of ‘Wheels on the Bus’, all eleven verses of it, including actions. At the end of each verse she sucked noisily on her straw until her father prodded her, urging her to continue the song.

  When they left, hand in hand, I phoned Judith.

  “Builders?” she asked. “Are you sure? Bloody builders, more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Do you know any you could recommend?” I asked, ignoring the pessimism.

  “Hang on, I’ll ask Mother. Mother? MOTHER! Oh, there you are. Joe and Vicky want to know if we know of any good builders.” The receiver was dropped, and I could hear their voices arguing in the distance, interspersed with the barking of dogs. I waited patiently.

  “Vicky? Mother suggested Luis from the village. She’s known him since he was in nappies, dear. Bloody good builder, Luis is. Just a tad unlucky, that’s all.”

  “Unlucky? What do you mean, unlucky?”

  “Well, dear, he was working on a house in the village here, and he didn’t get the calculations quite right.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, he was knocking some walls down. Unfortunately it affected the house next door. Luis went home thinking everything was ticketty-boo. When he came back next morning to start work again, the bloody house next door had collapsed. Damned bad luck, don’t you know. Could have happened to anyone.”

  I agreed it was very bad luck and mentally struck Luis off our list.

  We were given two more names by other people. One builder was so tattooed and pierced I was concerned he might spring a leak at any moment. The other was elderly and seemed far too frail to undertake anything much more than a little light decorating. Both took notes and promised to get back to us with prices. We never saw either again.

  When we next visited Almería, we picked up ‘The Messenger’, an excellent free English newspaper. It was full of local news and events, but at the back were classified advertisements. We scoured the columns looking for a potential builder. There were two possible candidates under the heading ‘Building Services’. The first was in the shape of a cartoon cement mixer bearing the legend ‘NO BODGE JOBS!’ with a name and telephone number. The second was reassuringly ordinary. ‘Reliable and professional building work undertaken. Call Colin for a free quotation.’ We agreed to ignore the first and contact Colin.

  Colin sounded fine on the phone and promised to come out the next week. He arrived, only six hours late, in a huge utility vehicle that absolutely suited his personality. With the physique of an American wrestler, he looked capable of completing the job single-handed. He was cheerful, enthusiastic, listened carefully to our requests and offered suggestions. We liked him immediately. He didn’t think the terraces would be a problem, and we didn’t tell him that Fausto thought the house ought to be demolished.

  Colin said he thought our house had huge potential. “Why don’t we build a metal staircase outside, from the garden up to the first terrace?” he said, flinging out an arm to demonstrate and knocking over a pot of geraniums. Colin was endearingly clumsy, like a boisterous bear cub.

  “And this door,” said Joe, pointing at the ancient, rotting back door, “needs changing. It’s got a huge gap underneath. We get all sorts of insects marching in. And when the wind blows, all the leaves and dirt pile up inside.”

  Colin’s huge fist closed around the door handle. He gave it a sharp wrench and the handle broke off in his hand. The door stayed where it was.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “This door needs replacing.” He kicked the door open but it never closed properly again.

  Not only did he trip over his own feet and Thief Cat’s bowl, but his words tended to trip him up, too. They would tumble out of his mouth just slightly wrong.

  “I’ve got an excellent team of Equators,” he said. Equators? I assumed it was a technical term and didn’t ask.

  He admired the chickens, and told us about his own at home. Like us, he loved chickens … definitely a point in his favour. “Why don’t we do your garden at the same time?” he suggested. “We could build you a brilliant chicken coot.”

  “And an outside kitchen, and barbecue, and woodshed? And all paved?” My mouth was watering.

  “Anything you want, just draw us a design.”

  We sat down in our overgrown garden to discuss the plans. Colin lowered his muscular bulk into a plastic garden chair. I couldn’t help fretting that the chair might not take his weight, but my fears were unfounded, even when he leaned back to slip a flashy mobile phone out of his pocket.

  “I’ll just call the orifice and get some figures,” he said.

  “I’m afraid we don’t get a mobile signal here…” I said, just as the mobile in Colin’s hand burst into an Abba ring tone, making me out to be a total liar. Colin flicked his eyebrows questioningly and took the call.

  “Well, we’ve never had a signal before,” I muttered, and caught Joe sniggering.

  Colin stayed another hour until the church-bells chimed fourteen, and by that time we had agreed a price. We wrote a deposit cheque and shook hands on the deal. We’d only planned to have the roof terraces done, but the wish list had grown. Roof terraces, new front and back doors, the entire garden done...

  At first we were euphoric. We had finally found a builder we liked and who understood our needs. Then doubts crept in. Joe voiced them first.

  “Do you realise we’ve just handed over one thousand euros to a complete stranger?” he said,
anxiously scratching his groin.

  “Yes, but we have a receipt,” I said, waving the scrap of paper Colin had signed and dated. We both knew, deep down, that the receipt meant absolutely nothing and that Colin could be anybody. It was extremely worrying.

  A month later, we were even more worried. Colin and his ‘Equators’ should have started on the first of April but no-one appeared. We tried phoning. No reply. We regretted not taking down his number plate but it hadn’t occurred to us at the time.

  However, on the 12th of April Colin’s big utility vehicle drew up, followed by a truck full of building materials, and a car resembling a scrapmetal version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Four lithe Ecuadorians got out and stood in a row, flashing white teeth and bling.

  Each man was dressed identically in black tracksuit bottoms and orange T-shirts emblazoned with ‘Colin’s Careful Construction’ across the chest. I was reminded of 1960’s pop groups like The Drifters, who all dressed alike and moved in synch. The Equators looked ready to break into song.

  Colin introduced them: William, Eduardo, Fernando, and Jesus.

  “This is William,” said Colin. “He’s the chef.” We shook hands.

  “Sí, I am chief,” said William, obviously used to his boss’s malapropisms.

  “Eduardo is the best tiler I’ve ever employed,” said Colin, and a gold tooth glinted as Eduardo grinned. “He’s a mestickulous worker, really autistic.” Joe and I absorbed this information in silence.

  “And this is Fernando, he’s an excellent Jake-of-all-trades. I give him cart blank to get on with things.” Fernando stepped forward and shook hands, his gold signet rings leaving impressions on our palms.

  “And finally, this is Jesus. Jesus is Fernando’s brother. He’s just arrived in Spain and he’s learning the trade. He’s already a good welder.” Jesus was about seventeen and clearly shy. He had trouble making eye contact and shuffled his work boots uncomfortably.