“I suppose we’ll have to carry on down,” said Joe. “Talkative chap, wasn’t he?”
The track did not improve, but we meandered down, tyres scrunching on scattered rocks. Another clearing opened, smaller this time. A battered minibus propped on bricks held centre stage, flanked by rusting carcasses of other aged vehicles. A tarpaulin awning shaded a seating area of threadbare cushions piled in dirty heaps. A figure reclined, oblivious to our arrival.
Cocky chose that moment to crow and the figure sat up slowly. Near him, a lethargic brown dog opened one eye, shook its head then flopped back down on the cushions.
“Hello? Are you Cauliflower?” called Joe.
The figure stood unhurriedly and faced us. He was of average height, middle-aged and round shouldered. I noticed his skin was the same colour as the cushions and his dog. Dry clumps of coarse hair sprouted from his scalp. A faded, tattered T-shirt that may have been green at some time clung to him. The lettering, once black, now faded powdery grey, proclaimed Bob Marley sings No Woman, No Cry.
He scuffed towards us, sandaled feet dragging in the dirt.
“Are you Caul?” Joe asked again. “I believe you’re expecting us?”
“That’s me,” said Cauliflower after a long pause.
“We’ve brought you a little bantam cock and two chickens,” I said, climbing out of the jeep. “I’m Vicky, and this is Joe.”
I extended my hand then almost wished I hadn’t when he clasped it weakly in his own dirt-ingrained one. His eyes were heavily hooded and expressionless.
“Mother said you were coming,” he said at last.
I wondered fleetingly if anybody knew Mother’s real name. Chatting obviously wasn’t one of Caul’s strong points, so Joe and I busied ourselves unloading the feeder, water container and boxes out of the jeep. Caul watched us, deep in thought.
We carried it all to the awning, where someone else had materialised. A woman, dressed in a sun bleached shapeless shift, leaned against the minibus, smoking a home-rolled cigarette. Stringy hair straggled down her back and her feet were bare. She swatted flies half-heartedly with a limp hand.
“Hello,” I said, trying to behave as though everything was normal. “I’m Vicky.”
No answer. She looked at me but made no reply.
“My woman, Nebula,” said Caul. “She don’t talk much.” I resisted the urge to point out that neither of them were sparkling conversationalists.
“Right,” said Joe. “Have you kept chickens before?”
Caul looked at Nebula. Nebula gazed back, impassive.
“Yeah,” he said, a little shiftily. “Coupla years ago.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I said, too brightly. “We’ve brought a supply of grain, but as you know, they’ll find plenty to eat in the undergrowth as well.”
“And the chickens are really good layers,” said Joe. “You should have eggs every day.”
“Eggs…” breathed Nebula. We all looked up. It was the first time she had spoken, but if we were expecting more, we were disappointed.
“Shall we let them out?” asked Joe. Cocky was scrabbling loudly in the box, claws scraping the cardboard sides.
Neither Cauliflower nor Nebula replied.
“Right,” said Joe, taking the initiative. “Out you come...”
I held my breath, praying Cocky would behave. Joe first opened the box containing the No-Name Twins. Utterly unconcerned by their new surroundings, they made straight for the feeder and water. Joe opened the other box and lifted Cocky out. Cocky took in the scene with one glance, ignored us all and strutted over to the Twins.
“Hey, man!” said Caul, showing more interest in Cocky than we had seen him take in anything since our arrival.
The journey had affected Cocky not at all. Quickly he mounted one Twin, bucked, climbed off and then mounted the other.
“Hey, man!” said Caul.
The brown dog came sniffing up. The girls carried on pecking grain. Cocky rattled his lavender feathers, stood on tiptoe and crowed. The dog wisely decided not to investigate further and slouched away to slump on the cushions again.
“I don’t think dogs will bother them, do you?” I said to nobody in particular. “Not with Cocky there on guard.”
“What about foxes?” asked Joe.
“Foxes…” whispered Nebula.
“No foxes here, man,” said Caul. “Too many dogs.”
Cicadas clamoured in the trees. The brown dog twitched and snored. The chickens scratched happily in the dirt. There seemed nothing else to do, or say. We took our leave promising to call in a few days to see how Cocky and the girls had settled in. We left Cauliflower and his woman in the heat and dirt and navigated the track back up to the main road.
Driving home, we fell silent. I knew I would miss the troublesome little cock we had just given away, and I was sure Joe felt the same. I already missed the incessant crowing. We felt curiously unwilling to discuss the rather surreal visit.
“I’m pretty sure I know where Cauliflower got his name,” said Joe eventually, breaking the silence.
“Really? So why d’you think he’s called Cauliflower?”
“Did you get near enough to smell him?” asked Joe. He had a point.
“Another thing,” I said. “Mother said she buys herbs from him. Did you see any cultivated areas there? Any kind of garden?”
Joe shook his head, then creased his brow in thought.
“No, but there were some very dodgy looking plants growing under the trees. I think Mother may have a little vice Judith doesn’t know about.”
“But Mother’s eighty-five years old!”
“Well? Good luck to her,” said Joe. “We won’t grass on her.”
It was a long drive home and we both felt a little depressed.
“Let’s not go straight home,” I said. “I hate thinking of the orchard with no Cocky in it.”
“Okay, let’s stop somewhere and have a coffee.”
So, to distract ourselves, we stopped in the next small village. The square was very quiet and we were disappointed that it offered no taberna for refreshments.
“Oh well,” said Joe. “We can still take a stroll round the village. The church looks really old. Perhaps we could have a look inside.”
It was a pretty church, constructed from local stone. The huge double doors looked firmly closed, but a faded, flapping notice was pinned up. I leaned forward to read it.
“What does it say?” asked Joe.
I translated it aloud:
‘All Souls’ Day Mass.
Before the service, please place your donation in an envelope together with the deceased person you want remembered.’
That conjured up quite a picture and set us laughing. Joe composed himself and tried the handle of the church door.
“Well, I expect it’s locked now,” he said. “They probably only open it on special Holy days.”
To our surprise, it was not locked, and the door creaked open.
21 Deaths and Pancho ‘Pinochet’
Tuna and Egg Salad
Joe and I entered the church and peered into the silent darkness. They say the past whispers to those who listen, and I wondered how many generations had passed through those heavy doors to worship here. Joe ran his hand over the cool stone, searching unsuccessfully for a light switch.
The building had that slightly damp, mysterious atmosphere unique to old churches. Pale eerie shapes of statues beckoned from the shadows. Nothing stirred, no sound apart from our footsteps echoing on the flagstone floor.
We stood silently in the central aisle, trying to accustom our eyes to the dark, surrounded by ghosts of the past. On the altar, a couple of candles flickered, barely illuminating a bleeding Christ figure nailed to a wooden cross.
When Joe’s mobile phone suddenly shrilled, we both sprang like startled rabbits. It was so unexpected, so loud, so inappropriate. Joe fumbled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The strange bluish light illuminated his face and ma
de it seem unearthly. He read the message and for a split second his eyes grew large before he visibly relaxed.
“Gosh, that gave me a fright,” he said, passing me the phone and sinking onto a pew. “I nearly got down on my knees. I thought He was trying to tell me something.”
Aloud, I read the words on the tiny screen, and instantly understood his shock.
“Jesus calling…”
I snapped the phone closed. It didn’t seem the right time or place to accept the call. We could discuss welding jobs with our young Ecuadorian worker another time.
Chuckling, we left the church and headed home.
We met up with Judith and Mother a few days later. Of course Cauliflower and the commune were the main topic of interest.
“Frightful way to live, isn’t it?” said Judith, shuddering. “But they seem happy enough. Bloody cold in winter, though. Colder than a witch’s ti…”
“Judith!” said Mother. “Language!” Being in her sixties did not exempt Judith from her mother’s scolding.
“Have you heard how Cocky and the chickens are?” I said quickly.
“Well, dear. I spoke to Cauliflower only yesterday. Seems it didn’t take long for Cocky to settle in. Became a bit of a bloody nuisance, don’t you know. But they’ve sorted all that out now.”
Joe and I cringed. We knew exactly how bad Cocky could be.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, dear, Cauliflower and his cronies have a little hut in the woods where they spend a penny. That wretched Cocky of yours wouldn’t let them near it.”
“Oh no!”
Judith rubbed her hands together, relishing the story.
“Yes, but then they discovered that Cocky doesn’t like this penguin they’ve got.”
“Penguin?”
“Yes, dear, a stuffed penguin. A soft toy. Cocky hates the penguin. Probably sees it as competition, don’t you know. So they’ve put this bloody penguin on the end of a pole. Whoever needs to spend a penny takes it with them. Works a treat, apparently.”
All four of us erupted. The vision of the hippies fending Cocky off with a penguin on a stick every time they needed the toilet was too comical.
“Well, that’s one thing we didn’t try,” said Joe, composing himself. “I’ll phone Caul tomorrow, make sure everything’s okay.”
Judith and Mother told us the chickens were free to wander where they pleased. Of course Cocky guarded them closely, but the No-Name Twins were laying eggs and all seemed well.
The next day, Joe phoned Cauliflower as promised.
“Er, Caul? It’s Joe. Just checking that Cocky and his wives are okay.” He didn’t mention the penguin.
“Hey, man, gotta bit o’ bad news.”
“Oh dear, what’s the matter?”
“Sorry, man, ‘fraid Cocky and the chickens didn’t make it.”
“They’re dead?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Oh no! What happened? Foxes?”
“No, man. A genet got ‘em in the night.”
“A genet? What’s a genet?”
“Carnivore, man. Climbs trees. ‘Bout the size of a cat. Bit their heads off.” It was a long speech for Cauliflower.
“Oh, no! That’s awful.” Joe was shocked. “I’ve never heard of a genet before.”
“Sorry, man.”
“Oh well, nothing we can do about it. Pity.”
“Yeah, man.”
“One more thing, Caul. Those other chickens you had a couple of years before. What happened to them?”
“Genet had ‘em too, man.”
The memory of poor Cocky and the No-Name Twins had scarcely dimmed before our next trial appeared on the horizon. It began with another conversation with Kurt, and was to involve the Mayor and the coming elections.
“If you do not apply for Residencia, you vill become aliens,” Kurt had said, his finger wagging in warning. That seemed a little alarming. Becoming aliens was not part of our life plan.
“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” said Joe. “How do you apply for Residencia?”
“It is easy, but you must make a lot of paper,” said Kurt. “But do not vorry. My vife vill make all the paper for you.”
Well, that was a relief. Kurt’s solicitor wife Paula would complete all the paperwork, and submit the papers. Hopefully, that would take care of the Residencia issue and we’d be given Spanish ID cards. And it would also mean we’d be entitled to vote in the upcoming local elections.
“It vill not be a problem. Unless you are criminals.” Kurt stared at us, unblinking.
“No, we’re not criminals.”
“Good. Paula vill need three passport photos. I vill instruct her to get the football rolling.” He turned on his heel and strode away.
Weeks later, Marcia handed us an official brown envelope with our loaf of bread. It was the appointment we had been expecting. We were ordered to attend the Oficina de Extranjeros in the city at ten o’clock, on the 15th of March.
In spite of his military background, Joe’s punctuality is lamentable. For this reason, I wrote lists and prepared everything ready for the trip to the city. I checked the petrol in the jeep and researched the location of the offices. I gathered up the necessary paperwork. I laid out our clothes and set the alarm clock.
That morning, all my plans went well. We drove into the city, parked, and made our way towards the address. Ten minutes to the hour, perfect timing. As we rounded the corner, we were forced to step off the kerb to avoid the huge queue of people lined on the pavement. Briskly, we overtook them and headed for the entrance gates.
A uniformed guard blocked our way.
“Show him the letter with our appointment,” I said to Joe.
Joe smiled politely and offered the guard our paper. He didn’t even look at it, or us. Gazing at nothing in particular, he waved us away, indicating the back of the queue.
“But our appointment is for ten o’clock,” I said. The guard ignored me. The gates remained locked.
Agitated, we backtracked and joined the end of the queue. Now we had time to look at the waiting people. Mostly couples, every nationality was represented. There were dark North Africans, blonde Scandinavians, French, Germans, Dutch and many others. It reminded me of Noah’s Ark, the animals went in two by two.
“Why are we in this bloody queue? Have you seen how many people are in front of us? We’re going to miss our appointment!” Joe was seething.
He leaned forward and tapped the man’s shoulder in front of us. The man turned.
“We’ve got an appointment for ten o’clock,” said Joe. “How about you?” The clock on the office building struck ten.
The man didn’t reply, but held up an identical sheet of paper for Joe to see. Joe checked the appointment time. Ten o’clock.
Another couple held up their sheet. Ten o’clock. In fact everybody’s appointment was scheduled for ten o’clock. No wonder we received no preferential treatment. I had my work cut out soothing Joe and preventing him from storming off.
Every now and then, the guard unlocked the gates and parted them a crack, allowing another couple to slip through. It was going to be a long wait. Joe and I took it in turns to get coffee from the cafe opposite.
Three hours later, the guard allowed us in. Delighted, we slipped through and followed the arrows. The building was old, the steps worn by years of human traffic, but our progress was short-lived. We joined another queue.
Several more queues and an hour later, we reached the office, and it was our moment of glory. An official behind a desk beckoned us forward. He checked our passports and paperwork.
“Forefinger, right hand,” he said, pushing forward a black ink pad. We obliged and our fingerprints were taken. “Now you can commit a crime, but make sure you don’t use that finger.” It was clearly an attempt at humour, but the official’s tone was flat, his face deadpan. I wondered how many times a day he repeated his joke.
At last it was finished and we departed. The Morocc
an couple behind us took our places. As we descended the stairs, we heard the words, ‘Now you can commit a crime, but make sure you don’t use that finger...’ echoing behind us.
In Britain, a kind of unwritten rule exists. Except in an emergency, or amongst family members, people rarely knock on each other’s doors after nine o’clock at night. Not so in Spain. At half past ten one night our fridge-freezer was delivered. Also, our Egg Ladies often called late, sometimes near midnight. Our neighbour, Paco, frequently pounded on our front door well after midnight.
So one Sunday night, as the church-bells chimed 24 times, we were not especially surprised when a fist hammered on our door. What was surprising, however, was the fact that the fist belonged to Pancho the Mayor. Beside him stood his assistant, Felipe Frog.
Poor Felipe. The reason for our nickname was obvious. As our children would have said, God had touched (possibly thumped) him with the Ugly Stick. Squat, with a wide, pocked face and gaping mouth, he resembled a frog so closely I was convinced his children were tadpoles.
Pancho the Mayor, however, although short, was suave and sophisticated. Always smartly dressed, he exuded confidence, a true politician. His gaze never wavered and his hooked nose appeared capable of removing beer bottle tops. We all shook hands, and Joe invited them inside. I was a little embarrassed as I was wearing a bath robe, just about to go to bed. I felt Pancho’s eyes slide down my body, and I pulled the robe closer about me.
Pancho spoke very good English, Felipe Frog none at all. We all stood politely smiling at each other, until Pancho collected himself and spoke.
“You must come to the Town Hall, tomorrow,” he said. “It is urgent.”
Felipe Frog nodded vigorously, as he always did every time Pancho spoke, whether in Spanish or English.
“Oh?” said Joe. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, you must sign a paper. Then you can put a vote for me when it is time.” Felipe Frog obviously understood the gist of his hero’s statement and nodded furiously.
“Well, we don’t have our Residencia cards yet,” said Joe. “But I suppose we could bring the paperwork proving we’ve applied.”
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