By now it was early evening. Joe and I stood on our roof terrace saying a last goodbye to the orchard opposite. It was strange to see no chickens scratching. And after tomorrow, the orchard would never look the same again; it would become a building site.
A familiar sound caught our attention. ‘Tap, tap, paaaarp! Tap, tap, paaaarp!’ Old Sancho was taking his evening stroll, the black cat at his heels. We watched as he neared the orchard fence, his usual smile replaced by a look of bewilderment. He’d got accustomed to Cocky’s absence a while ago. But no chickens? For a long moment he peered into the orchard. Then he shook his head, called his cat and shuffled away. I felt very sad, it was the end of an era.
The team of workmen arrived next morning. Their first job was to rip out all the fencing, then dig out the remaining trees. Heavy machinery was brought in and the old ruin was flattened. Huge clouds of dust billowed into the air. We watched the progress in fascination, as did the villagers. At the weekends, dozens of villagers paraded past to see how things were going. Only Old Sancho avoided the scene.
When we first bought the plot, Alonso showed us how he irrigated the orchard. He had built an enormous underground tank, the size of a swimming pool. It was made from concrete and filled by a combination of rain and mains water. Kurt explained that every village house was charged each quarter for a certain amount of water, whether they used it or not. Alonso regularly read the meter and kept meticulous records of his household’s consumption. Then, at the end of each quarter, he filled the reservoir with any leftover water from his quota. We knew that just below ground level, there was an awesome amount of water.
The builders carried on gouging and levelling. They were aware of Alonso’s reservoir, expecting to break through it at any moment. We stood watching from our roof terrace, holding our breath. And then they hit it.
The JCB’s bucket smashed into the structure. Whooosh! A huge plume of water shot into the air like a geyser, spurting countless gallons into the sky.
“How big was that reservoir?” marvelled Joe, as the water fountained. “Big,” I said. “Massive! That’s a lot of water.”
The driver of the JCB wisely backed off. The other workmen scattered to higher ground and leaned on their pick axes, watching the water-show in wonder. The geyser died down, but water continued to gush from the smashed side of the reservoir. It swamped the orchard, and searched out the quickest path downhill. It surged, gathering momentum, then started to gush down the street.
Joe looked worried and scratched his groin, eyes fixed on the torrent.
“Oh my God!” I said. “It’s going to flood the cemetery!”
25 The New Houses
Creamy Pork and Paprika
Baked Peppers
The water flowed unchecked. I pictured wreaths floating in water, graves submerged. But we were lucky. There was just enough camber in the road to direct the flow past the cemetery gates. Geronimo, however, was not so lucky. He’d been standing in the street, watching, when he suddenly realised that the water was gathering momentum and heading straight for him. His dogs yelped and bolted, leaving their master to face the deluge alone.
Holding tight to his beer bottle, Geronimo hopped onto a milestone. He sat there with his feet tucked up, perched like a pixie on a toadstool. I’d never understood the point of that particular milestone. On it was engraved the legend:
El Hoyo
0 Km
But it rescued Geronimo that day. The torrent poured past him, ever downward. It flowed down the street to the next corner, then carried straight on to collect in the olive grove below. The baked soil drank it greedily.
That Saturday, I saw the weekend farmer surveying his olive trees and scratching his head. We hadn’t had a drop of rain for weeks, but his trees were well watered, the earth still moist. On either side, his neighbours’ land was dry and thirsty. Only his plot was wet.
“Un milagro,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “A miracle.”
We didn’t enlighten him.
Over the next months, work in the orchard progressed quite well. We kept a low profile, leaving Kurt and Marco to direct proceedings. Sometimes the builders didn’t turn up for a couple of weeks, then they’d appear again and carry on as though they’d never been away. In our experience, this was a mysterious trait common to builders all over the world, so we didn’t worry.
When the foundations were laid, Paco paced the plot with us.
“Pah!” he said, his boot kicking at the idle cement mixer. “Fatal, fatal!”
It seemed he objected to the mix of the cement used, the less than perfect straight lines and the depths dug. Whether it be football or building, it’s strange how every amateur has opinions on how a job should be done. We mentioned Paco’s concerns to Kurt.
“The job is good,” he said. “Your neighbour got out of the bed with the wrong leg today.”
Kurt may have been right. As the houses grew, Paco admitted that they were excellent, his earlier condemnation forgotten.
The two houses were taking shape when the Gin Twins came for another visit. Because the orchard was at a higher level than our house, the growing buildings were soon the same height as our roof terrace, although on the other side of the street.
Juliet and Sue nursed their gin and tonics and watched the men at work.
“Ah, this is the life,” said Juliet, sipping from her glass.
“All we need is music,” said Sue. “Then it would be perfect.”
Juliet jumped up and came back carrying our portable stereo and a stack of CDs. A flick of a switch and loud music blared around the valley. Of course, just listening to the music was not enough. Before long, gin-fuelled, Juliet and Sue started to dance. The workmen smiled, and called out encouragement. Then they put down their tools and were dancing, too. Not much work was done the rest of that day, but it didn’t matter.
The second time work stopped I was more concerned. Our daughter was visiting and desperate to take a tan back to England. The builders had stopped for lunch, and would not start work again until three o’clock. Karly snatched at the opportunity to sunbathe nude. With her iPod plugged into her ears, she lost track of time and dozed off.
I looked at the clock at three-thirty and wondered why the cement mixer hadn’t restarted. Idly, I stepped onto the roof terrace and looked over to the building site. Seven builders, leaning on a half finished wall, were enjoying the view. Some smoked, some had opened bottles of beer. All eyes were trained on Karly spread-eagled on the sun-bed.
“Karly!” I hissed.
Karly woke, sat up, rubbed her eyes and saw her appreciative audience.
“Oh my God!” she squeaked, grabbed her towel and fled inside.
The builders went back to work, grumbling.
And sometimes things went wrong. Like the day the builders severed the cable that supplied electricity to the entire village. In our kitchen, the washing machine stopped, alerting us to the power cut.
“I’ll check the fuse box,” said Joe, and did so. “No, everything’s okay here. It’s not only our house.”
We stepped outside. The builders’ cement mixer had stopped and they were standing around. We walked down to the square. Marcia stood with her hands on her hips on the doorstep of her shop.
“¡Madre mia! No electricity again!” she said, shaking her head, hairpins glinting in the sun. “Come with me and look.”
She beckoned us to follow her inside. We walked through the shop and into the kitchen beyond. On a chair in the middle of the room sat Old Sancho. He was staring straight ahead, hands on his knees. His black cat dozed on another chair, one yellow eye slightly open to watch our entrance.
Slowly Old Sancho turned his head to regard us. And it was then that we noticed. On one side of his skull little tufts of snowy hair sprouted. On the other side, the hair had been clipped neatly, the shorn clumps lying on the floor. Old Sancho smiled in his childlike way, unaware how odd he looked.
“Today is the first time
I have used them,” said Marcia, waving a shiny new pair of electric hair clippers at us. “I thought it was a good idea. I thought it would save our sons trouble. They usually take their father down to the barber in the city.”
I couldn’t help it, I started giggling. Joe tried to control himself but failed, and started laughing too. The black cat opened both yellow eyes wide with surprise. Old Sancho beamed, sharing the humour even though he had no idea why we were laughing. Marcia shook her head and frowned, lips pressed together, but not for long. Then her ancient face crumpled too, and her laughter joined ours. A couple of hairpins tinkled to the floor.
The black cat had had enough. It jumped off the chair and stalked out of the room, head held high, tail waving disdainfully.
“¡Madre Mia!” said Marcia again, as the clippers in her hand buzzed back into life. We left them to it, and returned home.
The builders had patched the cable, a temporary measure until the Electricity Board arrived to make a proper repair. Our washing machine was churning again, and we assumed Marcia was putting the final touches to Old Sancho’s haircut.
Kurt had told us that the build would take approximately eight months to complete. It didn’t. It was nearly a year and a half before the two houses were ready to move into.
Everyone in the village admired them. Everyone said they would sell quickly. Everyone wanted a guided tour. The ship’s bell by our garden gate rang constantly at the weekends. We had no choice, we were forced to become estate agents. Again and again we showed people around the new houses, reciting our sales pitch.
‘¡Precioso!’ they all said. “Beautiful!”
And the houses were a credit to Kurt, Marco, the architect and the builders. The first one sold speedily to a member of Paco’s extended family. The second one remained vacant for longer.
One weekday, someone clanged the ship’s bell.
“You get it,” said Joe. “I’m fed up showing people round that house. I’m going out to chop firewood. Winter will be here again before we know it.”
I opened the garden gate to a smart, smiling young man.
“Buenos dias. Can I view the house?” he asked. “I saw it advertised on the Internet.”
So yet again I traipsed round the house, pointing out the stunning views, showing off the sparkling new bathrooms, the security system and discussing the fact that the garden was big enough for a pool. Perhaps I overstepped the mark when I drew attention to the fact that the neighbours below were very quiet - this house overlooked the cemetery. He had the good grace to smile.
I wasn’t hopeful. This young man seemed too young, and more of a city type than someone who would enjoy living in a village house.
“Will you take an offer?” he said, when the tour was complete.
I was surprised. Perhaps he was a genuine buyer.
“Of course,” I said and invited him into our house.
We spent a happy half hour bargaining and getting to know each other. Roberto spoke a little English, and I could get by in Spanish. With the help of a calculator we finally agreed on a price. It was the same as the first house had sold for, so I was delighted. We shook hands.
“Are you married?” I asked, curious about our new neighbour.
“No, I do not have a wife,” he said, amused. He left, promising to contact Kurt to sort out the details.
Joe came in from chopping wood.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Only that I think I’ve sold the house,” I said. “But I suppose we should wait until Kurt confirms it before we celebrate.”
True to his word, Roberto contacted Kurt and paid a deposit on the house. Now we could celebrate. If we could have seen into the future, we would have celebrated even harder. We didn’t know that house prices were about to plummet and banks collapse as the world was gripped in the ‘Credit Crunch’. We had sold the house just in time.
And I was hatching a plan. Young, single, good looking; surely Roberto would make a perfect partner for Sofía? I couldn’t wait to tell our neighbours.
“He’s very nice,” I told them. “I think Sofía would really like him.” Sofía was trying not to look interested, but I could tell she was listening intently.
“Pah!” roared Paco, thumping his knee with his fist. “There will be something wrong with him! Too fat, too thin … supports the wrong football team. Sofía will find something wrong with him.”
“What does he look like?” asked Sofía, too casually.
“He’s quite handsome. And he must be doing well to be able to afford the house.”
“We’ll see,” said Carmen-Bethina. “Time will tell.”
Kurt popped in some time later that month to get our signatures.
“Roberto is coming now here to sign papers,” he said. “And he is bringing his vife.”
“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.
26 Gifts...
Spinach and Mackerel Toasts
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 e
asily,” 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.
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