Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  And we were to discover that the Indalo would bide its time - it hadn’t finished its mischief yet.

  28 The Jeep

  Scrambled Eggs with Ham

  When we bought the jeep in England, we were very proud of it. We kept it in our garage and always made sure it was clean and shiny. It had hardly any miles on the clock and was like a new car when we started our life in Spain.

  Within a few weeks, things changed. Even though we kept it under cover, the all-pervading Spanish dust swept from the Sahara and into every crevice, inside and out. The paintwork no longer gleamed. The zips on the soft top became temperamental. The upholstery was gritty, and the windscreen was permanently coated beige.

  The years in Spain hadn’t been kind to the jeep. And it didn’t help that we used it to transport bags of cement, firewood, sacks of chicken grain and giant satellite dishes. Gradually it became scratched and dented, well used. The suspension suffered carrying heavy wood-burning stoves and an oil leak appeared. It was our work-horse, no longer pretty but essential.

  “I think we ought to get the car serviced,” said Joe. “Imagine trying to live up here without a car. It’d be impossible. We really don’t want to risk it breaking down.”

  “What a thought! You’re right.”

  “And we really don’t want to be forced to buy a Spanish car, do we? When the five years is up, we’d be stuck with a Spanish car to take back to England.” Had more than three years already passed in our Five Year Plan? It was hard to believe.

  “Okay, I’ll book it in at a garage down below.” I searched the Yellow Pages and phoned a garage to make an appointment.

  “They want to keep the car for the whole day,” I told Joe. “What are we going to do while they work on it?”

  “Dunno, take books to read? Or take our swimming stuff and find a public pool?”

  “Good idea. Okay, we’ll do that. The appointment is for Thursday.”

  We found the garage without too many problems and left the jeep. The swimming pool was within walking distance and we spent a leisurely day there.

  “It’s a nice pool, isn’t it?” said Joe, climbing out. “And those statues over there are really realistic.”

  “What statues?”

  “There … on the other side of the fence.”

  Without my glasses I couldn’t see clearly, so I walked over to take a closer look.

  “Joe! They’re not statues, they’re real!”

  Over the fence in the park were two ostriches, very much alive. The outsize birds seemed perfectly at home and stood watching the swimmers impassively. The swimmers barely glanced at the ostriches which were evidently a permanent fixture. Time passed quickly as we swam, read our books and watched the ostriches. At six o’clock we walked back to the garage.

  “Lo siento,” said the mechanic, “I’m sorry, but your car is not ready. We need to keep it for another day.”

  “But how do we get home? What’s wrong with the car? Can’t we take it anyway and bring it back tomorrow?” Joe was very annoyed.

  “Lo siento,” said the mechanic again. “I am sorry but the car is in pieces. You cannot drive it today. I will call you a taxi, no?”

  We had no choice. Joe grumbled and growled until the taxi drew up and we got in. The driver spoke no English and it took a while for him to understand our destination. The village of El Hoyo was very small and remote. The driver set off, hunched over the wheel, occasionally popping peppermints into his mouth. He turned the radio up high and sang tunelessly to the music.

  All went well until we left the city and started climbing the mountain roads. Perhaps the driver was on a promise from his wife. Or perhaps he had played too many arcade games. He took the bends at such speed that we were thrown from one side of the taxi to the other. I gripped onto the hanging strap desperately and tried not to look down the sheer drops.

  “Tell him to slow down,” I muttered.

  Joe leaned forward. “Driver, would you mind slowing down a little, please?”

  “¿Qué?”

  “Could you please slow down?”

  “¿Qué?”

  “It’s no good, Vicky, he doesn’t understand my Spanish. Or he can’t hear me over the music.”

  “Try again.”

  “Driver! ¡Mas lentemente!”

  The driver reached forward and picked up the peppermints. Smiling, he offered the bag to us behind, now steering with one hand, fingertips drumming the wheel in time to the music. He hardly watched the road. I shuddered and closed my eyes, convinced we were about to sail off the road to a chasm below. Joe tried one last tactic. Tapping the driver on the shoulder, he spoke in English, a forced smile stretched over clenched teeth.

  “Driver, if you don’t slow down I may have to kill you.”

  The driver looked most alarmed at Joe’s manic expression and speeded up. I didn’t open my eyes for the rest of the journey.

  The garage receptionist phoned the next day. They were sorry, but the jeep needed new parts which they would have to order. We couldn’t collect the car for another week.

  “What are we going to do?” Joe asked. “No car for a week? We need a car! We can’t manage without one.”

  “I suppose we could hire a car? Let’s ask Paco to give us a lift down, then hire a car for a week.”

  “That’ll be expensive.”

  “Well, why don’t we take some time off from working on the house, go and explore the countryside a bit? We could do with an Away-Day, and a rest might cure that cough of yours.”

  Paco dropped us off at the car hire place, and we chose a Ford Ka. The assistant waved us good-bye, and we set off with our newly purchased map. We headed off up into the mountains for a day of sight-seeing. On the way home, we drove into the town of Almerimar. Neither of us liked the look of it much, too many hotels and high rises. However, as we were exploring, it seemed churlish not at least to take a peek at the beach.

  In spite of his military background, Joe has a healthy disregard of rules, almost an allergy. If Joe were to see a red button marked ‘Do Not Press Under Any Circumstances’, he’d press it before I could even squeak. I am the complete opposite. I need to read the instructions, ponder, research it, think some more, make a list, and even then I wouldn’t press the button. So, of course Joe ignored the large signs that ordered us in Spanish, English, French, German, Mongolian, etc. not to drive on the beach. Instead, he revved up the engine.

  “I hope you’re not going to drive on the beach,” I said. “Look at all those warning signs.

  “Hey! Tyre tracks,” he said. “People obviously drive on the beach all the time.”

  “Those aren’t car tracks, they’re tractor tyre marks,” I pointed out, but too late.

  The little Ford Ka had the heart of a powerful 4-wheel drive, but unfortunately only the build and engine size of a … well ... Ford Ka. It was willing, even enthusiastic, but as we drove towards the gloriously setting sun, it struggled, sank, then shuddered to a halt.

  “We’re stuck!” I hissed, furious.

  “No problem, I’ll sort it,” said Joe, trying to open the car door. The Ka, in its eagerness to please had buried itself neatly and solidly in the soft sand. So deep were we that even opening the doors was impossible.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Joe ignored me. Military responses had presumably kicked in. He squirmed out of the open window and landed headfirst in an undignified heap beside the car, spitting sand and swearing.

  “Have we got a shovel?” he asked. That didn’t deserve a reply. Who takes a shovel with them when they’re going for a drive?

  “Okay, Plan B,” he muttered and began to dig away at the sand with the Andalucían roadmap until he opened the door enough for me to get out, too. We both worked feverishly at clearing sand away from the wheels, but we were going nowhere.

  The beach was almost deserted. A lone horseman cantered away in the distance silhouetted against the setting sun. Waves lapped gently. The half-buried car wa
ited patiently. As the sun dipped and the beach grew dark, we waited. And waited.

  A figure materialised out of the twilight, walking in our direction ... salvation! Not exactly a knight in shining armour, but a smart, elderly Spaniard taking a constitutional and walking his dog. Judging by his clothes, he was dressed for a night out. Joe galloped wildly across the sand to intercept him, gesturing and gibbering like a lunatic.

  “Excuse me, can you help us, please?”

  “¿Qué pasa?”

  “Over there…” Joe pointed at our stranded car then dissolved in a coughing fit.

  One glance was enough for the man to sum up the situation. “¡Madre mia!” He generously only pointed out the warning sign briefly then shrugged. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he carefully removed and folded his smart jacket. Then he joined Joe at the back of the car. Such a nice man.

  “Vicky! Accelerate now!”

  I pressed my foot down on the pedal as they pushed. In the wing mirror I could see the man straining until the veins stood out on his temples.

  “Faster! Accelerate harder!”

  The little car lurched forward bravely but its wheels spun and a great arc of sand plumed out. The poor man was covered from coiffured hair to polished shoes. It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of sand over him. There was sand in his pockets, sand in his trouser turn-ups, probably sand in places he wouldn’t discover for days. Even his dog looked sympathetic.

  Our new best friend snorted in disgust. Picking up his folded jacket, he stomped away into the gloom, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “gente Inglesa idiota” (stupid English people). His dog followed without a backward glance. Perhaps we would still be there if it hadn’t been for an English couple taking a late walk. They went home, collected their monster 4-wheel drive and kindly pulled us out. Joe and I drove back home barely speaking. Only Joe’s coughs punctured the silence.

  The answer-phone’s red light was flashing when we got back. I lifted the receiver, hoping it was good news from the garage. Instead it was Judith on the end of the line.

  29 Doctor’s Orders

  Spanish Meatballs

  “Vicky? Joe? Dammit, I loathe these infernal machines. Vicky, would you be an absolute angel and pop round tomorrow? Mother’s under the weather again and we’ve had the quack out. He’s given her a prescription and I wondered if you’d be kind enough to pick it up for her tomorrow? Only if you’re going down the mountain, of course, don’t you know…Tyson, I do wish you’d stop that! Good Lord, Curly…Buster! That’s an antique! Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the bloody prescription. Might see you tomorrow then, toodley pip!”

  Next day, we knocked on Judith’s door, setting off the hounds baying within. Judith opened the door, fighting back the pack.

  “Vicky! Joe! Frightfully good of you,” she said, letting us in.

  “How’s Mother?” I asked.

  “Well, dear,” she said in a stage whisper. “Quite honestly, I’d say she’s fine today. But when she heard the doctor was dropping in this morning, she took herself straight back to bed.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “Why do you think…” I stopped as a man came into the hall.

  “Vicky, Joe, I don’t think you’ve met Dottore Esteban, have you?” said Judith. The doctor was young and easy on the eyes. Crisp, dark hair curled over his collar, and he had a decisive handshake.

  “How do you do, Madam, Sir? I am, ah, very pleased to meet you.” The doctor’s English was excellent, if formal.

  “The good doctor has just finished upstairs, dears. He says Mother just needs a tonic and she’ll be right as rain.”

  “Oh, that’s good news,” I said. “We’ll pick up the prescription for her today.”

  “Excuse me, Sir. That is a nasty cough you have,” said the doctor, turning to Joe. “Ah, perhaps Sir will permit me a quick examination?”

  “Well, I…”

  “That’s a good idea!” I said. “Joe hates going to the doctor and he’s had that cough for ages.”

  “Well…”

  “Good!” said the doctor briskly. “I have my stethoscope here. If you’d kindly open your shirt…”

  Joe had no choice, and obeyed without further protest.

  “Hmm… Cough now… Ah, I think you have a little chest infection. A course of antibiotics will be the best thing. I will write for you a prescription. I believe you live in El Hoyo? Ah, next week I will be visiting El Hoyo. I am seeing Sancho Lopez.”

  “Old Sancho at the shop?”

  “That is correct. And now I must go. Ah, one last thing… I believe you have chickens?”

  “Er, yes, one or two.”

  “Fresh eggs, ah, delicious. So tasty. I will see you next Wednesday.”

  We got the hint. I mentally crossed scrambled eggs off our menu for the week. The doctor left and we went upstairs to pay our respects to Mother. The scent of Chanel No.5 assailed our nostrils even before we entered her bedroom.

  Mother was sitting bolt upright in bed, propped up by enormous, frilly pillows. I was expecting to see a frail old lady, but she looked wonderful, and as sprightly as ever. Her almost transparent negligee was topped by a saucy bed-jacket. Her face was fully made-up, and ringlets of silver hair cascaded around her shoulders. There was a dent in the bed where the doctor had sat.

  “Has the doctor gone?” murmured Mother, smoothing the satin sheet with her manicured hand. “Most awfully handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Mother! You’re old enough to be his bloody great-grandmother!” Judith’s outraged voice floated in from behind us.

  Mother smiled, fluttered her false eyelashes and sipped from her wine glass. I noticed another one, empty, on her bedside table. Joe and I took our leave, went downstairs and waded through dogs to reach the front door.

  “Well, that was lucky, wasn’t it?” I said as we drove away. “That doctor might sort out your cough. And you wouldn’t get a doctor calling on you at home like that in England, would you? Better than the National Health, if you ask me.”

  “Huh, we’ll see.”

  We collected the prescriptions and delivered Mother’s to Judith. At home, we picked up another answer-phone message. The garage had called to say the jeep was ready. So the next day we drove yet again to the city, collected the jeep and returned the hire car. The assistant at the car hire place didn’t notice the sand in every nook and cranny, and we didn’t point it out.

  The repairs to the jeep and the service were not cheap, but we felt the money was justified. Unfortunately, the oil leak soon reappeared but we couldn’t face taking it back to the garage.

  “How do you complain effectively in Spanish?” despaired Joe. “Now, if this was England…”

  I cut him short. I didn’t want to hear. I hated hearing anything that might help Joe decide we should leave Spain at the end of our five years.

  Wednesday came round quickly and the doctor called.

  “Hmm…” he said after examining Joe. “Your cough is no better. Ah, I think we need a more direct course of antibiotics. I think we will put you on a course of regular injections. I can, ah, give you a choice.”

  “A choice? What sort of a choice?”

  “Ah, well, you can drive down to the Centro Medico for the injections. Or one of the ladies in the village can give you the injection. Ah, she’s very experienced.”

  Joe looked at me and made up his mind. “Okay, I’ll go to the lady in the village. That’ll save me driving down the mountain every time.”

  “Good, then I will give Marcia the medication. Ah, you know Marcia Lopez at the shop? Good, your first injection will be on, ah, Monday, next week. Now, I must go, and, ah, thank you very much for the eggs.”

  “Marcia?” spluttered Joe when I returned from seeing the doctor out. “I didn’t know she was a nurse! I’m not sure I like the sound of this!”

  I kept quiet. I didn’t think Marcia was a nurse either, just a wise and experienced old lady. And I didn’t accompany him for his first visit
that Monday. He returned grim-faced and flopped into a chair.

  “How did you get on?” I asked.

  A long pause. “It was awful. Awful.”

  “Why? Why was it awful?”

  “When I got there, Marcia was behind the counter as usual. She told me to come into the kitchen because she’d got my stuff all ready there. So I follow her into the kitchen, and all her family are sitting there.”

  “Old Sancho?”

  “Yes, Old Sancho, and those sons of theirs, and their wives. Oh, and a couple of teenagers - and some little ones. There were loads of people sitting round that huge table of theirs.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, you know how polite everybody is… They all stood up and offered to leave the room while she did the injection. But I said, don’t worry, stay where you are… I didn’t want to disturb them.”

  “Did they leave the room?”

  “No, I absolutely insisted they stay. So they all sat down again. I pushed my sleeve up for the injection but Marcia kept shaking her head like mad. You know how she is - hairpins flying everywhere. Anyway, she was pointing at my trousers…”

  “Oh!”

  “Vicky, I had to pull my trousers down so that she could inject me in the backside. In front of all those people.”

  “Oh, you poor thi…” Stopping myself laughing was difficult.

  “That’s not all. As if that wasn’t bad enough! When Marcia gave me the injection, she said ‘¡Madre mia!’ and pointed to my bottom, then prattled away to her relatives. I couldn’t see them because they were all behind me. Anyway, they all went quiet then started laughing.”

  “Why? Why would they do that?” I asked, trying hard to compose myself.

  “Well, I’ve only just realised myself… It was that bloody Indalo branded on my backside, wasn’t it? That’s what was amusing them.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “You can laugh, but how would you have liked it? I tell you, give me the National Health any day.”

  I stopped laughing. My hopes for staying permanently in Spain were looking decidedly shaky.