Two Old Fools in Spain Again

by Victoria Twead

  “We’ll have to use bolt cutters to cut through the padlock,” I said. “Where are the bolt cutters?”

  “In the garage.”

  “Oh.”

  “And we can’t go and buy some more bolt cutters because we can’t get to the car.”

  So we did what we always do in times of crisis. We went next door to ask for Paco’s help.

  Yukky greeted us as usual with much frantic tail-wagging, pushing his wet nose into our hands. Carmen was there too. She kissed us, but seemed quieter than usual.

  “No problem!” said Paco, when we had explained our difficulties. “I have bolt cutters.”

  It was then that I noticed Bianca lying on a blanket in the corner, her sad eyes watching us. Was that a huge bandage wrapped around her?

  “What’s happened to Bianca?” I asked.

  Paco shook his head.

  “A terrible accident,” said Carmen, leaning down to fondle Bianca’s soft ears. “Our eldest son, Diego, was visiting us at our house in the city. When he left, he reversed his car out and he didn’t see Bianca. He felt a bump and heard her cry.”

  “He had driven over Bianca!” shouted Paco, smacking his own forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “We thought she was dead,” said Carmen, shaking her head. “We took her to the vet and he cut off her front leg.”

  We stared at poor Bianca in horror. I knelt down and stroked her head. I remembered Little Paco’s tenth birthday and his disappointment at not getting a puppy of his own. I remembered Paco and Carmen scolding him, saying that there was absolutely no chance and that they didn’t need another dog. And I remembered the following weekend when Little Paco, with adoration in his eyes, showed us the tiny puppy cupped in his hands. Bianca had thrived and was loved by all.

  “Oh, poor Bianca!”

  “Pah!” said Paco. “I said we should tell the vet to put her to sleep. Whoever heard of a dog with three legs?”

  “Do not listen to him,” said Carmen. “He is as upset as the rest of the family. It was Paco who decided we should not go to the fiesta this year. He said she needed peace and quiet to recover. It is the first El Hoyo fiesta we have missed in our lives.”

  “Come,” said Paco, already halfway out of the door. “We will get the bolt cutters and break into your garage.”

  Paco’s bolt cutters sliced through the garage padlock as if it were made of butter, making us wonder why we bothered to padlock it at all. Joe retrieved the keys and stopped scratching himself. We finished cooking the curry and we enjoyed it that night.

  “Most expensive curry we’ve ever had,” said Joe with his mouth full, “if you add the cost of a new wing mirror. But this is delicious!”

  Bianca made a full recovery and learned how to limp, then walk, then sprint, on three legs. Always a happy dog, she was as cheerful as ever and was soon racing up and down the streets with the other village dogs. It was hard to believe she had only three legs.

  Joe’s lapse of memory resulting in the keys being locked in the garage was not unusual. To be fair, my own short-term memory seemed not as sharp as it used to be either. But I think Joe’s lapses were worse.

  Even before we moved to El Hoyo in 2004, Joe had been forgetful. I remember how, one day, we searched high and low for his mobile phone, which he couldn’t remember having mislaid. We finally resorted to dialing its number and listening for the ring tone.

  “I think I can hear it,” I said. “It’s very faint but I think it’s in the bedroom.”

  We found the phone in the top drawer of the chest, nestled amongst Joe’s socks. We never worked out why it should be there, particularly as Joe almost never wore socks.

  On another occasion, we were shopping at the mall in the city. We parked the car and left it, then spent between two and three hours shopping. Eventually we returned, laden with bags and our shopping trolleys. It was, by now, siesta time and the car park was almost empty, apart from our car.

  As we approached our car I thought it strange that I could hear an engine running, with no cars parked nearby. Of course, it was our car. Joe had left the engine switched on for the whole of the time we had been shopping. We were lucky the car wasn’t stolen.

  On another occasion, he returned from a shopping trip and couldn’t find his credit card. He felt in his pockets. Nothing.

  “Look in the carrier bags,” I suggested.

  We searched in the empty carrier bags. Nothing.

  “Perhaps you left it in the car?”

  Joe went back to the garage and checked the car. Nothing.

  “Could you have left it in Carrefour?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s possible…”

  Phone calls to Carrefour confirmed that no credit card had been handed in.

  “I’m sorry,” said the helpful assistant. “Are you sure you haven’t lost a green draught excluder, shaped like a python? Somebody handed in one of those…”

  Another blank. I knew Joe had also stopped at the service station. Perhaps it was there?

  “Perhaps you left it at the petrol station?” I suggested.

  Joe scratched himself irritably. “I don’t think so, I paid with cash. I suppose I’d better drive down the mountain and see. If they haven’t got it, we’d better get on the phone and cancel it.”

  21. Zombies, Cowboys and a Farm

  Goat’s Cheese on Toast

  Joe had hurried away to drive back down the mountain, leaving me to think about the problem.

  I was nervous by now. Had the credit card been stolen? If so, how would I report it stolen if I didn’t have the telephone number on the back of the card?

  I’d recently discovered a handy app for iPads. It allowed me to store all my valuable PINs, passwords and documents in a single secure location. Furthermore, I could login and access them from any computer, tablet or smartphone.

  Before going to Australia I laboriously saved all our valuable items onto the app. These included our escritura (house deeds), photos and the original manuscripts for my books. If the credit card wasn’t at the petrol station, I could easily retrieve all the details from the app, then call the bank to have the card cancelled. At least, that was the plan.

  Joe returned from the petrol station looking worried. “I didn’t leave it there,” he said.

  “Never mind,” I said smugly. “I’ve got all the details on the iPad. I’ll phone right now and report it lost.”

  But I couldn’t find the iPad. I’d used it last but couldn’t remember where I had left it.

  We searched high and low. No iPad. I’d destroyed our credit card statements so we couldn’t refer to those. To make matters worse, the Internet connection was playing up.

  “Put the kettle on,” said Joe. “I’ll feed the chickens and then we’ll work out what to do over a cup of coffee.”

  Two minutes later, he burst into the kitchen.

  “I’ve found the credit card!” he said, waving it triumphantly. “It must have fallen out of my pocket in the chicken coop.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “When I gave the girls that lettuce,” he explained, “when I came back from shopping.”

  “Ah! Well, that’s good! And guess what, I’ve found the iPad!” I said.

  It was Joe’s turn to look blank.

  “Where was it?”

  “In the fridge.”

  “The fridge? How on earth did it get into the fridge?”

  I still have no idea.

  Every year, October was marked by three events. First came the village fiesta, then the Gin Twins’ annual visit, followed by Halloween.

  Unfortunately the Gin Twins were never able to be in Spain for the fiesta. As teachers they could only come during the school half-term holiday, which that year, coincided with Halloween. Having arrived, they unpacked their suitcases to reveal a mountain of Halloween accessories and decorations.

  There were streamers with little phantoms dangling from them. Banners proclaiming ‘Happy Halloween’. Bags of sweets. T
errifying ‘scream’ masks for us to wear. Juliet had even brought a pumpkin costume.

  On the night of Halloween, Juliet and Sue cooked the evening meal. We were testing some of the recipes that Nadia Sawalha had kindly allowed me to use for my then forth-coming book, Two Old Fools on a Camel. But before we sat down to eat, we decorated the front of the house. Up went the banners, streamers, phantoms and skeletons.

  Halloween decorations

  “I’m assuming the village kids celebrate Halloween?” asked Sue, pinning up a final skeleton.

  “Oh yes, they’ll be around, trick or treating.”

  We stood back and admired our handiwork. The decorations looked good and we were prepared. The sweets were in a bowl by the front door, ready for the first batch of kids. The scream masks lay waiting for us, ready to give the kids a fright. Juliet was already wearing her pumpkin outfit.

  Juliet the pumpkin

  The meal was a huge success and we ate far too much. All the time we were listening out for excited children’s voices and anticipating a banging on our door. We heard nothing.

  “I’m so full,” Joe groaned, leaning back in his chair.

  “Where are those kids?” asked the pumpkin, sucking up her gin and tonic through a straw decorated with a plastic skull.

  “I can’t stay up,” said Joe, “I need to go to bed.”

  The Gin Twins and I stayed round the table, chatting. Sue was now a grandmother too, which made me feel very old as I’d taught her son, another Joe. Still no children knocked on our door.

  At midnight, the Gin Twins surrendered.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sue, “I don’t think the kids will come now and I need my bed.”

  “I can’t stay awake either,” yawned the pumpkin. “I’m going up, too.”

  I cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher. Then I answered a few emails, by which time it was past 1am. I got myself ready for bed, locked the kitchen door and went round switching off lights. I was just thinking whether I should blow out the candles on the front doorstep and windowsill when it started. Children’s feet raced down the street and I could hear excited voices. Young fists hammered on our door.

  “Truco o trato,” they yelled. “¡Truco o trato!”

  Tightening my dressing-gown belt, I grabbed the mask and pulled it on, then seized the huge bowl of wrapped sweets.

  “¡Truco o trato! ¡Truco o trato!” chanted the impatient voices through the door.

  I opened the front door to a crowd of eagerly waiting ghosts, pirates and zombies. Little hands snatched at the candies and within seconds my bowl was empty. I didn’t even have time to emit the ghostly howl I’d been practising before the last of the little monsters had galloped away up the street.

  I sighed, blew out all the candles and put the empty bowl away. As I retired to bed I reminded myself that 1:30am might be a ridiculously late hour for English kids, but it was quite normal for the Spanish.

  “What happened to all those sweets?” Juliet asked the next morning. “Don’t tell me Joe ate them all?”

  “The kids eventually came,” I said. “You all missed it.”

  This was the Gin Twins’ tenth visit to El Hoyo and it occurred to me that they had never been to Fort Bravo, the permanent Wild West movie set near Tabernas. So that year I decided to leave Joe behind and take them myself on a girly day out.

  When Joe drives, the journey takes about 40 minutes. I wasn’t yet used to driving our new car and my navigational skills were sadly lacking. I managed to get us thoroughly lost and, although we finally did arrive, it was not before we first saw a great deal of rural Spain.

  Fort Bravo is on the edge of Europe’s only desert. Its similarities with the deserts in the American West made it ideal for filming spaghetti westerns like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and A Fistful of Dollars. More recently, a Dr Who episode was filmed there.

  Filming was taking place that day, which was always entertaining to watch. We bought two beers and a coffee from the wench in the saloon, then settled ourselves on a step to watch a shot involving a minister throwing a villain out of the chapel.

  All the staff at Fort Bravo dress in costume, so we weren’t surprised when a cowboy cantered up to us. We smiled sweetly and Juliet held up her camera to take a photo of him on his horse.

  But the cowboy wasn’t amused. He reined in his horse sharply and stared down at the three of us sitting on the step with our drinks.

  “What do you think you are doing in the middle of the shot!” he shouted theatrically, in a French accent.

  Red-faced, we sprang up and removed ourselves, hiding behind the tavern to finish our drinks and giggle at our own stupidity. It didn’t spoil our day though. We still had a ride in the mule-cart, explored the whole town, watched the Wild West show and took photos of ourselves with the resident cowboys. Then we drove home, by the direct route this time, drank more gin and eventually toppled into bed.

  The Gin Twins at Fort Bravo

  If you’re ever in the area, do visit Fort Bravo. It’s a great day out and some of the resident cowboys are very pleasing to the eye. Oh and look out for a new movie, the French version of Billy the Kid. In particular, watch for the scene where a villain is being ejected from the chapel by the minister. Look past the chapel and the reverend. You may see the Gin Twins and me sitting on the steps of the saloon, drinks in hand.

  Close on the heels of Halloween comes All Soul’s Day, quite an important day in the Spanish calendar. A steady stream of villagers visited the cemetery and laid flowers on the graves of departed loved ones. I’d been told that it was customary in some villages to have family picnics, setting an extra place for the deceased.

  By now the nights were colder. The Log Man had made his annual visit and our wood shed was satisfyingly full. We lit the wood stove every evening and abandoned the gas hob in favour of cooking on the wood stove.

  Although the days were often warm and pleasant, November did bring occasional storms to Andalucía. The gales blasted through the valley, rattling doors and window shutters. The wind howled down the chimney, blowing smoke into the kitchen whenever we opened the woodburner’s door to toss in another log.

  It was on a night such as this that something extraordinary was revealed. Something that cleared up several mysteries but astonished us.

  Joe had already retired for the night but I was still up, doing some final editing to Camel before dispatching it to my editor and proofreader. The doors and shutters clattered as the wind whipped around the house. I heard a distant banging but thought nothing of it, imagining a loose door or window, somewhere in the village, being thrashed by the wind. The banging continued for a while then abruptly stopped. I forgot about it and went to bed.

  The next day dawned, calm and sunny. Mid-morning, somebody knocked on our door. Joe opened it and was surprised to see Lola Ufarte on the doorstep, accompanied by her partner.

  “Did you hear banging last night?” Lola asked without so much as a greeting.

  Joe raised his eyebrows.

  “No, I didn’t. It was a wild night last night, very windy. Vicky, did you hear any banging last night?” he called. “Lola and her friend are asking.”

  I left the computer and joined the group at the front door.

  “Yes, I did hear distant banging last night. I thought maybe it was a door caught in the wind. Why? What’s happened?”

  “Come and see,” said Lola, turning on her heel and marching down the street.

  Joe and I glanced at each other, then followed the retreating couple.

  “Look!” cried Lola dramatically, throwing her arm out to indicate their front door. She tossed her lank hair over her shoulder, watching our reaction.

  Joe and I stared at the door, or what was left of it. It had been hacked to pieces.

  “Oh my …” I whispered, covering my mouth with my hand. “Who could have done that?”

  Lola kicked some pieces of the ruined door aside. Her partner shuffled his feet and stared at the grou
nd.

  “Did they steal much?” asked Joe. “Have you called the Guardia?”

  “Oh, the robbers knew exactly what they were after,” Lola replied bitterly, ignoring his last question. “Wait. We will show you.”

  Her partner spat on the ground and stood aside, letting us pass.

  I knew the Ufarte cottage well from when Joe and I used to babysit the Ufarte kids. The front door opened into the main room, which was both kitchen and living room. Granny Ufarte used to sit by the fire, the kids sprawled on the sofa or played on the floor and their mother, Maribel, would be cooking at the kitchen end, overlooking it all.

  Now the house bore no resemblance to the domestic setup I remembered. The kitchen table, the counters and every available surface were covered in sheets of newspaper. Maribel’s row of saucepans and stacked cazuelas was gone, replaced by shelves covered in newspaper. There were newspaper-covered shelves taking up every available metre of wall space. I gaped and my look of complete bafflement was mirrored by Joe. All those shelves explained the constant drilling we’d heard, but what were they for?

  The Ufarte house used to smell of baking and coffee, but the overpowering smell that hit me today was very different. I knew that smell, but couldn’t quite place it.

  Then I remembered the ‘tomato’ plants that I’d innocently raised for Mother a few years ago. They hadn’t been tomato plants at all and they stank just like this house did.

  “Here, they missed this piece,” said Lola, holding up a green sprig from a shelf. “We grow the marijuana plants in the bedrooms and this is where we dry them out. The robbers knew exactly what they wanted.”

  Joe and I were speechless. We were living next door to a cannabis farm? Here, in El Hoyo? That explained the stream of strangers constantly knocking on their door. That explained Lola’s furtive demeanour. And that explained why the couple were in no rush to call the police to report the crime.

  Later, we chatted with Paco.