Two Old Fools in Spain Again

by Victoria Twead

  Christmas

  Joe had gone out shopping and I was on my own when somebody knocked on the door. I knew who it was because I had seen him passing the window. It was Pancho the mayor.

  My mind raced. No way was I letting him in, especially as Joe wasn’t there to protect me from his unwelcome attentions.

  Lightning fast, I grabbed my jacket and Marcia’s woolly hat. Pulling them on, I opened the door.

  “Beaky, I…”

  “Oh hello, Pancho!” I said breathlessly and slammed the front door behind me. “I’m so sorry but I’m in a tearing hurry. I can’t stop, I’m late for a very important appointment.”

  I pushed past him and jogged down the street, leaving him gaping after me.

  Where to go? Joe had taken the car so there was no point unlocking the garage. I scooted round the corner and up the next street. I had the house keys in my hand. My aim was to re-enter the house through the seldom-used upstairs door that opened onto that street. Swiftly, I unlocked it and let myself in.

  Panting, I waited to catch my breath. I didn’t immediately go downstairs because Pancho might still be lurking outside. I wouldn’t put it past him to make an effort to peer through the high living-room window.

  Thank goodness, I heard Joe returning and it sounded as though he was alone. I went downstairs.

  “Oh, I wondered where you were,” said Joe. “Why were you upstairs in the flat? And why are you wearing outdoor clothes?”

  I explained about Pancho knocking on the door and my cunning escape.

  “Quick thinking,” said Joe. “but why Marcia’s hat?”

  “I just wanted it to look as though I was going out.”

  “Look in the mirror,” said Joe, beginning to laugh.

  “Why?”

  “Just look.”

  Puzzled, I did so. The woolly hat looked ridiculous, but that wasn’t the reason Joe was laughing. Because we had been on our own that Christmas, I had pinned cardboard reindeer antlers to both our hats and we had worn them all day, making each other laugh every time we caught sight of them. I hadn’t removed the antlers. No wonder Pancho had gaped at me.

  “I have a question,” said Joe when he’d stopped laughing. “Why didn’t you just not answer the door when Pancho knocked and pretend nobody was in?”

  “Oh,” I said, “I never thought of that.”

  It was an uncomfortable feeling being without our passports. We felt trapped without them and wondered what we would do in the event of an emergency. It had been over a month since we applied for them and we had even paid extra to have them delivered by courier.

  I couldn’t stop worrying. The chance of their arriving in time for us to make our trip to Australia was becoming slimmer. Had we filled out the forms correctly? Were our photographs acceptable? Had the passports been lost in the Christmas mail? Had they been destroyed in the terrible floods that the UK had recently suffered from?

  “Even if they do arrive now,” said Joe, “we’ve spent so much on house renovations recently, it might be best to wait until next winter and go to Australia then.”

  I was deeply disappointed, but Joe was right. I sighed.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s sensible. We could go over for the whole of next winter, perhaps.”

  One cold but sunny morning, we heard a commotion in the village. There were shouts and a large engine revving.

  “What’s going on?” asked Joe.

  “I’ve no idea,” I said, shaking my head. “Perhaps it’s work going on at the cemetery? Excavations? Levelling the ground or something?”

  Curious, we went outside to investigate. No, the commotion wasn’t coming from the cemetery. We headed for what sounded like the source of the noise, which was coming from the direction of the square. The problem was soon obvious.

  El Hoyo’s streets are extremely narrow and the corners are all sharp right angles. Cars negotiated them with difficulty. Only pedestrians, Uncle Felix’s mule and motorcycles sailed around them with ease.

  A massive yellow lorry had tried to negotiate a corner and was stuck. The driver was standing beside the truck, scratching his head. Being January, there weren’t many villagers around, but those that were had congregated at the scene.

  Geronimo was gesticulating, pointing this way and that and shouting suggestions over the noise of the engine. Paco was there, firing off alternative suggestions, thumping the side of the enormous truck with his fist. Even ancient Marcia had left her shop and was leaning on her walking stick, shaking her head and muttering madre mía at regular intervals. Geronimo’s three dogs barked with excitement, while Yukky cocked his leg enthusiastically on the truck’s yellow paintwork. Only Uncle Felix stood back, leaning on his mule for support, his gnarled hand holding her rope halter. The mule stood quietly, occasionally shuffling her hooves.

  The truck blocked the street entirely; it was going to take a lot of manoeuvring to get out of this jam. The driver climbed back into his cab and Paco, Geronimo and Joe took up their stations, shouting, waving and beckoning to the driver who leant out of the cab window, following their instructions. With much crunching of gears and squealing of brakes, the truck inched forward and back, forward and back, then reversed slowly back to the square.

  The driver jumped out and all the men clapped each other on the back. Success. The truck’s paintwork had been scraped only a little, leaving a telltale yellow stripe on a house wall. It could have been much worse. Geronimo drew a bottle of beer from his pocket and took a celebratory swig.

  It was only then that I really noticed the writing on the side of the truck. ‘DHL’.

  The driver looked at his watch. “Does anyone know Señor and Señora Twead?” he asked.

  All eyes turned to Joe and me.

  “That’s us,” I squeaked.

  The driver unlocked the enormous doors at the rear of his truck, revealing stacks of boxes and parcels ready to be delivered. He climbed in and disappeared into the dark, cavernous depths. We heard rummaging, then he reappeared clutching two small envelopes.

  “For you,” he said. “Please sign for them here.”

  I took the pen and signed, my face red. A truck the size of a house and all that fuss to deliver two small envelopes to us?

  Back at home, we tore the envelopes open, but we already knew what they contained. In spite of Christmas, British floods and El Hoyo’s tight corners, our passports had safely arrived, if rather dramatically…

  The building of the cemetery extension was coming along well. We watched with interest as excavators and diggers arrived to gouge out the rocks and level the ground. The surrounding walls were built up and painted white. Gravel had been laid. The old entrance to the cemetery was taken down and a huge new one was built, with a paved path leading to it from the street. As yet unfinished, the entrance was just a gap, awaiting the arrival of the gates.

  From our perch on the roof terrace, we watched a flatbed truck arrive with the gates strapped on. Then the mayor swept up in his car, swiftly followed by the three Alejandros in their flashy Mercedes.

  Eight workmen lifted the gates from the truck and laid them on the ground. They carefully lifted them again and slotted them into place. It was not an easy task as the gates must have been nine feet high and were clearly very heavy. Then they tore off the protective covering, revealing the new entrance in all its glory.

  “Bravo!” shouted Alejandro Junior and clapped his hands as his father, grandfather and Pancho stood back to admire the gates.

  “Good gracious,” said Joe. “Talk about a statement!”

  Joe had a point. Even from our terrace we could read the inscription. Set into the elaborate design were the gilded words, El Hoyo and beneath, El Cementerio de Rodríguez. But the gates were magnificent. Painted glossy black, the wrought ironwork was a mass of intricate, sweeping curlicues.

  “Have you seen the new cemetery gates?” Paco asked us that weekend.

  “Yes,” we said, “they are very handsome. Are all the villagers plea
sed with them?”

  “¡Claro! On Andalucía Day El Hoyo will celebrate. At four o’clock, the mayor will give a speech and Alejandro will cut a ribbon and declare the new cemetery open. Then we will all walk up to the shrine for hot chocolate and churros.”

  And so it was.

  On Andalucía Day, everybody turned up. A large crowd surrounded Pancho as he delivered his speech and all eyes were on Alejandro Senior as he cut the ribbon with a flourish and declared the cemetery open. The gates swung open and everybody cheered and clapped.

  Then, united and chattering, the villagers swung round and began to walk up the steep path to the little shrine at the top of the mountain. The children and dogs galloped ahead while the adults straggled behind in knots. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, wishing I wasn’t so unfit. Even the very elderly folk were climbing faster than I was.

  “Tía Veeky,” piped a little voice and a small hand touched my arm. “Can we come and help you do some baking soon?”

  I stopped, glad to catch my breath and looked down at two identical upturned faces.

  “How lovely to see you both!” I said in surprise and gave the pair of them a hug. “How tall you’ve grown! Look, Joe! The Ufarte twins are back!”

  “Tío Joe, can we go looking for those sabre toothed tigers you said live in the woods?”

  “We’re big now, so we know they don’t really exist.”

  “But we could go and look, just in case.”

  “Of course we can!” said Joe.

  “Is your whole family here?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mama and Papa are up ahead.”

  “And our brothers are kicking their silly ball. Look, they have reached the shrine already.”

  “And your tía, Lola?”

  “Tía Lola has gone away.”

  “Mama says tía Lola is catching fish in another country.”

  “And she won’t be back for a very long time.”

  “And Fifi?” asked Joe casually.

  I smiled to myself. We may have missed the Ufarte family, but Joe certainly hadn’t missed being a target of Fifi’s nips.

  “Fifi is down below in our house.”

  “With our abuela.”

  Joe relaxed a little. His ankles were safe for the moment.

  The twins raced away to renew other acquaintances and we carried on climbing the path to the shrine.

  It had been a good day. The village was reunited and it certainly looked as though the Ufartes were back together again. All was well in El Hoyo and with the world.

  But time doesn’t stand still and the next month would bring many surprises, both good and bad.

  30. Ups and Downs

  Whenever the phone shrilled very early in the morning, it was almost always Karly ringing from Australia. As she was finishing her day, we were beginning ours.

  “Mum, you’ll never guess what… I’m pregnant again! Indy’s going to have a new baby brother or sister!”

  “Oh my, oh my, oh my!”

  I shrieked the news to Joe.

  “Karly, are you quite sure?”

  “Yes, positive. It’s really, really, really early days yet, but I’ve done the test three times and they all showed positive.”

  “Oh, that’s just fantastic!”

  “And you know what that means? When you come over next winter, you’ll be here when the baby’s born! Perfect timing!”

  “Have you told everybody?”

  “No, you’re the first. We’re going to wait just a little longer in case anything goes wrong. We’ll just tell close family for the moment.”

  When we had something to celebrate, Joe and I would often take an evening drink up to the roof terrace. Nights were still cold, but it was a pleasure to survey the village and valley and watch the stars come out. Smoke curled from our chimney and from a couple of others.

  “Looks like Uncle Felix hasn’t got his fire lit,” I observed. “But I can see Geronimo’s and Marcia’s.”

  “And the Ufartes are in, that’s good.”

  “So, there will be two babies when we go over to Australia in November.”

  I had to keep saying the news aloud to myself, to help me absorb it.

  “And we’ll have Christmas in the sun and swim on Christmas Day,” remarked Joe.

  We finished our drinks and went back inside our warm house, still making plans for the following winter. Nothing would stop us this time.

  The next day, somebody knocked on our door. It wasn’t a familiar knock. We would have recognised Marcia’s walking stick tap, or Geronimo’s distinctive knock. It certainly couldn’t be Paco who always pounded with his fist and shouted “English!” at the same time. My heart sank. I was convinced it was Pancho, intent on pursuing his English lessons.

  But it wasn’t Pancho, it was our neighbour, Paco. I’d never heard him knock so lightly and I knew immediately that something was wrong.

  “Paco? ¿Qué pasa?”

  This wasn’t the Paco that we knew and loved. His usual exuberance had disappeared and his expression was solemn. There was no sign of the customary twinkle in his eye. He walked slowly into our house and sat heavily on one of our kitchen chairs.

  “Paco? Is something the matter?”

  “I thought you would want to know. Uncle Felix passed away yesterday.”

  “Oh no!”

  “He was an old man. It was expected.”

  Joe and I stared at Paco in silence. That explained why there was no smoke curling from Uncle Felix’s chimney, I thought.

  “That’s very sad news,” I said at last, as Joe poured us all a brandy. “Was he sick? How did it happen?”

  “No, he was not sick. He died peacefully in his cottage. Geronimo found him. Felix was sitting in his armchair watching his big TV.” A smile flickered on Paco’s lips. “He was probably watching his favourite matchmaking show.”

  “Poor Uncle Felix,” I said. Fond memories of the old man crowded my mind.

  “He never had a woman,” said Paco and pulled a rueful face.

  Would Uncle Felix never again sit in the shade outside Marcia’s shop? Never again supervise the pruning of our vine? Would we never see him and his beloved mule passing the house, or in the distance as he tethered her on the lush mountainside to graze? A thousand memories played in my head. A lump was forming in my throat and I was finding it difficult to swallow. El Hoyo without Uncle Felix? It was unthinkable.

  “What about his mule?” asked Joe, voicing the question at the forefront of my own mind.

  “Geronimo has taken her. She will be fine.”

  But Uncle Felix’s mule wasn’t fine. Geronimo did his best but the mule was pining and inconsolable. As fast as he tethered her, she’d pull the stake out of the ground and trot back into the village, searching for her master. And when she didn’t find him, she would stand quietly outside Marcia’s shop, her head hung low, looking up only when she heard footsteps, always hoping her beloved master had returned. She stopped eating and lost weight.

  “Poor old girl,” I said, as I patted her head. “I wish I could bring him back to you.”

  The mule’s large, liquid brown eyes just stared at the ground. I doubt if she even noticed me.

  The month had started well with Karly and Cam’s baby news, but the loss of Uncle Felix was a blow and hard for the village to bear. The funeral was a sad one and Felix was the first villager to be laid to rest in the new part of the cemetery.

  Uncle Felix’s death seemed to herald a string of unhappy events, both minor and major. I was already sad at the old man’s passing and the fact that we hadn’t travelled to Australia that winter.

  We should have seen the next domestic catastrophe coming; we’d been warned after all, but I don’t think anybody really believed it was going to happen. But it did.

  When we arrived in Spain 10 years earlier, we were delighted that, with the correct viewing equipment, we could watch all the British terrestrial channels on TV.

  Then, one day
all the BBC channels simply vanished from our TV screens. One could almost hear the howls of anguish from expats across Europe and Joe’s was probably the loudest.

  “No BBC1 or BBC2?” asked Joe, desperately punching the buttons on the remote control, scrolling through the channels. “No BBC3? Or 4?”

  NO SATELLITE SIGNAL IS BEING RECEIVED advised the message on the otherwise blank screen.

  “No news? No Match of the Day? No golf? No rugby? No Pointless?”

  “All gone,” I sighed. “I understand they’ve replaced the old Astra satellite, which means UK residents will get a better picture, but the footprint is smaller. Viewers in Spain and the rest of Europe won’t get anything.”

  “No darts, no tennis? No World Cup soccer?” Joe slumped back on the cushions in despair.

  “Well, at least we have all the ITV channels,” I said. “And maybe it’ll force us to watch more Spanish TV, we’ve always meant to. It’ll help improve our Spanish.”

  I won’t reproduce Joe’s reply here, it might offend. The independent channels were awash with advertisements, which Joe hated. But even he agreed that ITV was better than nothing, despite the adverts. But the loss of all his favourite sports channels didn’t do his blood pressure any good.

  I was already aware of Joe’s high blood pressure. We discovered the problem in Bahrain but now, back in Spain, he refused to do anything about it even though the health system was excellent. However, to my relief and after constant nagging, I finally managed to steer him to a doctor to have it checked.

  It was an evening appointment and Joe had the doctor’s address scribbled on a piece of paper. Eventually, he located it. The surgery was on the ground floor of a large block of apartments.

  He rang the bell and the building’s main entrance buzzed open. He stepped inside and the door snapped shut behind him. He found himself in a large foyer with a communal table set against one wall and a fake potted plant alongside another. Four doors led to ground-floor apartments.