Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  A tennis racquet (for catching flying creatures)

  Bucket and spade (for digging out underground creatures)

  An old walking stick (in case we needed to rescue a lost lamb)

  A long piece of string (to lead the tiger home)

  A jam jar (for any other creatures)

  Armed with Joe’s steak (in case we encountered a sabre-toothed tiger), the expedition was ready.

  “Tía Veeky, can Fifi come with us?” asked Fairy #1, gazing up at me with dark, soulful eyes.

  “Fifi likes Nature Walks,” said Fairy #2.

  “Er, where is Fifi?” I asked.

  “Fifi is outside, with our abuela.”

  “Oh! I didn’t see her. Well, why not? Yes, Fifi can come.”

  The fairies skipped ahead of me, out of the front door, and into the street. I hurried behind as best as I could, laden with Snap-On and most of the Nature Walk equipment. I was very much looking forward to meeting Fifi. Perhaps she would help me carry some of the stuff.

  “Fifi! Fifi! ¡Vamos! We’re going for a Nature Walk to see sabre-toothed tigers!” The fairies were very excited, their pink shoes barely touching the dusty street as they ran to Granny Ufarte amidst the heap of furniture.

  Granny Ufarte slumbered on in her armchair, mouth working, head lolled to one side, oblivious to the world. But the mound of untidy grey wool on her lap suddenly wriggled and sat up.

  So this was Fifi! A tiny Yorkshire terrier, teacup size, I believe they’re called. She jumped off Granny Ufarte’s lap, shook herself in a blur of silver and danced after the fairies who were already heading for the woods behind the cemetery.

  Fifi

  I once watched a Spanish television show where people in the street were asked which month of the year was their favourite. Most agreed, April, and I wouldn’t argue. The sun is warm, but not fierce, and the mountainsides are lush with new grass and wild flowers. As though an artist has flicked paint randomly over the landscape, splashes of crazy colour dot the hillsides. The wild figs unfurl tender leaves, and the olive trees stand knee deep in poppies, providing a stage for every bird to sing for a mate.

  April is when the sneaky cuckoo arrives in the valley. The first carpenter bees appear, blundering blindly, noisy as little jet engines as they search for a home. The first swallows arrive from Africa, performing aerobatics against a vivid blue sky. At twilight, foxes and ibex call, their unearthly cries echoing around the valley.

  But today I didn’t appreciate the beautiful April day. I was far too intent upon catching up with the Ufarte fairies and Fifi, already far ahead.

  “I wish you would walk,” I said crossly to Snap-On who seemed to get heavier every second. Balancing him, the bucket and spade, the tennis racquet and the walking stick wasn’t easy. I glanced across at the little patch of cultivated land where Uncle Felix grew neat lines of baby lettuce. The new green leaves contrasted vividly against the freshly watered black soil.

  The fairies’ footfalls on the street ahead suddenly softened as the ground beneath their feet changed from hard road to old pine needles. I followed them into the wood.

  Exchanging the bright sunlight for the soft dappled shade of the pine trees, I sat down on a fallen log. I inhaled a deep breath of the scented air and little Snap-On aped me, drawing in a big breath and letting it out with an exaggerated sigh. I noticed the needles at the tip of each branch were lime green with new growth.

  “Tía Veeky, we can’t find any Nature!” called a fairy.

  “We’ve looked everywhere, there’s no Nature anywhere!”

  “Well, keep looking! I’ve got the meat ready here in case you see the sabre-toothed tiger.” I was enjoying the rest too much to follow them farther into the wood. They would be perfectly safe. There were few people in the village, and El Hoyo was the safest place we’d ever lived in.

  All too soon, the fairies were weary of tramping through the wood and reappeared, looking bedraggled, leaves and twigs caught in their clothes and wings. I noticed one fairy had torn a hole in her pink tights. Fifi bounded out of a bush and sat panting at my feet, her pink tongue quivering. I scratched her behind the ears, and she rolled onto her back hoping for a tummy tickle.

  “Fifi likes you,” said Fairy #1.

  “And she doesn’t like everyone...” said Fairy #2. A tiny alarm bell rang in my head, but why should a comment like that sound like a warning?

  “Anyway, we couldn’t find the sabre-toothed tiger,” went on Fairy #1. “And we looked everywhere!”

  “This wood hasn’t got any Nature in it,” announced Fairy #2, hands on her hips.

  “You said we’d find lots of Nature!” said Fairy #1.

  “Now, come on, this wood is full of wonderful things,” I said, putting on my teacher hat. “You just have to know where to look.” I stood up and pointed at a pine branch. “It’s spring! Look how green the pine needles are. And all the new buds are opening on this bush.” I twisted the branch down. Snap-On seized it and stuffed it into his mouth.

  I removed it and tried again. “Listen to the birds singing! They’ll be making their nests and laying eggs now.”

  The fairies looked unimpressed.

  “What about the sabre-toothed tiger?” accused Fairy #1.

  “What about the sabre-toothed tiger?” echoed Fairy #2, sticking her magic wand into a hole in the fallen log.

  “Well, I suppose he must have gone out for the day,” I answered, and gave up.

  Suddenly, one of the fairies squealed, startling Fifi who jumped to her feet.

  “Oh! Oh! Look what I have found!”

  “Oh!” sighed Fairy #2 (or was it Fairy #1?) her hands clasped under her chin in rapture.

  There was a bush sprouting out from under the log I was sitting on. Creeping across one of the leaves, almost the same colour as the leaf itself, was a caterpillar. It looked suspiciously like a cabbage-white, the kind I declared war on back in England.

  “Oh! I found some Nature!” sighed Fairy #1.

  “Clever girl,” I said. “Now, that is the best caterpillar I’ve ever seen!”

  “Is it? Better than all the caterpillars you have ever seen?”

  “Much better!”

  “We will keep him,” she said. “His name will be Francisco.”

  So we picked some leaves and stuffed them into the jam jar, and gently placed Francisco in, too. Then we collected all our equipment and wandered out of the wood. Fifi scampered behind, stopping to snuffle at every rock and tree.

  “I do not think Mama will like Francisco,” said Fairy #1 sadly.

  “Mama does not like things with many legs,” agreed Fairy #2.

  “We’ll worry about that later,” I said. “Come on, let’s see what Tío Joe and your brothers are doing...”

  4 Football and Fifi

  Beef in Sherry

  Before we even reached the square, we could hear the sounds of a game of football in progress. Joe always maintains that soccer is a universal language, transcending all international and generation barriers. And here was proof.

  It appeared to be an evenly matched game between Barcelona and Real Madrid. Representing Barcelona were Joe and Jorge Ufarte. Joe was glowing red with exertion, puffing and gasping, trying valiantly to pass the ball to Jorge. The Real Madrid team comprised Geronimo and little Scrap. Geronimo had generously abandoned his beer bottle which was standing in the shade on a bench, awaiting his return. His three dogs lay panting, tongues lolling, guarding the half-empty bottle. Scrap Ufarte pelted after the ball, elbows out, legs pumping, the dummy in his mouth clenched with grim determination.

  This game even had spectators. Old Marcia had emerged from her shop and was seated in the shade beside Uncle Felix, fanning herself with a bunch of letters. Uncle Felix sat with folded arms, cloth cap drawn down to shade his eyes. His bony frame took up very little space on the bench. Nearby, his mule was tethered to a lamp-post, resting, head hung low, one large watchful eye on her beloved master.

  “Don’
t you want to get down and play soccer?” I asked little Snap-On. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” I sighed as I felt his arms and legs wrap tighter, and his fingers dig deeper.

  Joe had just taken possession of the ball.

  “To me! Over here!” yelled Jorge, dancing from foot to foot, anticipating the ball.

  Joe glanced up, positioned himself, and swung his leg right back, poised to take an almighty kick at the ball. Then a most unexpected thing happened, causing Joe’s foot never to make contact with that ball.

  And why did Joe’s foot never connect? Because at that moment he came face to foot with what was to become his archenemy.

  From behind me, a snarling streak of silver flashed past, hurling herself straight at Joe’s raised foot. Small sharp teeth sank into his ankle. Fifi! He never even saw her coming.

  “What the..?” he yelled, leaping into the air in surprise. He was ready to do battle, but cunning Fifi had already darted away and was hiding behind Fairy #2.

  “Oh! Fifi does not like Tío Joe,” observed Fairy #1.

  “She does not mean to hurt you, Tío Joe!” said Fairy #2.

  “Stupid mutt has a funny way of showing it...” Joe growled, rubbing his nipped ankle and glaring balefully at Fifi.

  Scrap and Jorge were clearly familiar with Fifi’s delinquent behaviour. Unconcerned, they chased the football round the square. Geronimo, amused by the Brit versus Manic Mop incident, used the interlude to re-acquaint himself with his beer bottle. Marcia and Uncle Felix sat side by side on the bench, watching, but uninvolved.

  “What brought that on?” protested Joe. “Look at her, she’s going to have another go at me!”

  Sure enough, Fifi, snarling softly, was preparing herself for a second attack. As fast as a hairy bullet from a rifle, she shot straight for Joe. Joe backed away, but Fifi was committed. Deaf to the fairies’ calls, she nipped at Joe’s ankles.

  “Stop it!” yelled Joe, twirling and dancing in an effort to escape the determined little dog. “Get her off me!”

  Then I had an idea. The sabre-toothed tiger bait! I pulled the beef steak out of my pocket with the hand that was not clasping Snap-On.

  “Fifi!” I called, waggling the steak in her direction. “Fifi! Look what I’ve got!”

  I saw a dark beady eye glinting through her fringe, and with one last warning snarl at Joe, she scampered over to me.

  “Naughty, naughty Fifi,” said Fairy #2 fondly, tapping her gently on the head with her magic wand.

  “You must not bite Tío Joe,” said Fairy #1.

  Fifi stopped in front of me and sat begging, front paws pedaling the air. What could I do? I gave her the steak, of course.

  Joe was still ruefully rubbing his ankle when the minibus drew up. I hadn’t even noticed its arrival in the excitement. Geronimo glanced into the car, saw who was sitting in the back, flushed red and retreated.

  “Mama! Papa! Tía Lola!” chorused the fairies. Snap-On bounced excitedly on my hip and his big brothers abandoned their game and ran over.

  Mama Ufarte wound down her window. “Have you been good?” she smiled. “Have you had a lovely time with Tío Joe and Tía Veeky?” Lola, in the back seat, smiled and twiddled a lock of hair. I caught her looking across at Geronimo, busy with his beer.

  “We’ve been playing soccer,’ said Jorge.

  Scrap grinned silently around his dummy.

  “We have a new pet!” said Fairy #1. “He is a caterpillar and his name is Francisco.” She held up the jam jar for her mother to see.

  “Very nice, darling, but you cannot bring it into the house.”

  Both fairies’ faces dropped. I stepped forward and took the jam jar. “I’ll look after Francisco,” I said. “Your Mama has enough little ones to look after. He’ll be safe with me.”

  “And where is my little Fifi?” asked Mama Ufarte. “Has she been a good little doggy while I’ve been away?”

  “Huh!” grunted Joe and quickly turned it into a cough. Fifi had demolished her steak and trotted forward. Mama Ufarte opened the car door, leaned down, scooped her up and made a fuss of her.

  “Have you been playing tennis?” Papa Ufarte asked me, leaning across his wife and eyeing the tennis racquet.

  “No,” I said, but didn’t elaborate.

  “Well, we must go,” said Mama Ufarte. She handed Fifi to Lola behind her and held her arms out for Snap-On. I released him and he coiled himself up on her lap, gurgling happily.

  “I hope you’ve been a good boy,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Now, why don’t you children run on ahead and tell your abuela we’re home? Your Papa and I will follow in the minibus.”

  The children raced away and Papa Ufarte started the engine. “Hasta luego,” he called. “See you later! It is nice to know there is somebody next door who will look after the children whenever we need.”

  “Yeah, right...” I heard Joe mutter in English and I kicked him on his already sore ankle, making him yelp.

  The minibus accelerated away, and Joe and I collected up the tennis racquet, walking-stick, bucket and spade. We waved to Marcia, Uncle Felix and Geronimo and headed home. Joe put his arm through mine as we walked.

  “What a day!” he said. “I’m exhausted. And hungry. By the way, what were you doing with the walking-stick and tennis racquet? And the bucket and spade?”

  “It’s a long story...” I said.

  “I think that wretched Fifi would still be stalking and attacking me if you hadn’t shown her the meat.” Joe went on, then paused and I saw his brow furrow. “Just a minute! That meat... Am I right in guessing that steak’s off the menu tonight and it’s scrambled eggs for dinner instead?”

  I nodded and began a countdown silently, in my head. Five, four, three, two, one, zero... Right on cue...

  “What? WHAT? Do you mean that bad-tempered, hairy little monster has just eaten my dinner? My steak? I don’t bloody believe it! You gave my steak to that delinquent midget Yorkshire terrier? First they dump their kids on us - without even a ‘thank you’ - then their dog savages me for no reason! And then, then you give my dinner to that malicious little tyke?”

  Of course I’ve sanitised this rant, no reader deserves to be exposed to the full, unexpurgated version. Suffice it to say that Joe was still polluting the air with expletives as we reached our front door.

  Much later, after our supper of scrambled eggs, I caught Joe with that faraway look in his eyes again.

  “What’s bothering you?” I asked. “Is it the Ufarte family?”

  Joe shook his head. “The Ufartes? No, of course not.”

  “Well, what is it? I know something is bothering you. Aren’t you happy here in El Hoyo? Are you sorry we decided to stay?”

  “No, no! I love our life here. It’s just that...”

  I waited, but Joe refused to say more.

  Spring is the time for new beginnings, and that year it was certainly true in El Hoyo. After Uncle Felix’s severe winter pruning, our grapevine sprang into life, juicy green leaves unfolding and reaching for the sun. Day by day, corkscrew tendrils groped for supports until, once again, we had a thick green canopy shading our patio. Sparrows flocked into our chicken coop to steal grain and strands of straw for their nests. Gorgeous bee-eaters arrived from Africa, their feathers a frenzied flash of crazy colours. The valley rang with their incessant chatter and calls as they flew in flocks from tree to telephone wire. Expert excavators, they bored perfectly round nest holes in the cliff-face, as efficient as any workman’s drill.

  Bee-Eaters (by Kiersten Rowland)

  On our kitchen windowsill, Francisco the caterpillar spun himself a silken cocoon and transformed into a chrysalis. Every time I saw the Ufarte twins, they’d ask, “How is Francisco? Can we come in and see him?”

  Even in our chicken coop there were new beginnings, although not, as one would expect, of the feathered variety.

  5 Little Tabs

  Mediterranean Chicken Tapas

  Cats became part of our live
s when we moved to El Hoyo in the summer of 2004. Most were feral and roamed the village, hiding beneath cars or in derelict buildings, away from dogs and humans. Rarely did they venture into the open. But the daily delivery of fish to the village flushed them out in large numbers. When the fish van hooted its horn at the top of the mountain road, as many as 30 cats would magically appear outside Marcia’s shop, along with the village ladies, awaiting the arrival of the fish van. El Hoyo was the last on the fish man’s itinerary of villages, and the cats were assured of fish scraps which they carried away to eat in private. Sometimes they used our garden as a sanctuary, but bolted if we approached.

  However, a few became accustomed to Joe and me and although keeping us at paw’s length, were happy to accept any offerings we left in a bowl on our kitchen window sill.

  The first was a village cat we named Thief Cat because she stole fish from our barbecue when our backs were turned. She took up residence in our garden for a year or so, before disappearing altogether. Whether she died of old age or strayed away, we never knew.

  Then old Marcia gave us Sancho, a kitten born to her own cat. Little Sancho sadly also disappeared, although I never stopped looking for him.

  Then another feral cat moved into our garden. We suspected this newcomer was Thief Cat’s daughter. A typical tiger tabby with huge green eyes and perfect stripes, she became very tame, although she never allowed us to touch her. She learned to wait on the kitchen window-sill, peering in on our activities until we fed her. We named her Little Tabs.

  Little Tabs

  Little Tabs soon learned our routine and knew when we were preparing food in the evening. As Joe chopped vegetables and meat, her emerald eyes bored through the glass, watching every move he made. Sometimes she would lightly pat the window glass, as though asking him to hurry up.