Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  “Patience, Little Tabs,” he would say. “Dinner’s coming. Look, I’ve already set aside this nice pile of beefy bits for you. I’ll be finished in just a minute.”

  Then he’d open the window and Little Tabs would spring away, always nervous, always shy. He’d set down the dish of treats while Little Tabs watched, focused and alert, but just out of reach.

  “There you are, enjoy!” Joe said, withdrawing his hand and pulling the window shut. As soon as the window-latch clicked closed, Little Tabs resumed her position on the sill and devoured his offerings, enthusiastically licking the plate so clean that it clattered. Satisfied, she’d stay to wash, her velvet paw moving over her face in light circular strokes. Fed and washed, she’d sit for a while in what I called the ‘tea-cosy position’ before melting away into the night.

  One night, back in the depths of winter when the frost had scattered a layer of diamonds on all the dead leaves on the ground, we were disturbed in our cosy house by a caterwauling outside. Joe switched on the outside lamp and the garden flooded with light. On every available surface crouched a tomcat. On the garden chairs, the wall, the water tank, the chicken-house, the woodshed roof and on every step of the cast-iron staircase leading up to the roof terrace. There must have been a dozen or more of them.

  Little Tabs’s suitors

  Tomcats of every shape and size. Black ones, tabbies, tortoiseshells, black and white ones, tomcats with Siamese looks, battered old bruisers, alert youngsters, huge tomcats, skinny tomcats, tomcats everywhere. Green eyes, blue eyes, orange eyes, dozens of pairs of cats’ eyes, all smouldering with passion.

  And the object of their desire? Little Tabs, of course.

  “Get out of our garden!” yelled Joe, grabbing the garden hose. But even with the jet of icy water trained on them, the tomcats slunk just out of range, watching, waiting. Lust had given them courage and they had no intention of abandoning their mission.

  “Leave Little Tabs alone!” Joe bawled at the ardent suitors. “She doesn’t want you here!”

  But he was wrong, of course. Little Tabs was shameless. She arched and mewed and rolled on the ground, inviting her admirers to approach.

  “You hussy!” said Joe, frowning at her with disapproval. But he had to admit defeat. Little Tabs didn’t want her virtue protected.

  The army of tomcats stayed in our garden for nearly three days and nothing deterred them. Gradually, they faded away until only Little Tabs remained. Joe forgave her, peace returned and we forgot all about it.

  Then one terrible day in February, I was sweeping off the front doorstep, a job that always made me feel very Spanish, when I noticed a pile of something looking like dirty rags a little further up the street. I investigated, and to my absolute horror, it was Little Tabs. She was hurt, badly hurt. Cars are infrequent in El Hoyo, but there was no doubt that Little Tabs had been hit by a car or tractor, and she was barely alive.

  “Joe! Quick! Get the car keys! Little Tabs has been hit by a car, and we need to get her to the vet fast!”

  Joe ran out, squatted down and looked at poor Little Tabs. Her green eyes were open, and spoke of shock and pain. There was blood, and one of her legs was bent at an impossible angle.

  “Poor little thing,” I said, stroking her head, something she’d never allowed me to do before. “I’ll get a blanket, we need to get her to the vet as fast as possible.”

  I scooted inside, grabbed a big towel and rejoined Joe. Very carefully, we wrapped her up and lifted her gently into the car, then sped down the mountain to the vet.

  Little Tabs was still breathing, but only just. Thankfully she was unconscious so I hoped she wasn’t suffering at all. Blood soaked alarmingly through the towel.

  “Stay alive, Little Tabs,” I whispered to her. “We’re nearly there.”

  It was the longest trip down the mountain that I ever remember, but finally we arrived and Joe carried Little Tabs inside.

  The vet’s assistant summed up the situation with a practiced eye, and took the bundle from Joe, jumping the queue of waiting animals and fast-tracking Little Tabs into the vet’s operating theatre. The door shut firmly behind her, so Joe and I sat down to wait.

  The door opened again, and the assistant beckoned us inside. Little Tabs lay on the table. Apart from her head, a white cloth covered her whole body. The lady vet looked up at us and spoke, sympathy in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “your cat is very badly hurt. I have given her a sedative so she is comfortable now.”

  “Can you save her?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “Your cat has extensive injuries. Her head has been hit, and she has many broken ribs and bones. With your permission, I think the kindest thing would be to give her an injection and let her go.”

  “Put her to sleep?”

  “She will not feel a thing. Her injuries are too massive for me to be able to help her.”

  I looked down at Little Tabs, my heart thumping. Joe squeezed my hand and I heard him sigh deeply.

  “It’s for the best,” he said.

  I nodded and stroked Little Tabs’s head one last time. I would miss her. I would miss her face at the kitchen window. I would miss her green unblinking stare. I would miss seeing her asleep in the garden. And we would never see her kittens, kittens conceived in our garden but destined never to be born. Hot tears welled in my eyes.

  We stood there a little longer looking down at Little Tabs’s shape under the white shroud, and her familiar face and ears. Her eyes were closed now, the emerald green lights switched off for ever. Then Joe put his arm around my shoulder and turned me away. He guided me out of the room, through the waiting-room and outside.

  “Excuse me! ¿Señor? ¡Señor!” A voice floated out of the reception area.

  Dumbly, we turned back to see the vet’s assistant waving at us. Obediently, we went back inside. The assistant had her pen poised over a stack of papers.

  “The bill,” she said. “That will be 60 euros, please. How would you like to pay?”

  “That’s a bit steep!” said Joe, scratching his groin. “She’s not even our cat, she’s a feral cat we feed sometimes.”

  The assistant looked surprised, and all the waiting pets and owners watched with interest.

  “It’s okay, we’ll pay,” I said quickly, giving Joe one of my Looks and opening my purse.

  We were silent all the way back up the mountain. I was remembering all the times that Little Tabs had sat on our window-sill waiting to be fed and how she lightly tapped the window pane to get our attention.

  Back in our kitchen, I made coffee. We sipped it silently, each lost in our own thoughts.

  Suddenly, Joe stiffened and stared past me, over my shoulder. I swung round to see what he was looking at.

  “Oh my G...” I whispered. “It’s a ghost!”

  We both stared at the tabby cat sitting on the kitchen window, its emerald eyes staring back at us. The cat raised a paw and lightly tapped the glass.

  “That’s no ghost!” said Joe. “That’s Little Tabs!”

  Joe and I stared at each other, mouths agape, then back at the cat.

  “It can’t be...”

  “I’m telling you, it is! That is Little Tabs.”

  “Then who was the cat we took down to the vet?” I asked.

  “No idea... Must have been another village cat.” Then the facts sank in. “I don’t believe it! Have we just paid a vet bill for a strange cat? We shelled out 60 euros to have a strange cat put down?”

  I didn’t care. I was overjoyed to have Little Tabs back and filled her bowl with chunks of our best Serrano ham to celebrate. I felt terribly sorry for that other poor cat, but to have Little Tabs back on our window-sill was wonderful.

  “Well, it’s good to have Little Tabs back, whatever,” admitted Joe eventually, having finally stopped complaining.

  In the weeks that followed, Little Tabs continued to visit us, to wait for food on our window-sill, and we watched her grow rounder daily. S
he looked healthy and glossy, and we knew her kittens would be born soon.

  One April day, I was cleaning out the chicken coop when I heard tiny sounds coming from the laying boxes. Puzzled, I put down my broom and went to investigate. A flurry of stripes sprang out of a box and streaked past me. I peeped into the dark laying box and could just make out two tiny newborn kittens nestled on the bed of straw. Little Tabs was a mother.

  “Joe! Joe! You’ll never guess what I’ve just discovered in the chicken coop!”

  “Eggs?”

  But even he was surprised when I told him. Feral cats usually hide their litters well away from human interference. Little Tabs trusted us enough to give birth to her litter in our garden, in our chicken coop. We felt very honoured.

  We kept our distance, but made sure Little Tabs had a constant supply of food and saucers of milk. The chickens ignored the new cat family and chose other boxes to lay their eggs in. I took sneaky looks at the kittens when Little Tabs’s back was turned, and they were doing well. I could already tell that one was destined to be a beautiful silver tabby, and the other was a replica of her mother.

  We were undecided about what to do. Should we try and tame these kittens and attempt to find them homes? Would Little Tabs allow us to handle them? Or should we allow her to raise them alone to join the rest of the village cat community?

  It turned out that the decision was taken out of our hands when old Marcia hobbled up to our house to deliver a letter. I knew she liked cats because she had one of her own, and I was excited about our new family.

  “Don’t show the kittens to anybody,” Joe had warned. “You know what the Spanish are like with village cats.”

  “Marcia! Do come in and see our new kittens!” I should have kept quiet, should have heeded Joe’s warning, but I didn’t.

  “Kittens? There are too many cats in this village already,” grumbled Marcia, but she hobbled behind me to see them anyway.

  In the chicken coop, the hens crowded round, necks craning to see if we were bringing treats. Little Tabs watched us approach, her body tensing as we drew closer. At the last second, she streaked away in a flurry of stripes and sat high on the garden wall, very still, watching, emerald eyes unblinking. Marcia’s gnarled old hand reached into the laying box and scooped up both kittens.

  “¡Qué bonitos!” she exclaimed. “How beautiful! This little grey one is going to be a real beauty.” The kittens’ eyes were still closed but they mewled and squirmed in her hands, their tummies round and fat from good mothering. I looked up at the wall. Little Tabs had us locked in her emerald stare.

  When Marcia had gone, Joe and I sat in the garden to watch what would happen next. When Little Tabs was absolutely sure that the coast was clear, she crept back into the chicken coop, straight to her babies. Minutes later, she reappeared, one fat, limp kitten dangling from her mouth. Up she leaped onto the garden wall and out of sight. Ten minutes elapsed before she came back. Into the chicken coop she darted, emerging with the second kitten. Then a mighty jump onto the wall before disappearing into the village.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Joe. “I told you not to mention them.”

  I sighed. My heart was heavy. I knew that we’d probably never see them again and it was my fault. I’d betrayed Little Tabs’s secret hiding place and she felt forced to relocate her babies.

  Little Tabs returned to us to be fed, but never stayed for long now she had a family to raise. I often wondered how the kittens were coming along and hoped one day she would bring them to see us. Many weeks were to pass before we saw those kittens again, and then it was in bitter-sweet circumstances.

  6 The Monstrosity

  Mackerel Fillets in Garlic and Paprika

  The cats and wildlife were not the only nest-builders. The Ufarte family next door had begun renovations, and the drilling, mixing and hammering became a constant background noise as they refurbished their little house. Unlike the other villagers who usually came to El Hoyo just for weekends, the Ufarte family arrived randomly, stayed a few days, then vanished again. And they rarely came alone. If the Ufarte minibus drew up, it was usually tailed by several other cars filled with friends, family members, tool boxes, cement mixers and tile cutters.

  And the Ufarte noise didn’t cease at nightfall. As bats swooped overhead, Papa Ufarte, seated on their doorstep, dreamily strummed his guitar. Sometimes the visitors brought guitars, too, and washed our street with sultry Spanish music and applause. Mama Ufarte would rise to her feet and sway her hips, carried away by the rhythm of the music. If Lola was there, they’d dance side by side. Tossing back their black hair, they entered a kind of trance, feet tapping, hands clapping, bodies sinuous and graceful. Friends and relations joined in, until the street was a mass of whirling, clapping and foot-tapping Flamenco.

  Sometimes Geronimo joined the party, but I never saw him dance. He would remain seated, staring longingly at Lola, hooded eyes following her every move, one finger lightly stroking the side of his beer bottle.

  In the bungalow on the plot of land behind our house, the newlyweds, Federico and Roberto, were also nest-building. The year before, their plot of land had been our orchard, but, reluctantly, we’d had two bungalows built on it. One of these was purchased by Federico and Roberto: The Boys. They moved in, but before long, we saw architects with clip-boards taking measurements. Soon after, a gang of Romanian workmen arrived and The Boys’ bungalow began to grow upwards. In weeks it gained another level and finally a roof terrace. It was a bungalow no more.

  One Saturday, we were sitting in Paco and Carmen-Bethina’s little kitchen. We’d been invited to sample Paco’s latest batch of home-made wine, which, as every year, Paco insisted was unquestionably the best batch yet. Joe complimented Paco on its clarity and fruitiness, then launched into his favourite topic of the moment.

  “Building, building!” said Joe. “If it’s not the Ufartes on one side of us, then it’s The Boys on the other.”

  “Oh, you do not like the noise?” asked Carmen-Bethina sympathetically.

  “It’s not the noise that bothers me, it’s their new roof terrace,” growled Joe, forgetting his manners and irritably scratching himself down below. “Federico and Roberto can see right down into our garden now. We’ve lost all our privacy.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You know the Spanish aren’t like us crazy English - they don’t sit out in the sun. I bet they’ll hardly ever use their roof terrace, especially as they’re building a swimming pool in their garden. And the grapevine gives us a lot of privacy in the summer.”

  Carmen-Bethina nodded.

  “Pah!” shouted Paco, thumping the table with his clenched fist and making me jump. “Never mind Federico and Roberto and their roof terrace! What about the new apartments?”

  “¡Claro!” said Carmen-Bethina. “Yes, what about the new apartments!”

  “What new apartments?” we asked.

  Paco leaned forward. “You know the olive grove below? Near the dry river bed? Well! The Mayor may give permission for a block of apartments to be built!” Paco leaned back in his chair, enjoying our reaction. “The building will be four floors high, 27 apartments!”

  Joe and I gaped.

  “An apartment block? Here in the village? What is the Mayor thinking of?” Joe asked. “That wouldn’t fit in with the village at all!”

  “It will be a monstrosity!” Paco slammed the bottle down hard on the table, making the red wine slosh in our glasses.

  “¡Claro! Una monstruosidad.” All Carmen-Bethina’s chins wobbled in agreement.

  “You mark my words,” said Paco darkly. “The Mayor will soon have a fine new house built for himself...” He refilled our glasses as we thought about that. We’d heard rumours of village Mayors receiving favours in exchange for building permits. Was that really happening in El Hoyo?

  “I don’t think it will really happen,” I said. “Who is going to buy an apartment in El Hoyo? The village doesn’t even have a proper bar or shop.”r />
  “Well, the next time I see the Mayor, I shall give him a piece of my mind. I’ll tell him what I think of that crazy idea!” said Joe. “An apartment block in El Hoyo? Whatever next!”

  “Now, about your grapevine,” said Paco, changing the subject. “You must use this sulphur I have brought for you. It will stop the mildew.” He pointed to an evil-looking sack of yellow powder leaning in a corner. “You will need a ‘puffer’. Every 12 days you must puff the sulphur up into the new shoots and leaves of the grapevine. Do as I tell you, and in September, your grapes will be good, perhaps nearly as good as mine.”

  Joe and Paco discussed the ‘puffer’ at length. Apparently it resembled the bellows we used for our fire, but had a long nose with a bowl on the end. Sulphur was placed into the bowl, and the bellows action puffed doses of sulphur up into the grapevine.

  “Be careful,” said Paco. “Sulphur is nasty stuff. Don’t let it get into your eyes, it will sting.”

  We took the sack of sulphur with us when we left. Outside, some of the Ufarte children and their cousins were playing in the street. Scrap kicked at an empty can, and the twins, dressed as nurses, were immersed in a game of medical make-believe. Papa Ufarte sat on his doorstep, idly twanging his guitar while Granny Ufarte slept in her arm-chair in the shade, oblivious to the ministrations of the miniature nurses intent on taking her blood pressure. The wicked Fifi sat on Granny Ufarte’s lap, watching the nurses from under her fringe.

  “Tía Veeky! How is Francisco?” called Nurse #1.

  “Oh, he’s very well,” I said. “He’s having a good sleep. He’s really enjoying being a chrysalis. One day he’ll climb out of his chrysalis case, unfold his wings and turn into a beautiful butterfly.” Satisfied, the nurses turned back to attending to their comatose grandmother.

  “Quick!” hissed Joe. “Get inside before Fifi sees me.”

  At the sound of Joe’s voice, Fifi’s head reared up. She leapt to the ground but we bolted into our house and slammed the door before she could reach us.

  We were planning to go down the mountain to replenish our pantry that afternoon, so I added ‘sulphur puffer’ to our shopping list. The shopping trip was uneventful - until our return. In a lay-by on the mountain road, just before the turn-off down to El Hoyo, workmen were putting the finishing touches to a massive new billboard. It was an artist’s impression of a new block of apartments.