Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  Joe stopped the jeep so we could study it carefully. A photograph had been taken of the village, upon which the planned apartment block had been superimposed, providing a clear picture of what the village would look like in the future. The apartment block stood, four levels high, as Paco had said, looming malevolently over the ancient white houses like an ugly, evil giant.

  “It’s awful,” Joe said at last. “Paco was right. It’s a monstrosity.”

  I agreed wholeheartedly, and from that moment on, whenever we mentioned that building, we referred to it as The Monstrosity.

  Apart from the sheer size of it, the architect, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that the building should be painted an unpleasant shade of yellow, making it even more conspicuous against the traditional white-washed cottages. The billboard shocked us to the core and we drove the short distance home in silence.

  It was still light when we returned home. The evenings had lengthened and were noticeably warmer. Joe unpacked and assembled our sulphur ‘puffer’ purchase while I made coffee.

  “Might as well give the vine its first dose tonight,” said Joe, but I wasn’t really listening. I had picked up Francisco’s jam jar and was peering into its depths. Francisco the chrysalis, quite frankly, didn’t look at all healthy. Where the pupa case had previously looked fat and shiny, now it was dull and powdery. I’m no expert, but I would have pronounced that chrysalis sick. I shook the jar gently, and to my horror, Francisco disintegrated.

  “Oh no!” I groaned, turning to Joe. “Look at Francisco... He’s fallen to pieces. What on earth am I going to tell the twins? They’re going to need all their nursing skills to cure this!” I looked at Joe, expecting him to reply, and nearly dropped the jam jar. Joe was standing beside me, stark naked, brandishing the sulphur ‘puffer’.

  “What ARE you doing?” I asked in surprise.

  “I’m going to puff the grapevine,” he said. “Paco said the sulphur is nasty stuff. This way I won’t get any on my clothes, and I’ll take a shower straight afterwards. And these,” he said, fishing out a pair of safety goggles from a drawer and pulling them on, “will protect my eyes.”

  I roared with laughter. “You look ridiculous!” I said. “Stark naked apart from a pair of goggles!”

  Joe shrugged and marched purposefully out of the door into the garden.

  I have a theory that life is peppered with ‘cringe moments’. Incidents that, when recalled, causes one’s face to flush hot with embarrassment as one relives them. I was about to add yet another ‘cringe moment’ to my list.

  But for now, I reluctantly accepted Joe’s reasoning and closed the kitchen door behind his naked rump. I wanted to stop the evil sulphur blowing back into the house, and the telephone was ringing.

  7 Half a Melon

  Herbed Chicken Wings

  I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear, only to grimace and quickly pull it away again. The voice was loud, upper-class British and unmistakable, a voice that hardly needed a telephone. I could have heard her shouting from the next village. Judith.

  “Vicky? Vicky? Is that you?” Dogs barked excitedly and I imagined the scene. Judith trying vainly to bring her ten dogs to order, cats all over the place, and Mother, complete with face-pack, elegantly gliding around in a transparent negligee, wafting herbal cigarette smoke.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “How are you, Judith? How’s Mother?”

  “Oh, we’re both ticketty-boo, dear gal. Fluffy, stop it! Buster, wait until I get off this ruddy phone - I’ll let you out in a minute. Vicky? Oh, there you are... Mother’s awfully well, thank you. Hard to believe she’s in her 90’s. Fluffy, no! For goodness sake, that’s an antique! I told you to wait!”

  “Oh, glad to hear you’re both well. Joe and I haven’t been over to your village for a while. Now, how can I help you, or was this just a social call?”

  “Ah, yes! It’s about Mother, actually, m’dear. She’s knocking on a bit now, and she’s taken up a new hobby, don’t you know. Jolly good for her, I say! It’ll keep her young!”

  “Oh, that’s nice. What hobby has she taken up?” My mind played over the possibilities. Modelling, perhaps? Sky-diving? Rock-climbing? I wouldn’t be surprised whatever activity Mother adopted.

  “She’s suddenly got awfully serious about specialist vegetable gardening.”

  “Really? Gardening?” That sounded a bit tame for Mother.

  “Yes, she’s ordered these really expensive tomato seeds from Amsterdam. Cost €5 a seed, don’t you know! Anyway, she’s got all in fluster about them.”

  “Why, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s the animals, m’dear.” On cue, several of the dogs started barking, drowning out her next words. I waited.

  “Sorry, Judith, I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “Dratted dogs! BE QUIET! Right, Vicky, as I was saying... She’s planted the wretched seeds, but the cats keep scratching them up and the dogs knock the pots over. She was wondering if you’d have the pots over at your place, until they grow a bit and the animals leave ’em alone. Your garden’s nice and safe, isn’t it?”

  “Well...” I hesitated, thinking of the devastation the Ufarte boys’ football had caused. “The only trouble is we have these new neighbours, the Ufartes. Their kids have done quite a bit of damage in our garden with their football.”

  “The Ufartes? Related to the Fish Man? Lord! I know that family well! I’ll bet they’re noisy! You don’t let those little vandals play football in your garden, do you?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, no...” Judith was right - I wouldn’t be allowing those boys to play soccer in our garden again.

  “So you’ll take Mother’s tomato plants?”

  “Of course, no problem. She’ll have to tell me how to take care of them, though, I don’t know much about growing tomatoes.”

  “Jolly good, m’dear, most grateful. I’ll tell Mother, and I’ll bring the pots round. I’m sure there’s nothing difficult about raising tomatoes.”

  We carried on chatting until the dogs’ baying and howling rose in a crescendo and made further conversation impossible. We shouted our goodbyes and hung up. Most phone calls with Judith ended this way.

  I wanted to discuss this latest development with Joe and wondered how he was getting on outside. I also wanted to visit the chickens. The chickens adored fruit and I had half an over-ripe melon to give them.

  Joe was doing a grand job. His arms worked the bellows, reminding me of those Victorian wind-up monkey toys that clash their cymbals together. His naked body was coated with a fine layer of yellow dust, streaked where sweat had run in rivulets. His face was red from exertion and a film of sulphur had settled on his goggles.

  “Paco was right,” he grumbled, “this stuff is horrible.”

  It was the sound of laughter that prompted me to look up. I really wish I hadn’t, because what I saw remains carved into my memory to this day.

  High above us, on The Boys’ roof terrace, silhouetted against the sky, stood a row of people, shoulder to shoulder. Every face was looking down into our garden and in that instant I recognised many of them. I saw The Boys - Federico and his paunchy wife, Roberto, each with a small dog in his arms. I saw Papa Ufarte grinning through his dark beard, and a smiling Mama Ufarte by his side, Snap-On on her hip. I saw all the other Ufarte children, the twins tittering behind their hands. I saw Geronimo, beaming broadly. Even Lola the temptress was there, standing just a little too close to Geronimo, throwing her head back in laughter. And I saw other, unfamiliar faces, undoubtably the Ufartes’ friends and relations, each one laughing.

  My reaction was instantaneous, unplanned. I clapped the over-ripe half-melon I had in my hands over Joe’s manhood. Yes, it must have looked ridiculous and howls of laughter erupted from the spectators above.

  Joe jumped in surprise and looked down at the melon I was pressing to him. “What the..? What on earth are you doing? Are you insane? That’s bloody cold!”

  “Quick!” I hi
ssed, jerking my head to indicate the audience above. “Get inside!”

  Joe wiped the sulphur off his goggles with the back of his hand and glanced up. His appreciative audience were, by now, helpless with laughter.

  Joe shrugged. “Well, I’ve only got a bit left to finish,” he said. “Might as well do the last square foot - no point leaving it for another time.”

  The next two minutes felt like a lifetime. As Joe puffed the bellows, I stayed with him, keeping the half-melon pressed in place, desperately trying to retain his modesty. My face burned as melon pips slithered down his thighs and the gales of laughter from above rang in my ears.

  At long last it was done. Joe lowered the ‘puffer’, turned to his audience and bowed. With as much dignity as is possible with one’s wife pressing an over-ripe half-melon to one’s privates, he marched back inside the house. Our audience cheered and clapped.

  Why were there so many people on The Boys’ roof terrace that day? Later we found out that Federico and Roberto were giving the Ufarte clan and Geronimo a guided tour of their house and their latest refurbishments. I regret to report that the story of ‘Joe and the Melon’ has entered village folklore.

  The next day, Judith appeared in her ancient, noisy car. Joe and I helped her bring in the tray of little pots, each one with a bright green seedling thrusting its head out of the soil.

  “Thanks awfully for looking after these, m’dears,” said Judith, flipping her long plait over her shoulder. “Mother’s very grateful. She says to put them in partial shade, and keep them moist but not over-watered. She says they grow very quickly. Anyway, she said she’ll be in touch and she’ll let you know what to do with them next.”

  We found a good spot for the pots and I promised to take good care of them. To be honest, I felt a little nervous of the responsibility, knowing the price of each seed.

  Spring spilled into summer and the wild flowers gave up their battle, withering away from the sun’s fierce embrace. Each day was hotter than the last, and the tomato plants grew fast. Every week, Judith would phone on Mother’s behalf to ask after them, and to issue new instructions.

  “Mother asks if you can see tiny new shoots in the crook of the side branches?”

  “Er, yes, I can...”

  “Mother says pinch out the topmost growing tip, it’ll make the plants stronger and bushier.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mother wants to know if you’re turning the plants regularly.”

  “Yes, I am, every day.”

  “Mother wants to know if you think the plants need supporting yet.”

  “I thought this gardening lark was supposed to be Mother’s hobby?” Joe complained after yet another of these phone calls. “It seems you’re doing all the work. I hope we get some of these tomatoes when they’re ready.”

  “Oh, I don’t really mind,” I said. “But I can’t see any tomatoes forming yet, I hope I haven’t done something wrong. Also, I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but the plants are beginning to smell really strange. I didn’t know tomato plants smell.”

  “It’s probably because they’re a special sort,” said Joe. “They’ve got really big now, let’s hope she wants them back soon.”

  Federico and Roberto rarely emerged from their house, but had become firm friends with the Ufarte family. The Boys filled their brand new swimming pool and we could hear the shouts of the Ufarte children as they splashed and played in the water. Fifi’s excited yaps united with those of Canelo and Copito, The Boys’ two little dogs.

  Canelo was Roberto’s dog, his pride and joy. A strange mix of Chihuahua and something undefinable - he had short legs, barrel chest, a curly tail and eyeballs that bulged disconcertingly. Roberto lovingly hand-fed Canelo endless tidbits, and the little dog’s weight problem matched that of his devoted master. Both shared the same waddling gait, both panted furiously after any exertion.

  Copito, or ‘little snowflake’ was Federico’s dog. His long white fur was dotingly brushed, fluffed, puffed, teased and twiddled into a halo of snowiness. Federico always carried a comb in his back pocket, not for himself as he was virtually bald, but for Copito. I was often reminded of my daughter Karly, when she was about seven years old and going through her Barbie stage, constantly playing with and brushing Barbie’s hair. As a result, little Copito possessed an aura of arrogance and strutted along with his nose in the air, perfectly aware that he was by far the most beautiful dog in the village.

  Once a day, usually in the cool of the evening, The Boys would ‘take’ the two little dogs for a walk. Not in the conventional way that we Brits understand, but for a walk - Spanish style. The front door would open and the two dogs were let out into the street, one waddling, the other trotting like a little white show-pony. Ten or fifteen minutes later, two heads would appear on the roof terrace as The Boys called their beloved pets home.

  “Canelo!” called Roberto.

  “Copito!” called Federico, cupping his hands.

  No response.

  “CANELO!” yelled Roberto.

  “COPITO!” yelled Federico.

  No response. This calling would continue for up to half an hour until eventually the two little dogs appeared, trotting side by side. The Boys would vanish from the roof terrace and reappear at the front door to greet the escapees.

  “You naughty little dog!” Roberto would say fondly to the panting, gasping, overweight Canelo, scooping him up and feeding him pieces of roast chicken, or tortilla. “Now come in, you must be hungry after that long walk!”

  “Look at you!” Federico would say to Copito with mock severity, picking him up and pulling a comb through the white, ruffled fur. “What a state you have got yourself into! A bath for you, young man!” Order restored, the front door would close behind them all.

  Copito

  Copito enjoyed having his hair brushed and fussed. Unlike me. I’m unusual I suspect, but I heartily dislike having my hair done. I disliked it in England, and more so in Spain. I’m aware that most women regard a visit to the hairdresser as a relaxing experience, some valuable ‘me time’, I suppose, but I can’t agree.

  It’s not that I’m a fussy customer - I don’t really care how my hair turns out, it’ll always grow again. No, I think it’s the boredom, being a prisoner, chained to the salon chair until it’s all over that I object to.

  But in Spain it was a little different. Allow me to share my pain with you...

  8 Hair

  Roasted Chickpeas with Thyme

  When we arrived in Spain, Judith and her ancient but glamourous mother always had advice for us. For more than twenty years they’d lived in the next village and knew their way around. So it was Judith’s recommendation that brought me to Tracy the hair stylist’s door.

  “Mother and I always go to Tracy,” said Judith. “She’s frightfully good, y’know. Mother’s very fussy about her hair, dear, and she’ll only trust it with Tracy. Can’t be doing with those salon-type places meself, so it suits me to go to Tracy’s house, don’t you know. She’s got a nice dog, too, so it’s like home from home.” She paused to pat one of her ten dogs as it passed. “Awfully nice gal, Tracy, you’ll like her.”

  Judith was right, I did like Tracy, but I didn’t like the experience. It began badly when I rang the doorbell of Tracy’s trim little house in the urbanización, or housing estate, on the edge of the city. Exactly like Judith’s house, the doorbell set off a baying within. But this wasn’t the howling of a pack of good-natured dogs, it was the deep, furious bark of one single dog. A big one.

  “Now, stop that, Brutus!” said a voice with a strong Birmingham accent, and the door opened to reveal a slight young lady hanging desperately on the collar of a powerful Rottweiler. The Rottweiler filled the hallway and was straining to reach me, drooling and angry.

  “Don’t mind Brutus,” said Tracy, “his bark’s worse than his bite.” I hoped so.

  Eventually Brutus calmed enough to allow me into the house and Tracy set to work on my hair.
>
  “Coffee? Tea?” asked Tracy, already snipping and not waiting for my reply. “Judith told me all about you. How are you liking Spain?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but Tracy didn’t pause. “We’ve been here seven years now - very settled, we are,” she said. Brutus rested his great head on my knee and dozed, oblivious to the snippets of hair tumbling down on him. “And how are you enjoying living in El Hoyo? Very small village, isn’t it?”

  “It’s...” I began but Tracy cut across me.

  “Don’t know if I’d like living up there in them mountains meself,” she said. “But it suits some I suppose. (snip, snip) I had a second cousin in England who lived in a small village. He always said that...” Tracy’s voice pressed on, relentless.

  I nodded or grunted occasionally but didn’t attempt to answer any more of her questions or join the conversation. A wet patch was forming on my skirt from Brutus’s drool as he slept, soothed, no doubt, by his mistress’s voice. I almost dozed myself, but my thoughts turned to worrying about Joe. I’d been watching him, and I knew for a certainty that he had something on his mind. Something about our life in El Hoyo. Something that he wouldn’t speak about. He’d often said how happy he was to be in Spain, but I felt instinctively that he was missing something. Did he miss the UK? Did he want to return? Surely not! Yet again I resolved to ferret out the truth.

  “...and it was the best paella I ever tasted! (snip, snip) I said to my friend, Debbie, ‘Debbie,’ I said, ‘Debbie, have you ever tasted a paella as good as that?’ Anyway, she said, ‘no’ and we had a good laugh and then...”

  The kitchen clock ticked. Brutus snored. The wet patch on my lap grew. The scissors snipped. I wondered if Tracy ever took a breath... But at last the haircut was finished and I was pleased with the result. I paid and thanked Tracy, patted Brutus and left, never to return. Brutus I could cope with, the haircut was a good one, but my ears felt used, bruised and abused. I would need to find another hairdresser. Which was how I came to Antonio’s salon in the city.