Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  We are really looking forward to seeing you both in situ so to speak, it has been a long time since we saw you both in the UK.

  Anna will bring a couple of hot water bottles (joking), hot during the day sounds good, the weather here has been bitter, we have just come back from a walk on the Downs and my face is frozen! I should be able to blink and frown again in the next couple of hours.

  As I now have a Blackberry I can pick up emails on the go although it still takes ages to reply.

  If you need anything at all from the UK just shout, we are both really looking forward to walking the hills and enjoying a few bottles of Rioja with you both.

  Take care

  Andrew

  X

  On the 22nd of March, around midday, the telephone rang.

  “They must have landed!” I said to Joe, and picked up the phone. “Hello? Andy? Anna? Are you at the airport?”

  “Hi! No, El Hoyo was easy to find with our TomTom. We’re standing beside your church. There’s a very old man with no teeth and a donkey here, trying to help, but we don’t understand each other.”

  “Oh! That’ll be Uncle Felix and his mule. Stay where you are, we’ll come and get you.” I replaced the receiver.

  “They’re already here?” asked Joe.

  “Yep! Come on, they’re waiting at the church.”

  A minute later we were reunited, and what a pleasure it was to see them after so many years. It’s a strange thing, but even when you haven’t seen good friends for a long time, and you finally get together again, it’s as though there has never been a gap. We’d all grown greyer and more wrinkled, yet we were still the same, and very easy and comfortable in each other’s company.

  For the first day, we just caught up with each other’s news, gossip and what our kids were doing. We demolished plenty of food and wine and watched our visitors visibly relax as they shrugged off their hectic life in England. We walked up to the shrine and gave them a guided tour of the village, which didn’t take long. We passed the Ufarte house with its litter of bicycles and prams outside, laundry and pillows drying on the wall. Granny Ufarte wasn’t snoring in her customary armchair outside, but we could hear plenty of activity from within. Andy and Anna had both read Chickens but I don’t think they’d grasped quite how small, isolated and purely Spanish our village is.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Andy. “But perhaps a little, er, third-world?”

  “No shops?” Anna asked. “And what happens if you need to see a doctor?”

  We explained that delivery vans came almost daily with bread, fish and local produce, and that the doctor came once a week and held a surgery in one of the villager’s living rooms. Anna looked dubious.

  “We’ll take you to see Europe’s one and only desert tomorrow,” said Joe. “They’ve got a permanent movie set there. All the spaghetti westerns like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and A Fistful of Dollars were filmed there. The terrain is similar to the Colorado desert with rocky outcrops and prickly pear cacti. Honestly, you’d think you were in an American desert, not Spain.”

  “That sounds like fun,” said Anna.

  22 Cowboys and Getting Plastered

  Slow-Cooked Brandy Chicken

  The second day of Andy’s and Anna’s visit was overcast. Nevertheless, we piled into their hired car and drove to the little town of Tabernas where Fort Bravo is situated. An entire cowboy town has been recreated there, complete with gallows, funeral director, blacksmith, church and school. Visitors can wander round, enjoy a drink in the saloon, watch filming and generally imagine being in the Wild West.

  “I thought you said it was a desert?” said Andy, pointing out the lush terrain. Instead of the expected dry, dusty crags, the whole area was green and sprinkled with brilliant wild flowers. It seemed even Europe’s only desert hadn’t escaped the recent deluge.

  The town seemed deserted apart from some rangy-looking dogs loping around, a few horses tethered to a fence, and a corral with some rather moth-eaten bison watching us suspiciously. Normally the place is packed with tourists, but it was March and no filming was taking place.

  “We’re going to have a nice quiet time,” Joe said cheerfully. “We’ve got the whole place to ourselves.”

  Of course he was wrong.

  We entered the saloon and ordered drinks from the buxom wench behind the bar. The staff at Fort Bravo always dress in authentic costumes, and the wench’s low-cut dress left little to the imagination. Joe was mesmerised and needed my elbow in his ribs to focus his attention on reality.

  “Behave yourself! Your eyes are out on stalks,” I hissed.

  “I think her dumplings are boiling over,” muttered Joe.

  The serving wench

  We carried our drinks to a table near the door but not before we noticed the barmaid turn her back and make a furtive call on a very un-Wild West iPhone. We soon discovered why. Our little party was probably a welcome diversion for the staff of Fort Bravo, because it was her colleagues the wench was alerting.

  First some cowboys burst into the saloon and held up our party, pistols aimed at our heads. Poor Anna suffered the most. Two cowboys in particular amused themselves by scaring the living daylights out of her at every opportunity. Perhaps her naturally nervous disposition made her an easy target because, as we strolled around, they popped up from behind buildings or furniture, pistols drawn. At one point she was forcibly put in jail at gun point. So much for ‘a nice quiet time’.

  We finished the visit with several tours of the town, viewed from a mule cart, rattling along at breakneck speed. The driver, a cowboy, decked in a Stetson and toting six-guns, flicked a whip over the rumps of the mules, urging them on through the muddy streets. He drove us to a huge palisaded fort and Red Indian teepee village before returning to the Saloon. Being the only visitors, we were forced to keep repeating the tour, the driver not allowing us to get down.

  “Today you are my only customers,” he said. “I need something to do.” So around we went for the umpteenth time.

  The day was huge fun, but with gunshots still ringing in our ears, it was a relief to return to the quiet of El Hoyo.

  By the time Andy and Anna left for England, the weather was really starting to improve. Tiny nubs began to appear on the branches of our grapevine, and before long, the leaves unfurled. The days grew longer and the sun was more generous with her rays. The Ufarte baby was now nearly four months old and gurgling happily in his stroller.

  They say things come in threes, and on one particular day that spring, this was true.

  Joe and I avoided going down to the city whenever possible, preferring the peace and quiet of the village. However, sometimes it was necessary, and especially when we had to visit our bank in person.

  Parking in Spain could be described as ‘chaotic’. People tend to abandon their vehicles rather than park them. Double-parking outside shops, in the middle of a road, in front of the Police Station, on pedestrian crossings, it’s all the same to the Spanish driver.

  “Good lord!” said Joe as we reached the bank. “Where am I supposed to park? Look at these cars just dumped all over the place. There are plenty of No Parking signs, but everybody seems to be ignoring them. Oh well, I’ll do the same.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to get a parking ticket.”

  “Stop panicking, you know everybody does this in Spain. Anyway, we won’t be long.” Joe switched off the engine and we walked across the street and round the corner to the bank.

  Ten minutes later we emerged and stood in the bank’s porch to use the ATM. Traffic hurried past, the Spanish drivers liberally leaning on their horns. A car alarm was wailing.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was our car alarm,” Joe commented.

  “No, it can’t be, it’s getting louder. It does sound very much like ours though.”

  As I spoke, the alarm’s wail dramatically increased in volume, and simultaneously we looked up the street to identify the source. A big, blue, flatbe
d truck rounded the corner. Loaded on the back of it was our car, the alarm howling.

  Joe and I stood side by side, shocked, watching it sail past in the stream of traffic.

  “Hey!” shouted Joe, waving his arms, and galloped after it in hot pursuit. “That’s our car! Stop! Stop! That’s our car!”

  He caught up with the truck at the next traffic lights, red-faced and panting, and knocked on the startled driver’s window.

  “My car!” he gasped. “You’ve got my car!”

  The driver rolled his eyes and indicated that he’d make a U-turn and park in the lay-by on the other side of the street. Half an hour later, we’d signed numerous forms and listened to a lecture on ‘correct parking’ delivered by the policeman. We knew the ‘but everybody does it’ argument would not wash, so we listened politely. Our wallet ended up considerably lighter, but at least we’d reclaimed our car. We raided the ATM yet again to replenish our funds and set off for home.

  During the drive back, that distant look returned to Joe’s eyes. That look that told me all was not well, that something was playing on his mind. What was troubling him? Surely not the silly parking incident? Instinctively I knew it was something much bigger.

  But the scene that greeted us outside our house in the village succeeded in wiping all nagging worries from my mind and set us both laughing.

  When we’d left that morning, our garage door was a pleasing shade of dark blue. As we’d driven away, I’d noticed that the builders of The Monstrosity had carelessly left a bag of white plaster next to our garage, but I didn’t comment. While we were away, the Ufarte children had discovered the bag, and the urge to throw powder at the door and each other was evidently irresistible. Our garage door was now mostly white, and so were the kids.

  Our laughter alerted Mama Ufarte, who appeared on the scene, Snap-On on her hip, Fifi at her heels. Fifi growled and headed for Joe’s ankles, but Scrap was too fast for her. He hurled the handful of powder he’d been clutching at Fifi. It was a direct hit and instantly turned Fifi into a skewbald. She forgot about Joe’s ankles as she shook herself in a flurry of dust.

  “¡Madre mía! ¿Qué pasa?” said Mama Ufarte. Then to us, “I am very sorry!”

  “Oh, we know what kids are like,” said Joe. “I’ll get the hosepipe out and wash the door and the street down. No harm done.”

  “Children! You are not coming back into the house like that! Tío Joe will wash you down, then it’s bathtime and clean clothes for all of you. What will your father say when he hears about this?”

  An empty threat, and we all knew it. Papa Ufarte would laugh at his children’s antics, or join in. I’d never once heard him raise his voice or be angry with the children.

  I had things to do, so I went into the house while Joe got the hosepipe out. Luckily it was a very warm day and I could hear the kids shrieking and laughing, and Fifi yapping as Joe hosed them all down. Then I heard Papa Ufarte returning home and joining in the fun.

  Joe came back into the house grinning. He was soaking wet with white trails of gluey plaster all over his clothes.

  “I’m going to take a shower and change,” he said. “Papa Ufarte has invited me in for a drink with him to apologise for the kids’ behaviour.”

  “Did you tell him there was nothing to apologise for? It was just a bit messy, no damage done.”

  “Yes, I did, but he insisted. I’ll just go over for a couple to be polite. It’s too early in the day for a drinking session.”

  Joe showered and reappeared in a change of clothes. He has appalling taste in clothes and had chosen a dreadful psychedelic shirt with orange and red swirls that were painful to the eyes.

  “Is there a volume control on that shirt?” I asked.

  “I like this shirt,” Joe protested as he walked out of the door. “Anyway, I’m only going next door. I’ll see you in half an hour or so.”

  Four hours later, I heard a scratching at the front door. I opened it, and Joe fell in. I looked from the crumpled heap at my feet to the twins who were standing on the doorstep behind him.

  “We’ve just brought Tío Joe home,” said Twin #1.

  “Mama says Papa and Tío Joe have had quite enough,” said Twin #2 primly.

  “Jusht had a couple of drinksh,” said Joe, laughing, trying to get back on his feet.

  With difficulty, I pulled him up and leaned him against the wall. It was a wasted effort. In slow motion, he slithered down the wall and ended up in a giggling pile on the floor again. I gave up.

  “Shall we help you get Tío Joe up?” asked Twin #2.

  “Thank you, but I’ll manage,” I said. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

  “Okay,” chorused the twins, and pattered off back down the street.

  “I think you’d better take a nap,” I said to the untidy heap on the floor.

  Manipulating him into a standing position was impossible, so I just let him crawl, herding him in the direction of the bedroom with an occasional tap on the rump with a rolled-up newspaper. I helped him disrobe and left him snoring on the bed.

  Next morning, Joe woke up with a throbbing head and very little memory of the night before. Luckily he didn’t remember the dreadful shirt either. I’d whisked that away and hidden it, promising myself, and the world, it would never again see the light of day.

  Sylvia and Gravy, the two village cats who’d adopted us, were always in our garden, snoozing or waiting hopefully to be fed. They were both tabbies, like their mother, with gorgeous stripes and that characteristic ‘M’ on their foreheads, just like their wildcat ancestors.

  There were numerous cats in the village, some more noticeable than others. The ruling tomcat of the moment was an enormous battered bruiser of Siamese descent. His head was almost as wide as his body and his ears were flat and tattered. I don’t find any animals ugly, but this cat certainly wouldn’t win any beauty contests.

  The lady cats of the village evidently didn’t agree, and found him irresistible, and in the space of a few years many new kittens were born with varying degrees of Siamese markings.

  One particular cat that we’d often noticed was very Siamese in appearance, with chocolate ears, paws, and tail and a creamy body. She had the most remarkable blue eyes, as stunning as the Spanish summer sky.

  We believed this blue-eyed cat had been domesticated in the past, then abandoned, because she was very affectionate and sweet-natured, far more confident than the other village cats. However, even without an owner she seemed to survive well enough, scrounging fish scraps from the fish van, hunting sparrows and lizards, and raiding whenever the opportunity arose.

  One morning, the 13th of April to be precise, Joe stepped out into the street and discovered something that was to completely change the pattern of our lives.

  23 Three New Faces

  Marinated Spanish Beef Kebabs

  It was the strange throaty meow of a cat that had drawn Joe outside into the street. Curious, he looked around, but didn’t need to look far.

  “Vicky! VICKY! Come out here! Quickly, and bring the camera!”

  I dropped everything, grabbed the camera, and shot outside. Joe pointed to the ground. There, just beside our doorstep, was the blue-eyed cat nosing something resembling a skinned pink mouse. I crouched down for a closer look. It was a tiny newborn kitten.

  Born in the street

  “Oh my...” I breathed. This kitten was brand new, just minutes old. “Why here?” I whispered. “Why on the street? Why hasn’t she made a nest somewhere and hidden it?”

  “I have no idea,” said Joe. “See if you can find a box, she can’t stay here on the street with it. The village dogs will attack it.”

  I ran back inside and searched frantically for a suitable box, but all I could find was a square blue bowl we sometimes used for mixing small quantities of cement. I grabbed some straw from the chicken coop and lined the bowl. All this only took a few minutes, but by the time I got outside again, a second kitten had been born in the street.


  “She just kind of sighed,” said Joe in wonder. “And another one popped out.”

  “I found this bowl,” I said. “It should do the job.”

  “Do you think Mum will let me pick up her babies?” asked Joe. “I’ll have to put them in the box.”

  “We’ve got no choice, you’ll have to try. We can’t leave them here.”

  Very carefully, Joe picked up the first kitten and placed it on the bed of straw. MumCat didn’t seem to object. He picked up the second and laid it with the first. Both kittens began to mewl and squirm and MumCat didn’t hesitate. She hopped straight into the bowl with them and gave her babies a good wash.

  “Now what?” Joe asked, giving his crotch a good scratch. “Where are we going to put them?”

  “Can’t we...”

  “No. You know we can’t keep them. What if we want to pop over to Australia again, or somewhere else? Who’d look after them?”

  “But if we...”

  “We can’t keep them. We already feed Sylvia and Gravy, and you want to take on three more cats? No.”

  “Well, what shall we do?” I was disappointed, but I knew Joe was right.

  “I don’t know.” Joe shook his head. “First we need to find somewhere quiet where the dogs can’t get them. When we’ve done that, we can decide what to do.”

  I wracked my brain trying to think of a quiet, safe place where MumCat and her babies would be undisturbed.

  “How about the cemetery? It’s got walls all round, and a gate you have to untie. They'd be fine in there.”

  Joe thought about it. “The cemetery? Good idea. You’re right, dogs can’t get in and the village kids don’t play in there. Okay, we’d better get them moved then.”

  He leaned down and carefully lifted the bowl. I expected MumCat to leap out, but she didn’t. As slow as a funeral march, Joe carried the family up the street to the cemetery gates. By the time we reached the cemetery and I had untied the frayed rope holding the gates together, MumCat had given birth to a third kitten, much smaller than the first two.