Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  “I see the Mayor’s new house is finished,” said Joe, changing the subject. “How on earth did he get permission to build it out there on rural land?”

  “Didn’t I tell you he would build a fine new house?” said Paco. “Pah! He is the Mayor, so he can do whatever he likes. On the plans they will call the building an almacén.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

  “An almacén? An agricultural warehouse? But it looks nothing like a warehouse, it’s more like a palace!” Joe was indignant.

  “¡Claro!” said Paco, leaning forward. “But that’s the way they do it out here in Andalucía. They call it an almacén even if it has a swimming pool, gardens and luxury bathrooms.”

  “I see The Monstrosity is almost finished, too,” I said. “Twenty-seven apartments! The apartments must be very small inside. And I still don’t understand why they painted the whole thing bright yellow. Who is going to buy a poky little yellow apartment in El Hoyo?”

  “The foreman told me that most of them are already sold,” said Carmen-Bethina, her double chins wobbling.

  The conversation moved on to the usual topic, football. World Cup fever had gripped Spain in earnest and nobody escaped. Spain was heaving sighs of relief having won the next two matches against Honduras and Chile. The humiliating defeat by Switzerland was a distant, unpleasant memory, not to be dwelled upon.

  The first time I heard the buzz of vuvuzelas, I thought there was something seriously wrong with our TV. It was one of the first games of the World Cup, and the televised stadium vibrated with the hum of thousands of these ‘musical’ instruments, drowning out the commentary. Joe pointed out the vuvuzelas and explained that they were traditional in South Africa. Originally they were made of kudu horn and were designed to call Africans back to their villages. But now they were being mass produced in their millions. Two feet long and made of plastic, these horns emitted a single note. Every spectator in the South African stadium seemed to have one glued to his lips, and the rest of the world either accepted it, or switched off their television sets.

  Complaints flooded in from the viewing public calling for vuvuzelas to be banned, but Sepp Blatter, the president of FIFA, had the last word. ‘We should not try to Europeanise an African World Cup ... that is what African and South African football is all about — noise, excitement, dancing, shouting and enjoyment’. So vuvuzelas became part of the World Cup experience, whether we liked it or not. Vuvuzelas sold in their millions all around the world.

  Vuvuzelas had even come to El Hoyo. Every child had one and many adults, too. Little Paco had one, all the Ufarte kids had one, and Geronimo now had one permanently sticking out of his pocket alongside his bottle of San Miguel.

  One Saturday, we heard two little taps on our front door. Joe opened it to reveal the Ufarte twins on the doorstep.

  “Papa said to give you and Tía Veeky these for tomorrow,” said Twin #2.

  “Papa said that the way England is playing football, they need all the help they can get,” said Twin #1.

  They pressed two vuvuzelas into Joe’s reluctant hands and skipped away, giggling behind their hands, leaving Joe squirming at the reminder of England’s lamentable performance to date.

  Of course we supported England first, followed by Spain, but our team seemed to lack its customary sparkle, and was performing badly. Of the three matches already played, they’d lost one and drawn two, all against lesser teams. An embarrassing statistic bearing in mind that England had invented the game.

  “Shall we take them with us when we go to Judith’s and Mother’s tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes, why not? It’ll give them a laugh,” said Joe. “I don’t expect they’ll have seen a vuvuzela before except on TV.”

  We’d been invited to watch England playing Germany at Judith’s house the following day. It was a crucial match - if England lost, they were out of the World Cup. And to lose against sporting archenemy Germany would be unthinkable, the epitome of humiliation.

  “We Brits must stick together, don’t you know,” Judith had said on the phone. “Come on over and we’ll have a jolly old drinky-poo and watch Old Blighty trounce the Jerries.”

  Germany was also on my mind for a reason far removed from football. Sandra Marshall had contacted me with news that should have delighted me, but in fact threw me into a deep depression.

  To help find homes for them all in Germany, Sandra had asked me for photos of the kittens and MumCat for her blog. In fact, I’d gone one better than that and put together a little movie of them. The response was excellent, and Sandra was confident that homes would soon be offered.

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” I said dully to Joe. “They’ll all go off to Germany next month to their new homes.”

  Sometimes Joe has a disconcerting knack of seeing right through me. He stared into my face for a few seconds, before speaking.

  “It’s okay, we’ll keep Chox. He can stay with us. He doesn’t have to go to Germany.”

  I threw my arms around him. “Are you sure?” I said. “I thought we’d agreed we couldn’t keep any.”

  “I know. It’s probably not very sensible, but Chox is rather special.”

  “You’re staying with us,” I whispered into Chox’s soft ear later. “You don’t have to wear lederhosen and learn to speak German after all.”

  Chox purred, and I took that to be a signal that he approved.

  “Come in! Come in!” roared Judith from within. “Just push the door open, it’s not locked. Tyson! Invisible! Fluffy! Half! Leave poor Joe and Vicky alone, they’ve just come to watch England clobber the Jerries.”

  Obediently, we pushed the front door open and waded through the dogs who whipped us with their tails and sniffed us with huge interest, probably picking up the scent of our kittens.

  Tyson, Invisible, Fluffy and Half led the way to the living room. I smelled the familiar scent of Chanel No.5. Adjusting our eyes to the gloom, we were met by Judith, who planted kisses on our cheeks. Mother was draped on the chaise longue and didn’t arise, but smiled welcomingly.

  “Mother won’t get up,” said Judith. “She gets a bit stiff, don’t you know. She’ll loosen up a bit later after a couple of brandies and one of her herbal cigarettes. Won’t you, Mother? Not bad for ninety-one, is she?”

  Mother always looked glamourous, but today she looked quite magnificent. She wore a full-length silky blue dress, red shoes and matching belt, and a white lacy shawl thrown jauntily around her shoulders.

  “Red, white and blue!” said Judith, catching my look. “Got to be patriotic, haven’t we, m’dears? Today we’re going to teach those bloody Jerries a lesson they won’t forget. Ah, and are those eggs for us? Top hole! So fresh and tasty, aren’t they? I see you’ve brought your own vulva-azaleas, too. Jolly good! We’ve got ours.”

  And they had. Mother’s manicured hands were curled around hers like birds’ claws at roost and Judith’s was propped up against her chair, ready and waiting.

  We sat down and glasses of local ruby wine were thrust into our hands. The dogs settled down, noses on paws, eyes watchful. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I discerned all the cat shapes decorating shelves, antique chairs and the grand piano like ornaments. Judith wanted to know all our news from the village.

  “I hear the Mayor’s house is finished?” she said. Judith’s village shared the Mayor with ours. “I hear he’s going to have a house-warming party. Typical bloody Spanish, any excuse for a get-together. And how are you coping living next to those Ufartes? And what about those kitties of yours? I’d take ’em like a shot if I could, but we’re rather overloaded with animals, don’t you know.”

  She waved her hand to indicate the menagerie, and the dogs lifted their heads. I could see five dogs, but I knew there were another six somewhere in the house. Judith had stuck to her resolve never to have ten dogs, so they still had nine and a Half and one that was Invisible. Half wagged his tail when I looked at him.

  “Oh, the ki
ttens are growing fast,” I said, “and they’ve all got homes waiting. But we’re keeping Choccy-Paws.”

  “Oh, excellent!” said Judith. “Jolly good show! That little cat would melt the heart of a bloody snowman. Awfully pleased to hear you’re keeping him after all! That’s jolly good news, isn’t it, Mother?”

  But Mother was thoughtfully drawing on her herbal cigarette and seemed to be in a world of her own.

  “It’s nearly five o’clock,” said Joe, looking at the polished pendulum clock on the mantelpiece. “The match is about to start.”

  28 Red and Yellow

  Honey Barbecued Chicken

  Judith leaned forward and switched the TV on, and instantly the room was filled with the buzz of South African vuvuzelas. All the dogs sprang up and started barking.

  “Half! Tyson! Sinbad! Fluffy! Pipe down!”

  But the dogs only barked harder. Cats lifted their heads in alarm, their ears pricked up, alert.

  “Mother! The vulva-azaleas!”

  Mother nodded and lifted her vuvuzela to her painted lips. In unison, Judith and her mother blew. The dogs exited the room en masse, almost falling over each other in their rush to evacuate. Mother cackled and took another deep draw of her herbal cigarette.

  “Always works!” said Judith, refilling all our glasses and settling down again. “The dogs hate it. That’s what we do when they start being a bloody nuisance. They’ll go and lie down in the kitchen for a while and give us some peace now. Jolly good invention, those vulva-azalea thingies.”

  The red wine and the company was a pleasure, but the game was not. By half-time, England’s lack-lustre performance had brought the score to Germany 2 - England 0.

  “It’s not going frightfully well, is it, m’dears?” said Judith emptying her glass of wine down her throat. “Our boys really need to buck their ideas up if they want to win this match.”

  We all agreed and dissected the match, finding it wanting. If England lost this game, they’d be out of the World Cup without even reaching the quarter finals. Unthinkable. Only Mother didn’t comment. She was on her third brandy and lying back on the chaise longue, gazing at the ceiling, humming quietly to herself.

  We had a good laugh about Paul the Psychic Octopus. Paul lived in a German Sealife Centre and had become an oracle. His keepers had placed two tasty mussels in separate boxes marked with opposing teams’ flags. The box Paul first selected represented the team expected to win. So far, Paul had succeeded every time in choosing the winning flag and had correctly predicted all Germany’s results. He’d also predicted Germany to win this game against England.

  Paul the Psychic Octopus predicting that ‘Chickens’ would become a bestseller (from Paul Hamilton)

  “Good Lord!” said Judith. “What does a bloody calamari know about soccer?” We all agreed.

  “Actually,” said Joe. “It’s next month I’m really looking forward to. The 11th, to be precise.”

  “Why’s that, dear boy?”

  “Lots of reasons. It’s my birthday, and it’s also the British Grand Prix, Moto GP and the World Cup final. All in one day. I’m going to watch all of them and Vicky’s promised to serve me tapas, naked.”

  “I most certainly did not!”

  Judith guffawed and Mother started cackling, but luckily the second half of the match started, drawing the attention away from me.

  I’ll make no more observations on the sorry match, except to admit that Paul the Psychic Octopus was right yet again and the final score was Germany 4 - England 1. England was out of the World Cup.

  Joe and I were in the kitchen. I was busy scraping away at two scratch-cards that Carrefour had given us on our last shopping trip while Joe was racking the eggs he’d just collected.

  “Joe? Have a look at this! I think this means that if Spain win the World Cup, we win 130 euros!”

  Joe snorted. “Huh! There’ll be a catch to it. Read the small print.”

  I put the scratch-card away. Spain had to win the final before we could even think about claiming the prize. Actually, they were in with a very good chance. Spain had beaten both Portugal and Paraguay and were playing Germany next.

  Spain and El Hoyo were crazy with World Cup fever. Nobody talked about anything else, and even Carmen-Bethina admitted praying in church for a Spanish victory. Paul the Psychic Octopus had predicted a German defeat which led to death threats from enraged German fans, calling upon Paul to be cooked and eaten. Paul had captured the world’s imagination and became a celebrity in his own right.

  Somebody knocked on our door and Joe put the eggs down.

  “That’ll be the Ufarte kids,” he said. “I promised the boys I’d come and watch them play football in the square.” He chuckled, “I think I’ll give them a bit of a fright.”

  He tiptoed to the front door, grabbing a vuvuzela on the way. Then he crouched down. When the knock was repeated, he wrenched it open, lurched forward and blew lustily on the vuvuzela at child height. Except it wasn’t the Ufarte boys, it was the Mayor.

  In an effort to blow as hard as he could, Joe had squeezed his eyes tight shut, so it was a bit of a shock when he finally opened them.

  “Buenos días, señor Twead,” said the Mayor. “How are you? And how is your lovely wife, señora Beaky?” The Mayor was particularly nasal in his speech, and his Andalucían accent was thick, transforming his ‘v’s’ to ‘b’s’. I had come to terms with being called ‘Beaky’.

  Joe blinked, recovered himself and lowered the vuvuzela. “Er, buenos días, we’re both fine, thank you. I’m sorry about the, er...” He switched the vuvuzela to his left hand and extended his right hand to shake. “Please come in, Pancho, Vicky will be pleased to see you.”

  That was a blatant lie. I never felt comfortable with our Mayor. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I always felt Pancho was undressing me with his eyes.

  “Today I will not enter,” said Pancho. “Today I am visiting everybody to invite them to a party to celebrate my new house. I would be pleased if you and señora Beaky would attend. It will be in two weeks.”

  “Oh, thank you, we’d love to come...”

  “Before I go, my wife asked me if you are still keeping chickens. She loves fresh eggs, you know. They are always so tasty.”

  “Yes, we have six chickens, but they’re rather elderly. They don’t lay much any more...”

  “I know my wife would really appreciate a few fresh eggs.” Pancho persisted. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  Joe held up a hand, indicating the Mayor should wait, and darted back into the kitchen to put six eggs in a paper bag.

  “Very kind,” said the Mayor, accepting the bag. “I will see you at my party.” He left and headed toward the Ufartes.

  “That’ll be nice,” I said to Joe as I searched through the fridge for something for supper as omelette was clearly no longer an option. “I’ll be interested to see the Mayor’s new house.”

  “Huh,” grunted Joe. “At least we’ll see where our taxes are going.”

  That evening, Joe and I sat on our roof terrace with a drink. Evenings are beautiful in El Hoyo. When the sun sinks, it paints the sky all shades of pastel pink and the distant ocean glimmers with rosy lights. The pink light bathes the mountain slopes lending mystery to the caves and contours. Squads of swallows wheel overhead, snatching insects on the fly.

  MumCat had followed us up the outside staircase and all three kittens had joined us too. They were now big enough to manage the steps, and our roof terrace had become yet another playground for them. They were always more active in the evening, having snoozed most of the day.

  As always, Chox shadowed us, while the two girls played together in another corner, pouncing on invisible mice and each other. I remember that particular evening because of Smut, the feisty, adventurous kitten who avoided handling at all costs.

  Smut and Beauty played until they began to slow down, exhausted from the rough and tumble with each other. I picked Smut up and smoothed her sil
ky fur, tinged pink by the sunset. I sat down with her and continued stroking, and to my delight, she began to purr. I experimented and lifted my hands away, allowing her to jump off my lap if she wanted, but she didn’t. Instead, she nuzzled me, asking for more strokes. Smut was learning to enjoy human company.

  Beauty followed suit a few days later and became very insistent. She usually chose Joe’s lap, and she was a wriggler. If he stopped stroking her, she’d butt him with her hard little head and make puddings with her paws, kneading his legs and purring like a pneumatic drill.

  Smut

  As the sun sank lower in the darkening sky, we heard footsteps below us on the street. I put Smut down and leaned over the balcony wall to see whose feet were responsible. It was Nicolas, The Monstrosity’s crane operator.

  “Hello, Nicolas, it’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” I called down.

  Nicolas looked up, recognising me. “Hello! I was just taking a wander around the village. Our work on the apartments is almost finished. We are dismantling the crane tomorrow. In a few weeks we will all be gone.”

  “I hear most of the apartments are already sold?”

  “Yes, that is true. Even in this Credit Crisis, people want to live in El Hoyo. I have the keys, and the electricity is connected. Would you like to see inside one or two?”

  “We’d love to! We’re coming down.” I turned to Joe. “Come on, I’m dying to see how horrible those apartments are inside!”

  We ran down the stairs and met Nicolas in the street and together we walked over to The Monstrosity. Nicolas sorted through the massive bunch of keys on his ring, selected one and opened a front door, reaching in to switch on the light. Then he stepped back, allowing us to enter first.

  The apartment was not poky and cramped as I had expected. On the contrary, it was spacious and well-designed with tasteful, modern fittings. The bedrooms were large and airy and the bathroom much bigger than our own. It even had a balcony looking out over the village and mountains.

  “Oh!” I said to Joe. “It’s really nice! I thought it was going to be really small and cramped.”