Discussing it later, Joe and I decided that perhaps it was unfair to call the apartment block ‘The Monstrosity’ anymore. And perhaps it was a good thing that more people moved into El Hoyo. After all, the inhabitants are the life-blood of a village and ensure its survival. Yes, the yellow colour was decidedly awful, but we knew from experience that all colours fade under the Spanish sun.
Joe’s birthday, July the 11th, arrived. It was a hot and sticky day, full of promise. Hurrah! Spain’s Jorge Lorenzo won the Moto GP championship, and Britain’s Lewis Hamilton came second in the British Formula 1 Grand Prix. Unfortunately, Spain’s Alonso wasn’t placed. But now the World Cup final approached, Spain versus Holland...
Back in his German Sealife Centre, Paul the Psychic Octopus had been consulted and predicted that Spain would beat Holland. Paul was now much in demand. A businessman from Galicia, Spain, raised €30,000 as a ‘transfer fee’ to have Paul shipped over to Spain. The Germans refused, even though the Spanish prime minister promised to supply bodyguards to prevent Paul from being assassinated or eaten.
We’d noticed that the villagers had very little interest in Wimbledon, despite the winner that year being Nadal, a Spaniard. But soccer was a very different matter. All day, the excitement mounted. Crates of beer were chilled, tapas prepared, Spanish flags hoisted and by evening, every child and male was wearing a red David Villa shirt.
Marcia’s grown up sons climbed onto Marcia’s roof with wide paint brushes. Back in the spring they’d sprayed her roof with red waterproof foam, and now they used white paint to write ¡CAMPEONES! (champions) in huge letters big enough to be read by aeroplanes flying over. I only hoped the statement wasn’t premature.
Red and yellow bunting fluttered in the breeze, strung between the four trees in the square. More decorated the entrance to the village, and Spanish flags flapped lazily from hastily erected flagpoles on chimneys. Cars were parked around the square, flags tied to aerials.
Marcia and Uncle Felix sat side by side outside the shop. Marcia never dressed in any colour except black, but even she had made an effort. Uncle Felix had removed his flat cloth cap, and he and Marcia sported matching straw boaters decorated with red and yellow hatbands. Every few minutes, poor Marcia had to get up and hobble painfully up the steps into her shop to serve a steady stream of customers with beer, sweets and potato crisps.
Some prepared to watch the match in their own homes, others, including the Ufartes, joined with friends and relations and set up their televisions in the street. Once again the three-piece suite and extra chairs were hauled out, drinks poured and tables set.
Lola Ufarte was looking extremely patriotic, although I don’t believe Spain, or football, was the first thought on any red-blooded male’s mind who set eyes upon her. She was wearing a silky mini-dress of red and yellow stripes that clung to every curve and bodily undulation. The dress left little to the imagination, particularly when she leaned over the table she was setting out. Her long tanned legs gleamed as she walked, her hips swaying just a little more than most girls’ hips do. Red and yellow bracelets jangled at her wrists, and I noticed her fingernails and toenails were painted with tiny Spanish flags.
“Lola Ufarte is looking the part,” observed Joe. “Nice dress.”
“Behave yourself,” I said. “You’re probably three times her age.”
“I know, I was just saying...”
I pretended to trip and gave him a sharp enough kick on the ankle to make him hop.
“Ouch! That hurt!”
“Sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t.
Granny Ufarte sat in her chair, fast asleep, oblivious to the frenzy around her. Her sleeping fingers rested on a vuvuzela on her lap. The Ufarte baby’s stroller was parked beside her, whirring red and yellow windmills attached to the handlebars. Fifi’s hair had been bunched together out of her eyes and tied with red and yellow ribbons that fluttered as she scampered up and down the street, yapping.
“Tío Joe! Tía Veeky! Look at us!” yelled the twins as they raced past us. “Tía Lola has painted our faces!”
They stopped just long enough for us to admire their red and yellow striped faces, then pelted off again down the street.
People shouted to each other, children screamed and blew their vuvuzelas, dogs barked and weaved in and out of the furniture while the village cats chose high places to sit and watch the activity, wide-eyed.
Geronimo’s face was white with anticipation, his fingers gripping the neck of his beer bottle. Geronimo was ready. El Hoyo was ready. Spain was ready. The starting whistle shrilled on countless TV’s. The 2010 World Cup Final had begun.
29 An Accident and a Party
Orce Chicken and Chorizo
Joe and I could have joined the Ufartes outside, or sat with Paco, Carmen-Bethina, Sofía, Little Paco and their many relatives next door. But Joe wanted us to watch it in our own home, and, as it was his birthday, I concurred. We’d thrown open our windows and doors so all the noises of the village poured in anyway.
English referee Howard Webb officiated and the ball in play was gold-coloured to echo the gold trophy. The Spanish Royal family, the world, 15.6 million Spanish viewers, plus Joe and I, were transfixed. The match had started.
An exciting game, although not without controversy. A record fourteen yellow warning cards were issued for various offences, each one heralded with roars from El Hoyo. Advice and abuse were hurled at the Spanish players and English referee, and the village groaned with one voice when Holland nearly scored. Half-time came and the score sheet was still blank.
In the second half, the ball was headed past the Dutch goalkeeper. A Spanish goal seemed undeniable. El Hoyo roared. Children screamed ‘Goal!’ and stampeded in a pack down the street, deaf to the groans from disappointed supporters who’d then seen the goal disallowed.
Full-time, and the score remained at 0-0. Extra-time.... Then finally - ‘GOOOOOOAL!!!!’ Spain had won the 2010 World Cup! Spain were the soccer champions of the world!
The noise was deafening. Both Granny Ufarte and the baby woke up. The baby stared with astonishment and Granny Ufarte’s face split into a happy grin as she blew on her vuvuzela. Papa Ufarte leaped onto the table, feet oblivious to the plates of tapas, fists clenched, roaring, “GOAL!” at the sky. Paco stood on his doorstep with a bundle of fireworks, releasing giant rockets that ripped into the heavens.
Grown men wept, women clung to each other and people blew their vuvuzelas and danced in the street. Children of all ages went berserk and ran round the village shouting, “¡Campeones! ¡Campeones!”. Entire families piled into their cars and drove round and round the square, blasting their horns, cheering and leaning out of the windows to wave their Spanish flags. Dogs barked and cats fled into derelict buildings to hide. Geronimo dashed away his tears of joy to let off more fireworks that whizzed into the night. The valley was an explosion of elation.
At three o’clock in the morning, Joe and I finally dropped into bed.
“Next time we go shopping, we must remember to take those scratch-cards with us,” I said, but Joe was already asleep.
Did Joe enjoy his birthday? YES! Did he enjoy the F1, the Moto GP and the World Cup final? Oh, yes! Did I serve him tapas? Yes, I did. Oh, and I know what you’re thinking, did I serve him naked? No way, José...
The next day, Spain carried on partying and revelling in their victory. Paco told us that in a neighbouring village the night before, everyone jumped into the public swimming pool, fully clothed, including three policemen in full uniform.
I don’t know if it was the Siamese strain in our kittens’ genes, or just that they were unusual, but all three possessed a fascination for water. Cats I’ve owned in the past avoided water at all costs, except for the odd opportunistic fishing session in a goldfish pond.
These three kittens made watering the garden almost as tricky as sweeping the patio. The first hurdle was unwinding the hose from its reel, the kittens pouncing on every coil as it hit the ground. Next, I
would attempt to drag the hose to its watering destination. All three kittens gave chase, grabbing the moving hose with their front paws, rolling onto their backs to juggle with it and try to sink their needle-sharp teeth into it as it writhed.
“Let go!” I said, tugging at the hose. But they refused and I ended up dragging all three little pests along on their backs.
And it didn’t stop there. The next game was ‘Chicken’. As I aimed my water spurt at the flower beds, all three little horrors crowded to where the water was directed, swiping at the rebounding droplets. I couldn’t bear getting them wet so I was forced to aim the water at anything except where I really wanted it to fall. Eventually, they’d tire of the game, and, soggy and exhausted, they scampered to MumCat for a wash and feed. Hence a job that should have taken fifteen minutes took me twice as long every single day.
There was another time that one of the kittens fell foul of water in an unfortunate accident.
I was in the kitchen when I heard a kitten crying. I thought the noise was coming from the garden, that one of the kittens had got stuck somewhere, but I knew that Joe was outside feeding the chickens and that he would sort it out. But the howling persisted, so I put my potato peeler down and went to investigate. The noise wasn’t coming from the garden at all, it was coming from the bathroom. It was Smut, of course, Little Miss Adventure. She wasn’t supposed to be in the bathroom but had somehow managed to sneak in. She was very tiny at the time but already insatiably curious.
I pushed the door open, and saw the problem right away. Smut had fallen into the toilet. She was standing on her hind paws, waist deep in water, scrabbling in an effort to get out. Being so tiny, she wasn’t able to pull herself out. I groaned and reached into the bowl to extract the distressed kitten.
Smut was unharmed, but scared and soaked. Wet cats are not easy to hold, and Smut was not cooperative. She twisted free and shot away, leaving a wet trail across the tiles. Through the house she dashed until finally she hid under our bed. I knelt down and managed to grab her.
“Oh no you don’t, young lady,” I said as she tried to escape again.
I rubbed her with a towel until her fur looked reasonably dry and clean, then I delivered her to MumCat. MumCat understood the situation immediately and pinned her daughter down with one paw and gave her a thorough washing.
I’d just about finished cleaning the kitten, the house and myself, when Joe came in from the garden.
“Have you only peeled one potato?” he asked. “I’ve been outside for ages! You must be the slowest potato peeler in the world.”
I took a deep breath, then put him straight. Firmly.
The misadventure did not cure Smut of her curiosity, nor did it cure her fascination for water. However, Joe and I made sure that in future, the bathroom door was always kept closed.
Beauty and Chox asleep on the keyboard
But the kittens were not the only ones to be attracted to water. It surprised me how much the chickens enjoyed it.
Of course they always had clean, fresh water to drink in their coop, but their reaction to the hosepipe was notable. As soon as they saw me unravelling it, they made excited little cluckings, and crowded the fence. They paraded up and down against the chicken-wire, pushing, jostling and treading on each other in an effort to be first in the queue. I’d train the water jet into their coop (if the kittens let me) to wash down the walls a little. Immediately, the chickens moved in and drank from the muddy puddles that formed. Then they’d paddle and scratch the ground, turning the soil into slush. Finally, they’d systematically work along the fence, using their long thin tongues to lick up the diamond drops of water caught in the chicken wire.
It was midnight and the live band was in full voice. On the stage erected in the garden, the lead singer swayed her hips and crooned into the microphone. Her backers, dressed in tight leather trousers and flounced red silk shirts, strummed their guitars and smouldered. Villagers nibbled on the tapas and stood chatting in clusters. Elderly couples danced together, while children ran in and out of the huge open entry gates. Fairy lights bedecked the sculpted trees and lit up the ornamental fountain.
It was the Mayor’s house-warming party, and I had decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I was going to ask Joe outright what was bothering him. It may not have been the best choice of time or place, but I had to know. Too often I had seen his eyes darken and watched him disappear into himself, but I couldn’t fathom what was troubling him.
I’d tried hard to puzzle it out. Was it money? Was it homesickness for England? Was it disenchantment with Spain? I honestly didn’t know, but I resolved to find out that night.
I had sent Joe to get drinks and was deep in thought when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Warm breath stirred my hair and I turned my head.
“Beaky, you are looking wonderful tonight...”
“Oh! Pancho! I didn’t see you there.” I backed away slightly, uncomfortable with the Mayor’s proximity. He was not discouraged and caught my hand, brushing it with his lips.
“And where is Joe tonight? Surely he has not allowed his beautiful wife to come out alone?”
“No, he’s just...”
“I shall look after you, Beaky. It will be my pleasure. Come, you must dance with me. I will show you why we Spanish men are famous for our dancing.”
“But Joe is...”
Pancho ignored my protests and steered me onto the dance floor, his hands never leaving the small of my back. The band was finishing an energetic, pulsating number and the guests on the dance-floor paused, out of breath, applauding the musicians. Pancho waved to the stage and made a hand-signal to the band: slow the music down. They nodded and struck up again, this time with a moody, romantic piece. Many of the dancers drifted away, leaving Pancho and myself highly visible.
“Beaky,” Pancho breathed into my ear. “I do not think Joe knows how lucky he is to have a woman like you.” He clasped me tightly to him, the hand on my back splayed, fingers massaging. “A vibrant woman like you deserves more attention... If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me at the Town Hall.”
My eyes bored through the crowd, desperately searching for Joe. Pancho was pressing me uncomfortably close to his body and I was forced to concentrate hard in order to avoid stepping on his toes.
“Beaky, I noticed you from the moment you moved into El Hoyo. Such eyes! The colour of the sea...”
This was getting ridiculous. “Pancho, I’m sorry but...”
“Say no more, my little Beaky! I know you are a woman of honour. But all women have needs, just as we men do, and I...”
“Oh! There’s Joe!” I tore myself from Pancho’s hot embrace. “Thank you for the dance, Pancho, but I must go.” I fled, leaving Pancho standing, bewildered and disappointed.
“Where did you get to?” I snapped when I reached Joe.
“What do you mean? You asked me to get you a drink! What’s the matter? Did you get lonely?”
“No! I... Oh, never mind...” I took the glass from Joe and sipped it gratefully. “Joe, can we find somewhere quiet? I want to talk to you.”
Joe looked surprised but nodded and led the way to the edge of the garden, near a clump of trees, a good distance away from the noise and bustle of the party. We were about to settle on a bench when we both heard a man’s whisper wafting from the shadows.
“You are a such a beautiful thing, like a lovely butterfly that dances on the flowers... All day I can think of nothing but you...”
Joe and I stared at each other and I stifled a giggle.
“Every night when I lay my head on my pillow to sleep, I think only about you...”
Joe mouthed a name, “Nicolas, the crane operator,” and I nodded. Yes, I agreed, it certainly sounded like him.
“When I see you across a crowded room, my two knees go weak. Oh, come to me, my beautiful little butterfly...”
There was a rustle, then a seductive giggle which Joe and I also recognised. We looked at each other, amused, then mo
uthed simultaneously, “Lola Ufarte!”
We tiptoed away from the lovers and found an alternative quiet spot, a bench near a bush of scented jasmine. The heavens were a dome of dark velvet, spangled with a million stars like the flowers of the jasmine bush. The music thumped away in the distance, vibrating through the warm air. If only I could just lean my head back and enjoy the night, but I’d brought Joe here for a purpose. I turned to face him.
“Well, what do you want to talk about?” he asked, avoiding my eyes. I sensed he already knew.
I took his hand and forced him to make eye contact. “Joe, look at me. I want you to be totally honest with me, I want you to tell me the truth. I know there’s something bothering you, so don’t tell me there isn’t. We’re supposed to be partners, and I need to know what the matter is, however bad it is.”
Joe looked at me, then at the stars, then sighed deeply.
30 A Bombshell and a Puzzle
Barbecued Spanish Lamb
“It’s not easy to explain,” he said at last.
“Try, I’m listening.”
Still he said nothing, and my eyes searched his face for clues.
“Joe, talk to me. Is it money?”
He shook his head. “No. Well, maybe partly.”
“Are you tired of living in Spain?”
“Oh no, it’s not that!”
“Well, then what is it? Are you sick? Joe, you have to tell me.”
Joe looked down at my hand in his and traced a pattern on my palm with the tip of his finger. I held my breath.
“It’s a kind of mixture of things,” he said eventually. “I suppose mostly, it’s the children.”
“Children? What children? Our children? The Ufartes?”
“No, no. Not them. It’s children in general. And it’s to do with my birthday.”
Now I was really confused. “Joe, explain. I don’t understand.”
Two Old Fools - Olé! Page 20