The chug-chug of Diego’s vintage dumper heralds his approach, and with it goes any semblance of a quiet morning. ‘WHAT YOU DOING, NEIGHBOUR?’ Oh no, just what I need, Pirate Pete bellowing out. Fan-flipping-tastic. I start waving my arms in a ‘please be quiet’ kind of way, but it is hopeless of course. ‘I am doing a bit of work in my friend’s garden’ I whisper, which is technically true of course. ‘WELL DON’T WAKE UP THE MORROW LOCO!’ he hollers. I run my hands across my face, and smile, through gritted teeth. What I could do with a Prestige stainless-steel potato-masher, right now. Up clatters Diego, and I wave him back into his driving seat, hopefully to avoid his groin, his phlegm, and being grabbed in the whatnots. I can manage the unloading, perfectly well, thank you. I pay the man, off he trundles, and still no sign of life from next door. I might possibly have got away with it.
Right, up on the wall, and check out the local wildlife, before committing myself. Incredibly, the snake is still in the same place as yesterday. Not moved an inch. Is it dead? Is it an ex-snake? Certainly appears that way. Perhaps that explains the colour? I am somewhat short-sighted, and don’t have my glasses with me, but maybe I can risk slipping over the wall, lob a stone at the reptile, and see what happens, so gingerly, keeping a wary eye on Hissing Sid, and Manuel’s back door, I step down into the wilderness. And almost vomit. OH. MY. GOD. It is not a snake, it is a length of poo. A foot-long turd. My throat is gagging as I stare in disbelief at this humongous faeces. Who, or what, has been shitting in Miguel’s garden? Not an animal surely, far too big for a dog, and I should know, having retrieved plenty from behind my beloved retriever, Nelson, over the years. I almost stumbled over some elephant dung in India once, round as a football and all grassy. And last time I checked, there were no jumbos tramping about in wildest Andalucia. So not an animal. But how could it be human? The garden is completely enclosed, with no possible public access, and besides, wouldn’t there be, ahem, a few sheets of Andrex lying around also? A mystery, but I make a mental note to add a quid or two to my hourly rate, when I send Nigel his bill. Health and safety danger money.
There is some loose earth handy so using my spade I do my best to cover the offending pile, and lob a large rock on top to avoid stumbling in it, as I regularly used to manage when working amid Del-Boy’s eight dogs. OK, pick out a dozen or so suitable rocks, get the mortar mixed, flop it down and get the hell out of Dodge. Wrong! ‘ROO-SEE-YA!’ Stumbling up the steps to the garden, folded newspaper under his arm, unbuttoning his trousers, comes Crazy Man. OH NO. OH PLEASE NO. THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING. Is he coming up to perform his ablutions? He reaches the top of the steps, and we stand, facing each other, like two gunslingers in a Western. Problem is I don’t even have a Prestige stainless-steel potato-masher, let alone a six-gun. Luckily he is similarly unarmed, apart from the newspaper, and I cannot recall anyone dying from injuries sustained being whacked by the Daily Mirror, or whatever the Spanish equivalent is. Suddenly, he throws back his head. WAAAARRRRRRRRRGH! Yeah, whatever mate, but this ain’t your garden, and I’m here to do a job of work. Still, I hold up my hands placatingly, ‘I am repairing the wall’ I smile, gesturing at the pile of stones.
Crazy Man seems suitably appeased, but what happens next? Is he going to just, er, perform? Should I look discreetly the other way. Sadly I have forgotten to bring my guide to etiquette, not that I imagine there is any advice about what to do when a tramp wants to take a dump in someone’s garden. I decide to withdraw gracefully, so back up the steps, over the wall, and down into Nigel’s, locking the door behind me. In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of water, and gulp it straight down. So how long do I give it? Five minutes, ten? I do actually feel overwhelmingly sorry for the poor man. Clearly he has massive personal issues but surely there are places available here where he can get professional help, and medication? Although, perhaps, he is here illegally, and unable to access the local heath-care system? I don’t suppose I will ever know, which is possibly the saddest aspect of all.
Janie and Nigel have a roof patio in their cottage, so I head up there, pull out a folding chair, intending to give Crazy Man a quarter-hour or so, but in the warm autumn sunshine I am soon drifting off to sleep, and I haven’t actually done anything yet this morning, work-wise….suddenly I am woken by the tinkling of my phone. Nigel, wanting to know how the repairs to the wall are going. ‘Well actually, mate….’ and I recount the story so far, apart from the bit about me reclining in his best patio chair, of course. And about my hourly rate mysteriously increasing….
From the roof terrace I can see down into Miguel’s garden, which now seems deserted, so back downstairs, out in the sunshine, mix the mortar, over the wall, no ‘snakes’ or bits of ‘El Daily Mirror’ visible, perhaps he couldn’t, er, go, after all that, doubt whether I could have either, to be honest, flop down the mortar, position the first two rows of rocks, check they are straight, but frankly who cares after all this, back over the wall, lock the back door, out the front, secure the house, and back home, all in record time, and without the imprint of any Prestige stainless-steel implements in my scull. WHEW! Fig tree, sunbed, out for the count.
The following morning is Wednesday, which can mean only one thing; boiled eggs and toast cut into soldiers, for breakfast. Always been a boiled egg fan, but never really had the time in the mornings, when I was working. Now, following early-retirement, this is part of my midweek ritual. Sipping a second coffee, watching the morning sun slanting through the olive trees, all is at peace with my world.
Or not. ‘NEIGHBOUR!’ Oh please no, not again. Crazy Loli, hollering about something trivial. I hope she is not going to make a habit of disturbing my mornings, following our return to Spain. Reluctantly, I drag my body to the patio railings and peer over. ‘NEIGHBOUR! MORROW LOCO. CAR SELL!’ Not the faintest idea. Morrow loco something. I smile my appreciation at this useless nugget, and slump back in my chair. Hang on a minute. Car Sell? Did she say car sell? Is Crazy Man selling his car? Does he even have a car? This is beyond my comprehension. The bloke is barely coherent. He is not fit to be left in charge of a gas bottle, let alone a CAR? What manner of vehicle could he possibly own anyway? An image of a wheezing, ancient conveyance flashes through my mind, the front riddled with bullet-holes, the rear destroyed by high explosives.
Chrissie meanwhile has been in the kitchen making a fresh pot of coffee. She emerges onto the patio. ‘What was she bellowing about?’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Crazy man is selling his car, apparently. I know it sounds impossible but that is what she said.’
My wife bangs the coffee pot down on the side table, then folds her arms and fires me a glare. She might only be five-feet nothing, but she has this glaring stance off pat. Particularly at me. ‘Tell me again what she said?’ she commands.
I exhale dramatically. ‘Morrow loco, car sell. That was it.’
Her glare becomes even more withering, if that were possible. ‘You blathering idiot. You steaming, blathering idiot. Those are English words. Car. Sell. Did you think Loli took an intensive English course, during the night? Learning her past tenses in her sleep?’
I am aghast, and bury my face in my hands, in a vain attempt to conceal my embarrassment. ‘All right, all right, yeah yeah yeah. Look, it’s only just gone nine. My brain still thinks it is midnight.’ And I begin to chuckle.
She is not finished with me yet, however. ‘I am getting seriously worried about you. I think you should see a doctor, before your condition gets any worse.’ Oh yeah, I can just imagine that conversation with a Spanish quack. ‘I am a steaming, blathering idiot, Doc. Best of luck looking up those symptoms in your medical text-book!’
The pressure is relentless. ‘So what does ‘car sell’ mean in Spanish then, do we know?’
‘Not a clue’ I wince, ‘because I didn’t do Spanish ‘O’ Level in 1969, DID I?’ Some relaxing morning this is turning out to be.
‘Well I’ll tell you what it means, shall I? It means ‘prison’. Crazy man is in prison.’
Jumping up, I poke my head over the patio to find Loli still there, so I cross my wrists in a handcuff gesture. ‘Car sell?’
‘Yes neighbour, prison, last night!’ and she waves her arm in the general direction of the house of polices-mans.
Blimey. Prison. I wonder what he did? Perhaps old sponge-brains Ancient-Bill actually took some action. Maybe the other neighbours complained? Or possibly a gas bottle went bang?
The glaring is not over yet, however. ‘So crazy man is locked up. Which means you can stop banging on about stainless-steel kitchen implements and gigantic turds. Maybe you can get down Miguel’s and do some actual WORK? Get that thrice-damned wall finished? So you can get back here and get the swimming pool patio actually completed, so that maybe I can have a dip, this side of CHRISTMAS?’
Ah yes, the swimming pool patio. Where once were horrible, tumbledown animal sheds in the garden, now stands a beautiful area, full of hardcore, which only needs a layer of sand on the top, and then tiling. Tony and Jo have a stand-up pool for sale, about three metres across, OK so not a ‘Hi-Di-Hi- style’ Olympic-sized pool, but enough for a dip, and a splash round. And no need for a building permit, either.
I stand to attention, and salute. ‘Yes ma’am, certainly ma’am, I will flog my aching body down to Miguel’s right now, and get the wall done. If you wouldn’t mind shifting a bit of that hardcore in the garden, you will have somewhere to bury my CORPSE!’ And the pair of us roll about laughing.
At Miguel’s all is quiet, a quick peek over the wall reveals no more surprises, and lo and behold my mortar of yesterday has set perfectly, so without further ado I start shoveling the rubble into the space behind my newly laid stonework. If I can crack on here, get the next course of stones into place, then maybe, yes, I can get back home and put an hour or so into our new patio. I would quite like a dip before Christmas, too.
Wrong! ‘Heffe!’ Who is that? I cannot see a soul in either direction, up or down the street. Again comes the shout, ‘heffe!’ A male voice, but where? Glancing frantically around, I suddenly spot a man leaning out from the patio of one of the cottages in the zigzag above, maybe twenty feet up. I say man, but it could actually be one of those gargoyles you see stuck on the side of cathedrals, which has been there for about a thousand years. A visage of ghastly proportions, nothing about his features is symmetrical. Boggle-eyed, one looking at me, possibly, one pointing to the sky, his nose follows a circuitous course, even his lips are on the slant. He certainly hit every branch on the way down, when he fell out of the ugly tree. Still, he has news to impart, about Crazy Man, probably. ‘Morrow loco, last night!’ he cries, indicating a shoe wedged in the gap in his patio fencing. Surely not? Crazy man was climbing up there? Why? For what purpose? And is that actually one of his shoes, wedged in the chain-link? Need my glasses to be sure, but it certainly looks like one, I can just make out the hole in the toe area. Tramp footwear, for sure.
Gargoyle-man is still gabbling away, I am struggling to follow his conversation on account of his lips barely meeting, but he is pointing from his fence, to his neighbours, and the house after that, with barely a foot-hold visible. Did Crazy Man really climb across those fences? Is he actually part-chimpanzee? Mister Ugly then indicates the opposite direction, towards the top of Miguel’s garden, where there is what appears to be a ruined grain-store, with a rickety lean-to at the front, and makes a diving or falling gesture. ‘Ky-eedo!’ Ah, I know this word. It means ‘fell’. And closer inspection reveals a gaping hole in the lean-to roof. So let me get this right. While we were sitting peacefully on our terrace, sipping a glass or two of red, Crazy took a nocturnal stroll, as you do, across some patios, twenty feet up, got his foot stuck in the fence and fell through a roof. And got himself arrested into the bargain. There’s a night-out with a difference. Maybe I could organize some stag-parties from the UK, cheap flights to Malaga, a load of Spanish beer. Beats vomiting into the Danube, surely? Next year we’ll be millionaires, as Del-Boy Trotter might have said.
Right, the morning is slipping away, as per usual. Waving my thanks to Gargoyle, I select a few more suitable stones, mix up the mortar, and flop them into place. Really starting to look like something now. Not sure what precisely, but it looks like something. I’m sure Nigel will be highly delighted. Locking up and heading home, striding down the street is a stranger, small, wiry, with wild, ginger hair, so not a Spaniard, presumably. ‘I reck you, don’t I?’ he enquires, pleasantly. An Irishman, by the sound of him. ‘You remember, down the ironmongers, Ronan’s me name? Translated for me, ye did.’ Not a clue, quite honestly, but before I can comment either way he launches into a monologue, all delivered in that wonderful ‘stream of consciousness’ style. ‘Now was I telling you I bumped into this Cockney feller yesterday, Phil, wonderful artist so. We had a couple like, then went back to his place, for a couple more, and hasn’t he got a studio, up in his attic? Twenty or more paintings, all in various stages, like, a lot of it modern stuff ye know, squares and circles, but there was a lovely painting of a Retriever dog, two foot by eighteen inches maybe. Now when I was a wain we had a Retriever, Bobby he was called, and every year we used to go up to Connemara for holliers like, and Phil’s painting looks just like Bobby sitting on a path in the mountains up there. So I says to himself, would ye be looking to sell the painting like, and he says yeah, I painted it for some British people last year, but they didn’t come back, so yeah I need to sell it, get me time and materials back, so. And I says to him what are ye looking for, and he says well something this size would usually be tree hundred Euro, with all the details of his fur and that, and the mountains, but seeing yer a good fellow I can let ye have it for two-fifty, like.’
OK. Moral dilemma time. I know for a fact Phil didn’t paint that picture, as Chrissie found it in the street, and I loaded into the back of his car not two days ago. So do I tell Ronan, and risk falling out with Phil, and both of them, possibly? Phil is lying through his teeth, which is between him and his maker, and I’m not worried he is making a fast buck. Wish I’d thought of it myself, actually. But it all seems, I dunno, a bit dishonest. Then again, if Ronan saw the painting in a shop, would it be any different in principle? He is happy with the price, so what’s the problem? Dilemma solved. I’m keeping shtum.
‘So have you actually paid Phil yet?’ I enquire, for no particular reason.
‘Ah no, I only had a fifty on me, like, so I will go down the bank in the morning, get the rest of the grade, and pay yer man. Then all I need to decide is whether I take the painting home to me house in Ireland, like, or keep it here in me wee cottage in the mountains of Spain.’
‘Bit big for your hand-luggage on Pad.. er Ryanair, isn’t it?’ I smile. I was going to use the term favoured by most British expats here, Paddyair, but don’t want to cause any offence.
‘Ah that Micheal O’Leary now’ he fumes, ‘fecking villain, so, and a terrible gobshite!’ So no love lost there, then, between compatriots! ‘Maybe yer right, it will be too big for me bag, an’ I don’t want to pay that bastard anything I don’t have to! Anyway, come up me house over the weekend, I can show you me painting, sure you’re dying to see it!’ Too late. Seen it already…..
After briefing Nigel that night on the antics of Crazy Man, I get another call from him on Thursday morning, just after breakfast. ‘Right, Janie and me have been talking and we’d like you to put a bar across the front door of Miguel’s, and brick up the back door. The whole situation is causing us so much stress, we always worried about dossers in there after the old man died, but now it’s actually happened and it is just unbearable, being so far away.’
Hmmmm. I wondered when this was coming. I do feel for them of course, but it will be me in the firing line, should it all kick off with the polices mans. ‘I’m sorry mate, but I really can’t do that, as it’s not your house, or mine, and everybody knows I have been working down there, and if there are any comebacks, It’s my neck on the block.’
I can sense the di
sappointment surging down the line. ‘Well couldn’t you just sneak in the back door, bolt it from the inside, then quietly brick up the back door, completely seal it up?’
‘Sorry Nigel, if it were your house I would do that in a flash, but you know it’s impossible to anything ‘quietly’ here, all the neighbours know, Fag-Ash Lil, Pirate Pete, Dora the Explorers granny, Mr Ugly over the back, grey-woman, sexy neighbour, …’
‘WHO?’ he cries, momentarily forgetting his anguish, ‘there are no sexy neighbours round there!’
‘The woman over the back, always wandering about in her nightie’ I giggle. ‘I don’t know what anyone is called down your end of the street’ I confirm, ‘that is why I give them all nicknames!’
Suddenly, I can feel my wife’s eyes, boring holes in the back of my head. Oh no, done it again. Dropped myself truly and completely in it.
‘Anyway, never mind all that’ I hastily continue, ‘the point is they all know I’m down there, and I’m really sorry but I cannot take the risk.’
But Nigel is not letting go. ‘Neighbours in nighties eh? Remind me to scrutinize your work carefully when we come over next! And I will be looking in great detail at your bill, when you send it!’
‘Tell you what’ I chuckle, ‘that wall is perfect. OK so the sides go in and out a bit, and the top looks like the Loch Ness Monster’s back, but it will be the best thousand quid you will ever spend!’
I can hear the spluttering and strangled oaths from over fifteen-hundred miles away. ‘Right, you’re fired!’ comes the reply, but we both know he doesn’t mean it…..
Right. Time to get down there. Final couple of courses of stones. Wrong! I am unable to move, as Chrissie has the neck of my tee-shirt from behind, and is gradually twisting, choking the life out of me. ‘So. Sexy neighbour? Nighties? All this time you’ve been pretending to dodge this alleged Crazy Man, who I don’t believe actually exists, you have really been down there perving. Remember what you said yesterday about burying your corpse under the patio? Well consider it done, Sonny Jim. Plans are in place. The last day of the rest of your life is nigh!’ Like I said, so droll is Mrs Richards…
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 6