Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!

by John Austin Richards

  Down the street, nursing a tender thorax, someone appears to be waiting for me outside Miguel’s. A bloke, my height, but younger, and smaller about. Smart casual clothes, polished shoes, styled hair, clean-shaven, but strangely familiar somehow. I feel I know him from somewhere, but without my glasses I cannot quite see……. ‘ROO-SEE-YA!’

  NOOOOOOOOOO! This cannot be happening. Younger brother of Crazy Man? Or. Is. It. The. Same. Bloke? Astounding, the change. A spot of midnight mountaineering, bust up a roof, and look what happens. A complete makeover. Eat your hearts out, Trinny and Susannah. And why not, I ask myself. Hopefully he got a full English, this morning, before they let him go. And some medication. Just two burning questions however. Is he still dossing at Chez Miguel? And has he had a number-two this morning? I feel I deserve answers. Seriously though, I truly hope they have found him somewhere safe to stay, and that he can maybe turn his life around.

  I smile and wave, unlocking Nigel’s door and securing it firmly behind me. Right, get this done quickly, back home, and spread out some sand over our new patio area. Level it off, maybe earn myself a stay of execution. If there is time, lay out a few tiles, make it look as if something is really happening, and who knows, get my sentence commuted.

  No problems with Crazy Man today, no unwelcome deposits in the garden, so in half an hour I am back home. Hopefully, finally, the nightmare for Janie and Nigel will be over. Wouldn’t it be great if my next report was one hundred per-cent positive? I regard my pile of sand, fetch my spade from ‘El Woodshed’, and scatter a couple of shovel-fulls across the hardcore. Suddenly, I am overcome by fatigue. Not sure why really, as this week’s activities have not been particularly strenuous, maybe just the mental strain of it all. Wears you out doesn’t it, the fear of being pronged by a Prestige stainless-steel kitchen implement? Whatever, I need to close my eyes for a few minutes, Chrissie is with Teri her student this morning so won’t be home for over an hour, so I flop down onto my ‘beach’, wriggling my hips to get comfy, and in seconds I am away to the Land of Nod.

  In my dreams I can hear voices. Female voices. ‘Oh look, what do we have here, Teri? A British workman. Fast asleep. Doesn’t he look peaceful, poor chap, he has been working really hard and is just taking a few minutes rest. Shall I make him a quick cup of tea, before I BEAT HIS BRAINS OUT WITH THIS SHOVEL?’

  Teri meanwhile is rolling with laughter. ‘Jonneee, you are Espaniss man now, sleeping when working!’

  Oh no, done it again, haven’t I? Dropped off and dropped myself right in it, literally. Grinning sheepishly, I attempt to struggle to my feet, but Chrissie still has the shovel, hovering menacingly a few feet from my head. ‘No, no, don’t move, stay there in that declivity, I can just throw a few shovel-fulls over you, save me digging that hole to bury your CORPSE!’

  When will I ever get something right….?

  The following morning Nigel calls for his regular update. If he is asking me to brick anything up again I am going to get a bit cross, and my hourly rate might have to mysteriously increase, too. ‘OK, listen up!’ he cries cheerfully. ‘Big news. Janie and I have decided to try to buy Miguel’s, if you can possibly find out the owners, maybe get a phone number, so we can ask our Spanish lawyer to negotiate with them. We don’t have an unlimited budget, obviously, but realistically how much can that place be worth? And hopefully we can get it dead cheap, after all the problems with Crazy Man.’ Hmmmm. That is one solution, certainly. A bit drastic perhaps, and a complete money-pit as far as I can tell, but a solution nevertheless.

  Very strange, to us Brits, this concept of just locking up a house and walking away. In the UK, when a relative dies, just about the first thing the family do is get the house on the market, but with a property worth say a quarter-million, pounds obviously, not pesetas, entirely understandable. Here, inheritance laws mean the whole family benefits, so with maybe twenty relatives and a house worth under ten grand, as this one surely is, the prospect is far less enticing.

  Anyway, if that is what they want to do, who am I to stand in their way. ‘What I will do is ask Rafi if she knows any of the family, she lives in the street behind, she might even be a distant relative, everyone seems to be related some way or another in this town. If not she will surely know someone. I will give her your phone number and you can take it from there. OK?’ Nigel professes himself delighted, and the rest of my day passes in tranquil fashion, for a change. I even manage to get some sand laid on our new patio.

  The calm before the storm.

  Saturday morning comes another call from England. Nigel, bubbling over with excitement. ‘We’ve done it! Bought Miguel’s! Agreed the price! How much do you think?’

  What can I say? Personally, I wouldn’t give twenty pence for the old ruin. ‘Oh, I don’t know, ten thousand possibly?’ I mean pesetas, clearly, although only I know that.

  ‘Four!’ he cries, barely able to contain himself. ‘Four thousand! What do you think of that? Result, eh?’

  ‘Result indeed’ I confirm. ‘Miguel’s family are giving you four thousand Euros to take the place off their hands. You are very lucky!’

  ‘CHEEKY SWINE!’ he bellows. ‘So you don’t want any of the work, renovating the place, then?’ Oh deep joy. I am going to be down there for the rest of my life, because that’s how long transforming that hovel into something habitable is likely to take, assuming I reach my three-score-and-ten.

  But Nigel refuses to be offended for long. ‘They were asking six, but I think ours was the only offer on the table.’ No idea why that was, Nigel. I would have thought people would be queuing up. Fighting to get their hands on the place. Gazumping, the whole shooting match. ‘We are coming over in a few weeks to sign the papers, but the deposit is paid, which means you can get on with securing the front, and bricking up the back. His family have agreed you can do that.’ Wondered when this was coming, frankly. But I did say I wouldn’t do it unless he bought the place, not that in a million years I thought they actually would…. ’So first thing Monday morning, if that is OK with you? Get it secure? Please? So you, er, need to get down the builders and order the bricks this morning, before they close? Please?’

  ‘Yeah yeah, I’m actually walking down the builders right now!’ I lie, with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Bless him though, he is so excited. Not every day you become the proud owner of a ruin, is it? And whoopee, another visit from Dirty Diego on Monday morning. Isn’t the rest of my life going so spectacularly well?

  The weekend passes without incident. Crazy Man seems to have disappeared, as fast as he came. So Monday morning, breakfast on the patio, and Chrissie is sniffing the air. A human bloodhound, she is. ‘Can you smell burning?’ she enquires. ‘Smells like a bonfire, somewhere.’

  I take a deep breath, but my olfactory powers are not that great, to be honest. Explains a lot, probably. Some old farmer burning up some olive twigs, I imagine. ‘Anyway, never mind that, I have Dirty Diego coming again this morning with the bricks for Miguel’s, do you fancy giving…..right OK, obviously not!’ Cannot say I blame her, all things considered.

  Walking down to Janie and Nigel’s newly-acquired wreck, I spot a larger-than-usual collection of neighbours hanging around outside. Nothing particularly unusual about that of course. If ‘Standing Around Gossiping’ were an Olympic sport, Spain would have the gold medal, for sure. And probably the silver and bronze too. Is this a welcoming committee? Is there a ribbon to cut? Will there be Champagne, or more likely that cheap Spanish rot-gut, Cava? And actually I can now smell wood-smoke. Is there a barbecue? Sausages with fried onions? Only just finished my breakfast of course, but I always have room for a sausage with fried onions, in a crusty bap. One of my life-rules.

  The first person to greet me is Pirate Pete. His cataract operation was a complete success apparently, so he no longer needs to wear the eye-patch, but to us he will always be ‘Pirate Pete’. ‘Where you going neighbour?’

  I explain I am heading to Miguel’s, to secure the front and back d
oors.

  ‘No you’re not!’

  Eh? Has he misunderstood? Or, more likely, is my Spanish not that good. ‘Yes, out friends have bought the house, so I am going inside to….’

  ‘No, you’re not!’

  What is wrong with the bloke? ‘Por que?’ Why?

  ‘Because the house is on fire, neighbour!’ and he gestures to the top floor, from which thick, acrid smoke is billowing. No flames, thankfully, yet.

  OH. MY. GOD! MIGUEL’S IS ON FIRE. For a few seconds, I am lost for words, and have no idea what to do. Complete panic.

  Pirate Pete comes to my rescue, nudging me in the ribs. ‘Don’t worry neighbour, look, the bomberos are coming!’ Sure enough, in the street below is parked a fire-engine, and here comes an elderly firefighter, strolling leisurely up the steps, dragging a length of hose behind him. He is joined by a younger colleague, but not that much younger, and the pair of them, combined age of well over a hundred, step through Miguel’s front door, which already appears to be open, and disappear inside.

  Quick as a flash, leaving a trail of chattering Spaniards in my wake, I dash into Nigel’s and start feeling the party walls. Ground floor, first floor, and top floor. All stone cold, thankfully. Out onto the roof terrace, no flames thank goodness, and the smoke does seem much less than just a few minutes ago, but I need to call Nigel, right now, and impart the bad news. Which is greeted by stunned silence, followed by wailing, shouting, and understandably in the circumstances, swearing. ‘NO, NO, NO! HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPENING?’ Following which there is a large crash, and the line goes dead. Has he collapsed? Fainted? He is supposed to be a retired fireman for heaven’s sake. Aren’t they meant to be calm under pressure? Unflappable? Mind you, usually they put out fires in other peoples’ property, not one they have just scraped together the deposit to buy, only three days ago. I wonder if he got the place insured? Better not ask that one. Suddenly my phone chirps into life. ‘Sorry mate, dropped the phone! How bad is the damage, can you see?’

  I adopt my reassuring voice. ‘Well, the party walls were cold, and I cannot see any flames, from up here on your roof patio… and the fire brigade are just leaving, actually. They are just rolling up the hose, and heading off back down the steps.’

  The relief is palpable. His heart rate, and breathing, return to normal. Mine too, actually. ‘Maybe only a small blaze in the chimney, hopefully?’ comes the reply.

  I am slightly puzzled, given that I cannot see a chimney pot. ‘Chimney? There is no chimney up here.’

  ‘Yes there is! he cries indignantly. ‘There is a huge walk-in chimney, in the back kitchen, beautiful wooden moldings both sides, and around the mantle-piece, together with a painting of the Last Supper above, all encased in glass. It is the showpiece of the whole house, Miguel was so proud of it.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Well I tell you what, I have never been inside the place, obviously, but I know what a chimney looks like, I am on your top terrace gazing down on Miguel’s roof, and there is not a chimney in sight. Dick Van Dyke would be of no use whatsoever up here, singing Chim-Chim-Cheree!. This roof is pot-less, and flue-less.’

  Silence on the line for a few seconds. ‘OK, I trust what you are saying, of course. So that means the stack was taken down at some stage, and the hole tiled over. Probably the flue was capped off. So if Crazy Man lit a fire in the grate, there would be nowhere for the smoke to go, and no draught to ignite the flames, apart from small, localised damage. This is good news! I am feeling better already! So can you, er, get in there and check out the damage? Please? Soon as ….’

  Suddenly comes a loud, urgent banging on the front door. ‘Hang on a minute’ I interrupt, peering over the terrace into the street, ‘someone is trying to beat your front door down! I better see who it is, and call you back as soon as I can get in there.’ Hurrying downstairs, I fling open the front door to be confronted by what appears to by a madman, waving a huge length of wood above his head. Must be a yard long, three inches wide, and he appears intent on embedding it into my scull. Jeez, what is it about this end of the road? Bonkers, the lot of them. Deftly, I step back, before he can take aim, and slam the door firmly shut. No idea who he is, middle-aged maybe, casually dressed so not an official of any sort, not that I got that good a good look you understand, being more than keen to protect my nut from a beating. He is hollering and banging again, but no way, Jose, I am not going out there until you calm down, or go away. I am just an innocent bystander after all.

  The ranting continues for a few more seconds, then silence. Has he cleared off, or just trying to trick me, so that if I pop my head out, he can slice it clean off? Trouble is, I am trapped here. Suddenly, mercifully, help is at hand. I can hear the chug-chug of Dirty Diego the Dumper Driver, coming round the hairpin bend. Blessed relief. Never before have I been so glad to see the filthy old Spaniard. He can scratch his balls all he likes, clear his throat to his heart’s content. Expectorate until nightfall. He is my saviour. My hero. My guardian angel. Surely, no harm will come to me with Diego on hand as a witness, not that his eyesight seems all that great behind thick pebble glasses. But an observer nevertheless.

  Waiting until the wheezing conveyance has come to rest outside Miguel’s, I take a tentative peek through the window, to see my hero conversing happily with Ranting-Man. Who is still brandishing the wood, but at least he appears to have calmed down. The pair of them appear acquainted, so I open the door and call out a greeting, keeping hold of the handle however in case it all kicks off again! ‘Heffe, I got your bricks!’ cries Diego, ‘and Pedro here has some wood to secure Manuel’s door!’ Wood to sec………Oh madre mia. I feel a bit of a lemon, but maybe if Pedro, whom I have no idea actually is, or what it has to do with him, hadn’t waved said wood above his head like a screaming banshee, we might have got off to a better start. Grinning sheepishly, I advance towards the greasy builders truck, still keeping a wary eye on this Pedro fellow, in case the story about securing the door is just a ruse, and he still intends giving me a quick whack. Besides, I can do better then a wormy old length of timber, if we really are securing the door. An iron bar in fact, a yard long, half inch thick, four inches wide. Found it in Miguel’s garden, rusty as a sailors bell-bottoms but still more than adequate for keeping crazy people out of Nigel and Janie’s recent purchase, unless they happen to possess an angle-grinder, or dynamite. And by the greatest good fortune, said length of steel comes complete with four holes drilled at convenient locations, meaning I simply have to drill corresponding holes in Miguel’s double doors, whack in four coach bolts and we will have better security than the Tower of London. Without any ravens, obviously. Which is a good thing actually. I usually find ravens a right nuisance, when bricking up the back door of a filthy Spanish doss-house.

  Right. Unload Diego’s bricks, the yard-long variety especially designed for Spanish doss-houses, three sacks of the magic plaster, yesso, which goes off like iron after about two minutes, and my saviour chugs away, leaving me alone with Pedro. But I have an iron bar, matey, so don’t try anything with your yard of Spanish plywood. Out with my trusty drill, four holes in the doors, two in each, and I mime holding the bar against the doors and inserting the coach-bolts, basically as I don’t know the Spanish for holding the bar against the doors and inserting the coach-bolts. Clutching the nuts and washers, I step inside Miguel’s for the first time, Pedro closes me inside, and I am alone in the smoky darkness. Let’s hope Crazy Man is not at home, eh?

  Luckily, the back door is open, throwing a murky light over the whole depressing scene, puddles all over the tiled floor, no doubt left by the recently departed fire brigade. Shame they didn’t give the whole house a decent hose down, actually. I hear the clunk of the iron bar against the outside of the doors, and lo and behold the four coach bolts appear, as if by magic. Threading on the washers and nuts, and producing a spanner from my back pocket, I tighten each nut in turn and that is it; no-one is coming through here until Nigel and Janie get over to sort out this unho
ly mess.

  Right. Quick look round, assess the damage, get the back door bricked up and get on with the rest of my life, which seems to be slipping away at a rapid rate of knots. The first room contains a solitary, woodworm-infested dining chair, although the worms appear to have long since departed for tastier pastures new. Into the back room, and as predicted by Nigel, is the seat of the fire, the huge walk-in chimney. Once no doubt a highly impressive period piece, now a sad, charred, soaking, soggy mess. I dare say it will dry out in time, and some of the moldings might be salvageable, but the glass covering the depiction of the Last Supper is blackened and cracked, and some of the Apostles have singed feet, never a good look I feel. Such a crying shame, I have never seen anything remotely like this outside of a stately home, and certainly not in a ratty old Spanish cottage.

  The remainder of the ‘kitchen’ consists of one free-standing unit, although the prospect of preparing a meal on this virus-ridden specimen is beyond unthinkable. Curious, this local custom of the moveable kitchen. This one still has its four original legs, always a good thing, considering I have seen them standing on bricks, but why don’t they, I dunno, bolt them to the wall? Perhaps they take their kitchens with them when they move, although personally I wouldn’t be caught dead with this evil collection of chipboard and plywood in the back of a removals van. Bobby ‘Elton John’ Roberts wouldn’t touch it, for sure. Even the local woodworms have given it a wide berth. In the corner is what might have been described as a ‘sink’ in the seventeenth century, white, originally, possibly, but now a rainbow-like spectrum of stains rarely seen outside of a path-lab.

  Mentally making a note to add a further couple of quid to my hourly rate, on account of the very real risk of catching a fatal disease, I head up to the first floor, and the famous bricked-up French Doors. I vividly recall Janie and Nigel relating the story behind this bizarre decision. Towards the end of his life, when he got doddery on his pins, Miguel’s family were understandably concerned about him exiting the doors and crashing off the Juliet balcony to meet an untimely end in the street below. But rather than, say, fixing the doors so they couldn’t open fully, they instead opted to entomb the poor old man in a darkened room. The thought-processes behind this are unimaginable. ‘Sorry grandad, we’re worried about you having an accident, so we’re going to brick you up.’ The logic beggars belief.