Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!
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Stumbling through to the back room, where at least a chink of light is visible through the dust and wood-smoke, the breast wall where the chimney once was is showing signs of cracking, no doubt from the flames, but nothing drastic, certainly nothing a competent DIY-er couldn’t fettle. Or me, apparently, in the absence of such a person. Then through to the ‘bathroom’, a seventies add-on, which appears not to have benefited from a wipe round with a drop of Ajax liquid ever since. Trust me on this one, you don’t want to know. But what the hell, it’s my book. So, a skid-mark encrusted collection of beige porcelain. No wonder Crazy Man preferred crapping in the garden. One good thing however; no self-respecting rat would be found lurking in this hell-hole.
Up to the top floor, and a rather pleasant surprise, the best room of the whole house, which is not saying much admittedly, but a beamed ceiling and a small window overlooking the street. OK so the plaster between the beams is cracked and blackened, but with a little effort this could be very pleasant, a fact not lost on Crazy Man as what appears to be his roach-singed sleeping bag is thrown in one corner. Into the final room at the back, and yet another surprise, one which has me rocking with silent mirth. A mattress, rather yellow and old, with patches of even yellower stains, and a black tyre mark right the way down the middle. A big tyre too, from a van, or a four-by-four. So what can have happened here? Clearly nobody has driven a van through the top room of the cottage, so I imagine the mattress was ‘acquired’ from the street. Maybe someone left it out by the bin, it toppled over in the wind perhaps, some half-blind Spaniard came along in a beat-up Land Rover and drove across it, following which Miguel, or Crazy Man, discovered it lying forlornly in the road and decided it would be a worthy addition to their sleeping arrangements. Something like that, anyway. Before I retired, the concept of a mattress bearing the imprint of a tyre would have been beyond my comprehension. You don’t find anything like that in Beds R Us, do you? Here, however, it seems somehow utterly normal. How has my life come to this?
One thing I must remember however is to warn Janie to bring some rubber gloves with her when they come over to take possession of the house, as she is rather precious about her fingernails I recall. Maybe she should acquire a Haz-mat suit too, in view of the various contaminants, lurking inside her new purchase. Best of luck getting that through security, at Luton airport.
Right. The back door. Time to start bricklaying. There will be no skill involved in this action. Nope, flop some yesso on the ground and on the wall both sides of the door, and whack down a brick. Repeat with the next brick, and so on until the door opening disappears from view. The main thing to remember is that I am outside whilst performing this action, to avoid entombing myself. And to make sure I take all my tools with me, obviously. Simples, to quote that Meerkat. The only thing to bear in mind about yesso is not to mix too much at a time. So three or four handfuls only. Add water, slap it on, lay the brick, and wait a couple of minutes. And so on. In less than an hour, the doorway has disappeared, replaced by solid wall. And short of a sledgehammer, no-one is entering this house again. Blimey, what a day! Gathering my tools, I hop over the newly-repaired garden wall, through Nigel’s back door, out the front into the street, where thankfully the crowds have dispersed. The only evidence that the momentous events of the last week have actually happened is a soup ladle, tossed casually, forlornly, on the ground next to the bin. Home. Sunbed. Asleep in seconds.
That evening in bed, drifting off to sleep after a relaxing dinner on the patio, a few glasses of red, and Classic FM on the internet, I am suddenly catapulted awake. ‘Oh my God! What have I done? How could have I forgotten? What a disaster!’
I can hear Chrissie thrashing around in the darkness. ‘What the hell is wrong now? Can’t a girl get any sleep around here?’
I am rubbing my head in desperation. ‘How could I have done that? How could I have forgotten? Must have been all the excitement, all the stress. I just can’t believe it!’
Chrissie fumbles for the bedside lamp. ‘You’re scaring me now. What have you done?’
In the half-light I turn towards her, face in my hands. ‘I have bricked up Crazy Man’s sleeping bag!’
Three weeks later we are out for the evening with Janie and Nigel, together with Rafi and her husband Pablo. Our British friends are treating us all to a slap-up meal as a thank-you for all our hard work. Nigel raises his glass. ‘I just wanted to say how grateful we both are for everything you have done for us recently. We signed the papers yesterday, picked up the keys from the lawyer today, so Miguel’s is now officially ours! Mind you, some joker has bolted a dirty great iron bar across the front door, and bricked up the back, DIDN’T THEY, MR RICHARDS?’
I narrow my eyes and give him my best, mock, Paddington Bear stare. ‘Only as instructed, Mr Pollard. Only as instructed!.’ We are all rolling around laughing. Even Pablo seems to have cottoned on. Or perhaps he is a Paddington fan, who knows. ‘Besides’ I continue, ‘you are probably best off leaving that house sealed up for about a hundred years, give the Bubonic plague inside chance to die down!’ Janie however is keen to get inside, start cleaning up. Fair enough I suppose, but personally I would give it at least a hundred years. ‘OK, so you need a bloke with an angle grinder to come out and open the place up, luckily I know someone who will do this for thirty euros!’
‘Oh who is that then?’ she smiles, ‘anyone we know?’
‘Yes. Me!’
After the merriment has died down, Nigel turns slightly more serious. ‘Er John, we wondered if you noticed, when you were checking over Miguel’s after the fire, if there were any paintings in there?’
Paintings? Uh-oh. I can imagine a small hole opening up in front of me. ‘Paintings?’
‘Yes, Miguel was quite a famous artist, you know. He exhibited in a number of galleries locally, not Nationally or anything like that, but he was extremely well-known in this part of Andalucia. His paintings used to sell for three or four hundred each. ’ The hole is getting wider. ‘He had an artist’s studio on the top floor of the house, he invited us in there once, not to our taste really as it was mostly modern stuff, but we did commission a painting of our dog, the last time we saw the old fellow. It’s a tank-trap now. We gave him a photo of Benji, our retriever, and he agreed to copy the picture. It was a lovely image, Benji was sitting on a path in the Lake District, typical doggy pose, you know, mouth open, tongue lolling, big grin on his face. Anyway, the next time we came over Miguel was dead, the house abandoned, so we never got to see the painting of Benji, or even if he’d finished it. And there must have been twenty or more paintings in there at one time, worth five-grand at least. We were hoping, you know, to have sold them to go towards the cost or renovating the house. So, did you see any paintings in there, John?’
Gaping chasm, now, isn’t it? Into which I am about to plunge, head first. And out the corner of my eye I can see Chrissie starting to fidget, nervously. The penny has finally dropped. It was Crazy Man, clearly, who dumped the pictures into the street, that first morning. So the strict answer to Nigel’s question is ‘No, there weren’t any paintings in Miguel’s.’ They were in the street. But splitting hairs, isn’t it? Right, moral dilemma time. Do I just deny the whole thing? No, I hate telling lies, and besides, we only did what we thought was right, letting Phil have the cursed pictures. So do Nigel and Janie know him? Actually I don’t think so. But they might know Ronan. Imagine them getting an invite to his place, and spotting Benji hanging serenely above his mantle-piece…
I puff out my cheeks. Take a deep breath. ‘Well, what happened was…….’
CHAPTER 3. MEET ‘VIC THE FISH’.
‘Jonneee! I have much beautiful feeesh for you thees day! Prices lower, yees, much bargain!’ I am with our friendly local fishmonger, Victor, known to us of course as ‘Vic the Fish’, late twenties, tall, slim, wire-framed spectacles, and a serious air. He reminds me of a librarian, or scientist, rather than an expert in all matters seafood. Yet a true aficionado he is. Not
only does he tip me off regarding the daily specials, he offers advice on how each dish should be prepared, even which wine might be served with it. Plus he is an expert salesman. Bearing in mind Chrissie is a ‘fishetarian’, we blow a serious hole in our weekly food budget with Vic, but he is worth it, if only for the entertainment value. Like many young Spaniards, Victor is keen to learn English, so our weekly encounter amounts to a free lesson for him. I get the bargains, he gets the English class. A fair exchange, in my view. One of the highlights of my domestic week.
And his fish counter is truly a work of art. Not for him a few fillets slapped on some half-melted ice. Oh no. Today, for instance, his display features an array of marine creatures, all of which appear to be swimming, placed in an upright position on a thick bed of ice. Pride of place goes to a huge, scary, steel-gray fish, over four feet long, face like a mother-in-law, mouth open, displaying a vicious array of razor-sharp teeth, a mini Jaws, or a German battleship, butting through the Channel on a Mad March Day. A truly scary prospect to encounter whilst bathing in the sea, which is why I always keep my feet on the sand when I am taking a dip. You just never know what is down there, do you?
Next to the monster, paddling happily along in his wake, are some smaller, easily recognised species. A few mackerel, to one side, some rainbow trout the other. Then come the flat-fish. Nothing I particularly recognise, no spotty plaice for instance, but three different varieties, none of which thankfully are covered in breadcrumbs, truly an abomination I believe. Towards the back are some cod fillets, thick and meaty, plus a number of salmon cutlets which I am imagining are already grilling away nicely in our Andalucian Aga. A squeeze of lemon juice, a sprinkle of sea-salt, and a pinch of black pepper. I am salivating at the prospect.
Further across, in shallower waters perhaps, are the shellfish. A huge pile of mussels, complete with barnacles, razor-clams, a few periwinkles, king prawns and a lobster, amongst others. The whole display resembles a giant flotilla, reminiscent of Navy Days, or Sir Francis Chichester returning triumphantly to Plymouth Sound in 1967. Must have taken Victor ages to prepare, and it will almost be a pity if someone comes along to buy anything, and disturbs the arrangement, a highly likely scenario actually, given his sales skills, and patter.
I open my arms, grinning widely at the fishmonger. ‘Victor, that is a beautiful display. And not a hint of plastic packaging in sight!’ He smiles bashfully, then turns more serious. OK, the sales pitch is about to begin…
‘Thees day I have for you booey!’ he cries. ‘Delicioso. Booey!’ And he kisses the tips of his fingers, like a Frenchman.
Booey? Surely not? We followed four booeys round the streets of the town last June, at ‘La Romeria’, an orgy of eating and drinking, spotty dresses, covered wagons, an all-night party and the image of a saint thrown in for good measure. Booeys. Oxen, in English. Huge, placid creatures, four legs, not fins. Turf, not surf. Not seafood, for sure. ‘Booey?’ I puzzle, frowning. ‘Moooo!?’
Victor roars with laughter. ‘Sorreee, I mean booey del mar, of course. I confusing you. My Eengliss ver bad!’
Booey del mar? Ox of the sea?. Is he serious? What manner of creature could be an ox of the sea? My mind is spinning, running riot. A whale? One of those sea-cows we saw in Florida years ago, when the kids were small? Manatees they were called I seem to remember? Surely not. The Spanish will eat almost anything of course, we were offered, and flatly refused, sparrows in red wine sauce in the bar the other night. But a Manatee? They are protected anyway, aren’t they? ‘Sorry Victor’ I chuckle, ‘I have no idea what a booey del mar is. Do you have one, you can show me please?’
‘Of course, wait one minute plees!’ and he disappears through the plastic curtains, into the cold-store behind. He has me on the hook, he no doubt feels, not reeled me in yet, but he can sense a sale. But that’s what he thinks. Doesn’t sound very nice, does it, ox of the sea? Then again, take that German battleship. Probably tastes incredible, filleted. But eating the mother-in-law?
So what size is this ox of the sea anyway? If it really is cow, or who knows, ox-like, will he have the whole thing back there? Won’t he need to chop it up into smaller pieces, like in a butchers? Not a clue, but I am about to find out as here he comes, backing through the plastic, something in his hands but certainly not bovine dimensions. Then he turns with a flourish and places a crab on the counter. An ordinary crab, like you get in Cornwall or Devon, or many other seaside destinations in the UK. As served in that little place on Brixham harbour, mayonnaise, chopped onion and herbs, with brown bread. Sensational. ‘Fresh from the boat, straight down your throat!’ as the little blackboard on the quayside proclaims, with just a hint of Westcountry humour. A British crab, not one of those spidery things they have in France, orangey-red in colour, about a foot wide, but about as un-ox-like as I could possibly imagine. He is grinning widely. ‘Jonneee, booey del mar! How you say booey del mar en Eengliss?’
‘Crab.’
He reacts with horror. ‘Jonneee no! Booey del mar ees beautiful, not crap! Why you say thees?’
I cannot help a chuckle. Poor fellow looks so serious. ‘No, crab, with a ‘b’. Not crap with a ‘p’. C.r.a.b. Crap is something completely different.’ For a second I am back in Miguel’s garden.
He runs his hand across his face. ‘HODER! My Eengliss ver bad! So do you eating crap in you countree? HODER! Crab! Sorree!’
Once or twice, Victor, once or twice! My mind is still reeling with how something resembling a pie-crust could, in Spanish, equate to a farm animal. I mean, ever seen pincers on the front of an ox, have you? Pincers with dirty great elastic bands on them…NO NO NO! The thing is still alive! I step back, waving the startled purveyor of crustaceans away. Call me hypocritical, but I cannot stand seeing things alive, before I start eating them. I mean, if I order a plate of lamb chops in a restaurant, I don’t want to watch them gambolling across a field beforehand, do I? The same with Ringo the Rooster, stuffed and plucked, in Phil and Jackie’s kitchen last spring. I built his chicken coop for heaven’s sake. No way could could I have him for Sunday lunch. But how can I explain this? Impossible, really. Best just say I don’t like eating crap. Sorry, crab.
It seems however as if Victor has got the message. Placing the ox of the sea next to the prawns on his tableau, he snaps on a pair of white rubber gloves, and with a flourish extracts a salmon cutlet, which he lovingly proffers. ‘Sall-mon. Womans sall-mon.’ Right. He has me baffled again. Womans salmon? Would that be ‘salmon for women’ possibly, or did this piece of seafood come from a female version of the species? Sensing my confusion again, he lifts his apron to one side, stretches out his fingers, and runs his hand up and down his groin area. OH. MY. GOD. I cannot believe that just happened. And an elderly woman who has crept silently, unseen, into the shop, looks on aghast as her fishmonger mimics a vagina.
For a few seconds I am rendered speechless, then rub my hands across my face. ‘So you are telling me this piece of fish was female?’
‘HODER! Yees. Female! Womans sall-mon!’
Well that clears it up nicely. Why would I care? Why would it matter if it were male, female, or ambidextrous? What possible reason could Victor have for imparting this particular nugget of information? The thing swam across the Atlantic, presumably, found it’s way up the same river where it was born, so they say, leaped over a few weirs, did the dirty with a member of the opposite sex, got caught in a massive net and ended up sliced and diced on Victor’s counter. So are the mans sall-mon easier to catch, and therefore cheaper? Is that what this is all about? Do the bloke salmon hang around chatting about the football, and sex, then whoosh! In with the net and scoop the lot of them up? Are the female of the species more wily, difficult to nab, and therefore more expensive? Wouldn’t surprise me. And is Victor trying to stiff me for an extra couple of quid, pretending this is a woman cutlet? Any more of this and I am off down the supermarket for a box of fishfingers, and who cares if they are covered in breadcrumbs? Or female.
My Spanish friend regards me with utter bewilderment. ‘Jonneee! You not know thees? The flavour of womans sall-mon is dulce, how you say, sweeter! Man sall-mon fuerte!’ And he flexes his arm muscle, and pumps his fist. Well blow me down. Who knew? Been a consumer of salmon since I was a boy, from a tin in those days, of course, but the red stuff, not the cheap pink rubbish, with the bits of skin. Tea-time, on a Saturday. And when we were courting, Chrissie’s mother used to prepare us a packed lunch on a Sunday, for days out in my trusty Ford Anglia. Salmon and tomato rolls. One of the reasons I married the woman. (Only joking, darling!) Anyway, me and salmon, of whatever sex, go back a long way. ‘So Jonneee, how you say ‘womans sall-mon’ in Eengliss?’
I cannot help a crafty chuckle. ‘Salmon’.