My wife waves a hand dismissively. ‘Shhhhhhhh! The Civil Guards are coming!’
The ‘Guardia Civil’. The slightly-more important-and slightly-younger-polices-mans. Well woopy-do. ‘You are just as bad as the rest of them’ I cry, accusingly. ‘Come on downstairs, pour yourself a drink. I am starting dinner now.’
She turns to face me. ‘Well let me know when it’s on the table. I’m staying here! Right?’
The following morning, breakfast on the patio, and yet more interruptions. ‘NEIGHBOUR!’ Why didn’t we stay in England? I peer out over the edge and greet the vastly annoying woman. ‘Funeral of Carmelli, ten-thirty’ she proclaims. Yes, but what date?
‘Cuando?’ I enquire. When?
‘I told you neighbour, ten-thirty!’
I wave my appreciation at this piece of half-information. No doubt it will be three weeks hence, plenty of time to find out the date from a saner source.
Chrissie returns with a fresh pot of coffee. ‘Did she say the funeral was half-ten? Blimey, better get a move-on, then, find myself something to wear. Which gem from your extensive collection do you think you might select?’
Oh very droll. ‘Well who cares? It isn’t for another fortnight, probably, and besides, you have plenty to wear in that humungous collection of yours. Sit down, you are making me dizzy.’
She regards me without affection. ‘You really and truly are a complete, steaming nincompoop, aren’t you. I am phoning the doctor, right now. You know very well that funerals in Spain are always the following day! And don’t bury your face in your hands like that’, she continues, mercilessly, ‘I don’t want to hear any more of that ‘my brain thinks it’s midnight’ crap, for God’s sake get a grip!’ And she storms off, banging the front door behind her.
Blimey. Has she left me? Surely not? She has that humungous great wardrobe to clear out, first. But she is correct, I really must get a grip. I am of course aware of the local custom of having the funeral on the day following the unhappy demise. I should have realised it would be today, but as my brain still thinks it is midnight……
Ten seconds later, she is back. ‘Right, I’ve just seen the death notice stuck on Carmelli’s door, the funeral is at ten-thirty, at St Mary’s. So I’m gonna sort through my HUMUNGOUS wardrobe for some dark clothing, and I suggest you do the same, when you finish your coffee, of course. Won’t take you long, will it!’ And giggling, she disappears again. Ah yes, the death notices. In the absence of the tradition of a local newspaper here, every time someone dies there is an A4 sized sheet of paper, fringed in black, usually with the image of a saint, outlining the name of the deceased, their age and location, together with who the family are, and the details of the funeral arrangements, pinned to the front door of the dearly departed, and at various locations round the town. All I can say is that the local printers must work around the clock, to assemble the information, print the things, and get them posted. Good business to be in, all things considered.
At ten twenty-eight, soberly dressed, we arrive outside St Mary’s, to be greeted by the usual Spanish chaos. And the hearse is already there. Oh, I’m going to love this! Stroking my chin theatrically, I turn to my wife. ‘Now who was it who claimed the funeral was due to start at half-ten? And what is this here, this extremely long vehicle with windows in the back? Could it be a hearse by any chance? A hearse with no coffin inside. And this is Spain remember, so they cannot possibly be early. They have started already. So who couldn’t translate the time properly?’
Which earns me a painful dig in the ribs, plus her best Mrs Paddington Bear stare. ‘Actually, I think you will find it was our SPANISH neighbour Loli, who said it was ten-thirty? But of course you don’t remember that, do you, as your minuscule brain was still thinking it was midnight?’
Never won one yet, in almost forty years. Before the exchange can become even more deadly, a figure in a vest-top and jeans is pushing his way through the melee. ‘Cristina! Jonneee! How lovely to see YOOOU!’ Amador, the newbie from the library group. ‘Where you go, een black CLOTHES?’ Chrissie explains. ‘Me ALSO! CARMELLI. My HAUNT! Sorree, haunt of my FATHERS!’
WHAT? Dressed like that? Surely not? We only met him a few weeks ago, so we cannot really say anything, but a tank top at his great-aunts funeral? Although, looking round, very few have made much of an effort to dig out their black clothing, which is strange in a country where ‘Sunday Best’ is very much a national pastime. Curious.
‘Thees way plees, we go in CHUR!’ Yeah, easier said than done, my friend, as the door is completely blocked by a typical Andalucian ruck, the cause of which soon becomes apparent. A coffin. Carmelli’s coffin, presumably, placed on a wheeled frame, and stuck in the middle of the entrance porch. Truly, it is as if the bearers have thought ‘now where could we leave this to cause maximum disruption?’ Still, this is Spain, as they say. There will be plenty of time. It’s not as if this will be a typical British ‘sausage machine’ funeral, inside the chapel, favourite song, quick address by someone who didn’t know the dearly departed, a hymn which no-one knows the tune of, another favourite song, then out, just as the next crowd of mourners are lining up outside. Although the speed at which some of the mourners are passing the coffin is less than rapid. It would be a wild exaggeration to describe it as ‘snails pace’ to be honest. Kissing, caressing, a few tears, and that is before they’ve even got to the wooden box. At this rate, it will be time for my funeral, before we get seated.
Still, gives us time for a spot of people watching. And they are all here, the neighbours. Loli, Isabel and brother Fernando, squeezing his ample stomach into a pew, Leopard-skin woman with Auntie Vera, joined at the hip as usual, Pirate Pete, grinning at all and sundry, making the most of his restored vision, crazy Marie, rattling her jewellery, cross-eyed Cruz-ojo, gazing every which way. Even Ferret-woman has slunk into a seat at the back. The only one missing appears to be Juan ‘The Dustman’, last seen sweeping up a pile of dog-ends from outside the bar.
The next hundred years pass quickly and eventually we are able to take our seats, Amador inside, Chrissie next to him and me on the outside, in case I need to make a run for it. Not sure what to expect here today of course, but we got ourselves trapped at the back of an evening Mass once, and it felt like a life sentence. Without warning, it appears as if something might be about to happen. A priest appears, then a gentle trundling announces the passage of the coffin-on-wheels, a smartly-dressed funeral director on each corner. I am trying to be British and direct my gaze to the front, although just about everyone else are craning their necks to see what is happening, when a voice in my ear whispers ‘Gold-feeesh.’ Somewhat startled, to say the least, I turn to be confronted by ‘Vic the Fish’, in undertaker gear, positioned at the back corner of the cortege, who smiles and winks as he passes. Blimey, is he moonlighting? Has he left his job as a fishmonger? Do we have to rename him ‘Vic the Coffin’? Who knows, but presumably we will find out, over tea and cakes, and a beer or two hopefully, when this is finally over.
The next hundred years drag a bit, I have to say, but eventually we emerge, blinking, stretching, and in the case of some of the mourners, coughing and windpipe-clearing, into the warm sunshine. Amador grabs my arm. ‘OK, see you next WEEK!’
I stare at him, uncomprehending. ‘Sorry, aren’t you coming to the wake? And where is it , by the way?’
Our friend appears mystified. ‘Sorree, I no understand YOOOU!’
‘The wake, Carmelli’s wake.’
Total bafflement. ‘NO! My haunt she not awake, my haunt she die, she with Cassoo, NOW!’
Chrissie takes over the narrative, although I am beginning to get the distinct impression we are not getting tea, cakes or a couple of beers, as the mourners seem to be dispersing to the four winds. ‘A wake is a small get-together after a funeral, in the family home maybe, or often nowadays in the pub, to celebrate the life of the person who has died. It could be just a quiet affair, but sometimes it can turn into a bit of a party!’
‘OH MY GAAAAD! You EENGLISS! You have party, in PUB? OH MY GAAAAD! My haunt she die, yester-DAY! OH MY GAAAAD!’ Nope, we ain’t getting tea, cakes and beer this day. What a miserable lot they are. Although, on reflection, the difference is that Carmelli only passed yesterday, maybe the family are too grief-stricken to want to be buttering rolls. I just assumed that, bearing in mind the Spanish seem to need no excuse whatsoever to sit under a parasol quaffing beer and munching tapas, there might just be a quiet do? Apparently not.
But we cannot just leave it like this surely. I place my hand round his shoulders. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go into this cafe here, have a coffee, and you can tell us all about your haunt. Sorry, your aunt. She was a lovely lady, we enjoyed talking to her, so what do you say?’
Amador brightens visibly at the prospect. Maybe we will have just a small wake, after all. And of course, there will be tapas!
Down the street to the nearest bar, and who should be propping it up but Del-Boy. Who seems to have been here for a while. Not three sheets to the wind, possibly, but several, without question. ‘Wotcha! Oose ya mate?’ Chrissie quietly introduces a shell-shocked Amador, and explains we have just been to his aunt’s funeral, and have popped in for a quick coffee. ‘Sorry to ‘ear that’ the chirpy Cockney consoles the startled Spaniard, from about six inches away, ‘what ya needs is a coupla beers. ROBERTO! FOUR BEERS, OVER ‘ERE!’
Amador turns to me, and whispers tremulously ‘is this what it is be awake, een EENGLAND?’ Quite possibly it is, my friend, quite possibly it is. Say what you like about Del, however, and many do, he is a convivial host. If anyone can coax Amador out of his grief, it is him.
Emerging, a number of hours later, into the bright afternoon sunshine, I grip Del warmly by the hand, and off he then totters, down the street, in the opposite direction to his house, in search of who knows what, but like a randy tom cat, bless him, he will eventually find his way home. Amador, meanwhile, is leaning on me for support. Can’t hold their beer, Spaniards. ‘Cristina, Jonneee’ he slurs, ‘thank you moocho. I want I be Eenglees-man! I want I die in Eengland! I want party like THEES!’ And off he weaves.
Chrissie and I head for home, and the fig tree in the garden. Been a sad but good day, all in all. Educating the locals to celebrate a funeral correctly is going to be a long old job. But someone’s got to do it, right?
CHAPTER 5. WHO LET THE WATER OUT?
Finally, after what seems like an age, the new pool patio is ready. Rome wasn’t built in a day, of course, and neither was our patio, although personally I believe the constructors of the Eternal City had it easy. They didn’t have Loli, Isabel and Fernando to deal with, did they? And who knew Loli was an expert in building paved outdoor areas? Just about every morning, came a running commentary. ‘Neighbour, building a wall with bricks, are you?’ ‘Neighbour, laying hardcore?’ ‘Neighbour, doing the tiling?’ Stating the bleeding obvious, quite honestly. In the UK, such questions would be met with a healthy dose of British sarcasm. ‘Tiles? Ooh, I wondered what these boxes of ceramic things were.’ And they all do it, the locals, I listen to them sometimes, talking amongst themselves, in this town built on a mountainside. Exit your front door, you can go one of two ways. Uphill, or downhill. Arriba, or a-back-o. ‘Going a-back-o, neighbour?’ No actually I’m going arriba, but walking backwards. Or sometimes I wish that, when Chrissie and I leave the house together, she would go one way, and I the other, like that Scottish song. ‘You’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road..’ ‘You go arriba, and I’ll go a-back-o..’ That would fox them, wouldn’t it? Often, when Chrissie is carrying a plate of sandwiches down to our hideaway under the fig tree, Loli will call out ‘having your lunch, neighbour?’ Stating the bleeding obvious, which were it an Olympic sport….
Actually, I do feel somewhat sorry for our neighbours. No doubt when the old couple lived in our house, Jose Ocana Pastor, or ‘Joe Shepherd’ to use our Anglicised nickname, he and his wife, being Spanish, would no doubt be happy to stand around all morning doing nothing, gossiping, stating the bleeding obvious. We don’t do that of course. We can’t do that actually, not possessing the language skills for one thing, but we are simply not wired up that way either, being Brits. Gotta get on, and all that. Even in these balmy days of early retirement, we do what needs doing in the morning, and relax in the afternoons, otherwise our patios and outside spaces will not be finished before one of us croaks. Rome might not have been built in a day, but Spain has taken about five thousand years, and it ain’t finished yet, the speed this lot move.
Mind you, Loli does have one advantage over the rest of the villagers; she gets first dibs at what the crazy English are up to, which no doubt gives her massive bragging rights when it comes to gossiping in the street. ‘What do you think they did today? Had their lunch under the fig tree!’ ‘Today he was building a patio. I told him he was doing it wrong, but he wouldn’t listen!’ All her Christmases came at once, the day we moved in.
And I have to tell you, this Joe Shepherd character wasn’t much of a builder. Take his ramshackle collection of animal sheds, which once stood on the area where our new swimming pool is hopefully going to reside, for example. An eyesore and a death-trap, all rolled into one, a seemingly random, unrelated collection of tree-trunks, corrugated asbestos, and tin sheets. Back in the summer, adopting my usual ‘bull in a china-shop’ method of demolition, I did actually come very close to croaking, which would no doubt have delighted my pension provider, but was certainly not on my agenda, I can tell you. If you visit a cathedral in the UK, the elderly guide will proudly point out the ‘keystone’, the central point which holds up the whole roof. You don’t tend to encounter that feature on one of Joe Shepherd’s collection of tree-trunks, corrugated asbestos, and tin sheets, to be honest. In hindsight, booting away the worm-infested length of plank was a bad idea, causing as it did the whole roof to collapse on my head in a choking cloud of dust and a stream of strangled oaths. Boggle-eyed, staggering, bent almost double, bearing the weight of the entire structure on my neck, in real danger of ending up a whimpering, gibbering, grime-encrusted corpse, around the side of his house came a stomach, followed what seemed like several hours later by Fernando. My rescuer! My hero! My salvation! No doubt he will leap the wall, like Superman on a mission, although hopefully without the tights, and shoulder my burden. We can then, together, lower this noxious structure gently to the ground, hug, and go for a pint. Nope. What did the corpulent Spaniard actually do? Resting his gut on the garden wall, he uttered those immortal words, which have since gone down in the annals of history, at least in this house. ‘I will have those tin sheets, neighbour, if you don’t want them.’
And take Isabel, the only ‘sane’ one of the family. Although that is stretching a point, to be honest. The sweeper. The brush queen. The pursuer of specks of dust, invisible to the naked eyes of mere mortals. Scratch scratch, rustle rustle, swish swish, coming down the garden path. My fear of certain rodents is legendary, and lying in one of Joe Shepherd’s filth-encrusted dungeons has my senses on high alert for what might be lurking silently, awaiting the chance to attach itself to my nose. And the damn woman gets me every time, scratch, rustle, swish, causing me to leap spectacularly to my feet, only to find the smiling face of Isabel peering over the wall. ‘Having a rest, neighbour?’ I swear I have ground several millimetres of enamel from my teeth, since moving to this country.
So here we are. The day has arrived. Blowing up the pool day. With air, I hasten to add, not explosives. Our new pool, sourced from Tony and Jo, who have upgraded to a bigger, free-standing, tubular-framed, heavy duty rubber version, from Carrefour. ‘Don’t know why you didn’t get one of those free-standing, tubular-framed, heavy duty rubber ones they sell in Carrefour, that thing looks like a kiddies paddling pool’, Chrissie complained, when I returned with my prize after a morning’s labour at their house, levelling the ground in their garden, for their new pool. Because those cost a hundred and fifty euros, t
hat’s why. OK, I’ll give her that, it does resemble a kiddies paddling pool, but much bigger, ten feet across, and four feet deep. A kiddies paddling pool, for big kids. Like me. Plus it comes with an electric pump, to suck out all the dust which will no doubt accumulate on the water, after Isabel has done her worst. Bargain.
I have delayed inflation until Loli and Isabel have gone shopping, so that hopefully I can get it half-filled with water before the Spanish Inquisition commences. And what could be simpler? Utilising lung-power to pump-up the giant rubber ring, followed by half an hour lying down, gasping painfully, like a freshly-caught mans sall-mon on Victor’s fish counter, then out with the hose, straighten out the creases as it fills, sit back and enjoy. I will be getting wet, this afternoon, for sure. This is going to be so good. One especially pleasing aspect of my construction is a pool changing-room, complete with a plug socket, and soft electric lighting to illuminate the whole scene in a tranquil glow, for nocturnal bathing. All right, a forty-watt bulb, OK? Meanwhile, Chrissie has dug out some towels, and our bathing costumes. As soon as there is about an inch in the bottom, I am going in!
Or not. ‘I got my bikini out, neighbour!’ There’s a chilling thought, Loli’s quivering flesh on display. Like a Christmas turkey, before it goes into the oven, I imagine, a thought I quickly dismiss from my mind. The three of them are younger than us, by a good ten years we reckon, but it would not be conceited to state that they certainly don’t look it. Although non-smokers, they all cough like Siberian salt-miners, with a similar pallor, not the merest hint of a tan, and the athletic ability of retired cart-horses. Much talk is made of the so-called Mediterranean diet, but there ain’t much evidence of it in this neck of the woods, I can tell you. Loli and her siblings appear as if they’ve spent their entire lives feasting on saturated fats, with a side-order of fries.
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 10