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

by John Austin Richards

  Chrissie strides jauntily down the steps, to check on the progress. ‘Who’s a lucky fella, then? Loli in a swimsuit! Down, boy!’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Not so fast, Mrs. I reckon that at right this minute, Fernando will be squeezing into his budgie-smugglers. As Del-Boy Trotter might have said, that will knock you band…..’

  ‘AAAARRRRRRHHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOO! WILL YOU SHUT UP?’ My wife is dancing on the spot, flapping her arms, and retching. Well she started it, right?

  Meanwhile, twenty feet up on her kitchen patio, our tormentor mistakes our jollity for excitement. If only she knew… ‘Neighbour, do you have any sand left, make a small beach? Where are the toffee apples, and the cotton candy? What about the donkeys? And the fish and chips, at the end of the pier?’ WHAT? This is extraordinary. Where on earth did Loli learn about the British seaside? We are certain she has us bugged, but this is just not possible. She told us once she has only been to the Costas less than half a dozen times in her life. And there are certainly no toffee apples or candy-floss down there. Donkeys there are none. Or piers. And as for fish n chips, Jose at the library summed it up best. ‘Yees in Espain we eat feeesh, of course, and cheeps occasionally. But not on the same plate, or from newspaper!’ So there you have it. The Spanish think we are a bunch of savages. But what do they know? I tell you this, when I get to Heaven, providing there is a pier with a chip shop on the end, I will be happy to remain there for all eternity. Or even longer.

  Suddenly, annoying-woman is waving something over her patio railing, a book of some sort. ‘Neighbour, English book of my nephew! I have been reading about a day at the beach!’ Of course, why didn’t I remember the famous English textbook, given to most junior-school kids here? We were shown one at the library once, which contained illustrated explanations of typical British activities, including ‘A day at the beach.’ Fair enough, sounded like a traditional seaside visit to me. What was stranger however were some of the activities listed under the section ‘A typical Sunday in Britain.’ Taking your dog to the pub was one, no problem there, done it myself countless times. But cheese-rolling? Charging down a steep grassy hill in pursuit of a wheel of Cheddar? The Spaniards at the conversation group simply refused to believe my denials that I had ever partaken of this ridiculous activity. It was in the text book, so that was that. I can just picture the scenario; ‘Coming for a pint, Jonno?’ ‘I am, yeah, but just let me catch this lump of Double-Gloucester, a minute. Hold me dog and me chips, will you?’

  Right. The water level is coming up. Time to christen the pool. Wrong ‘Neighbour! Kay-so!’ Yep. She has the page open showing the cheese-rolling. I smile through gritted teeth. No, different part of the country, Loli. London, probably, sounds like it anyway. I’ll get Del to explain it to you one day. I get my kay-so at the cheese shop like most sane people. I wave gaily and disappear into the changing-room, resisting the temptation to bang my head against the newly-plastered walls, emerging thirty seconds later in my swim-shorts. No budgie-smugglers in this house, Fernando. I still have the audience, of course, there is zero chance of Loli going away until she has committed the entire scene to memory. I can envisage the brownie points stacking up. She will have massive bragging-rights in the street this night, and for many more to come, I imagine. But who cares? This is the early-retirement dream, right? Taken us over a year of hard work to get this far, turning this sloping Spanish shambles into something resembling a garden, and there is still another level to finish yet. But right now, I feel a frisson of satisfaction. Chrissie is under the fig tree already, having deduced that an audience of one is sufficient for the time being. ‘Right, I’m going in!’

  ‘Well hurry up, I want a go too!’ comes the reply. Into the water, ooohhh, a bit nippy to be honest, needs a few hours sunlight on it I am guessing. Only a couple of feet deep, but I slosh backwards and immerse my entire torso.

  ‘That water is too cold, neighbour!’

  She is wrong there, it is not too cold, it is absolutely bloody freezing. I stand hastily up, and beat my chest with both fists. Loli no doubt thinks I am doing Tarzan impressions, but really I am attempting to re-start my heart. I smile serenely, through chattering teeth. ‘This is no problem! I am English!’

  The Wild Witch of the West cackles, through her gappy teeth. ‘You certainly are, neighbour, you certainly are!’

  A quick change into shorts and tee-shirt, and a jog down the garden path, to get my circulation going again. Chrissie is meanwhile raring to go. ‘I’d give it five minutes, if I were you’ I smile, ‘give the audience a chance to clear off. Really, we are going to need to get a parasol up there, to give us a bit of privacy.’

  My wife sniggers. ‘What, worried she was perving at you? Her dream-boat, in a pair of cheap Primark trunks? Bit of a sex-symbol, are we?’

  I cannot resist a wry chuckle. ‘All of that, yes, but also I now know how the sea-lions at the zoo must have felt. Honestly, it was like being a circus animal. It’s a wonder she didn’t lob me a fish!’

  My wife still finds this amusing. ‘Our pool is just a novelty, what are you worrying about? They will soon get tired of gawping at us. Why waste money on a parasol? Just forget it, OK?’

  If you say so, dearest, if you say so. Up the path she treks, and after a few minutes I hear the sound of splashing, followed by strangulated gasps. A few minutes later she is back. ‘We are going to the caravan this weekend, yes? Right, that giant Carrefour just off the motorway near Malaga? In there, and get a parasol. No messing, just get one!’

  Oh sometimes life can be so sweet. ‘Just a few seconds ago you were telling me not to waste our money on a parasol. What can possibly have changed your mind, I wonder? Of course, if you really want one, maybe YOU could pay for it!’

  Which earns me a glare. ‘Fernando. The great, hairy, silver-back gorilla. Perving at me the the entire time I was in that pool.’

  ‘Was he wearing his Speedo’s, could you see?’

  Which earns me a whack with her pillow. ‘Friday. Malaga. Carrefour. Parasol. Lie down on that sunbed, and go to sleep, RIGHT NOW!’

  Oh yeah! So good!

  I wake during the middle of the night to the sound of rainfall. Strange, Juan the dustman didn’t say anything about inclement weather today, amateur forecaster as he is. We are still sleeping in the ‘summer kitchen’ apartment on the lower ground floor by the back door, so as I need a tinkle I head upstairs, passing the window overlooking the street on the way. Curious, the cobble-stones are dry. OH NO, don’t say we have a water-leak, somewhere? Switching on just about every light in the house, I carefully check for drips and seepage, of which there are none. Maybe it was just a dream? Creeping back downstairs, Chrissie is wide awake, of course. ‘Is it raining?’

  That settles it. We have a burst. The only other place with water is outside the back door, on the covered El Sombrero patio, where there is a laundry area, old and new, washing machine and ancient stone sink with corrugated sides, for beating the clothes in days of old. But not a drop anywhere. ‘Try the swimming pool?’ comes the voice from inside, ‘I told you to get a heavy-dut……’ OH MY GOD! THE POOL! Sprinting down the steps, throwing on the whole forty-watts, I am greeted by a pathetic heap of damp rubber, and about a thousand gallons of pool-water cascading down the mountainside. Utter despair.The dream only lasted twelve hours. What could possibly have happened? Clawed by cats? Chewed by other creatures of the night? Has Crazy Man made a return, attacked it with a Prestige stainless-steel kitchen implement, for, I don’t know, bricking up his sleeping bag?

  Suddenly, silhouetted in the restful glow of forty watts, I notice the air valve on the rubber-ring bit has been opened. How could this possibly have happened? Sabotage? Did I forget to seal up the little nozzle and press it firmly home? Impossible, I have blown-up countless rubber-ducks, arm-bands and Li-lo’s over the years. Did I simply forget, in all the excitement, and Loli’s bellowing? Who knows, and quite frankly it’s the middle of the night. Closing the valve, which is a bit like tha
t horsey, stable-door thing, I head back up to bed.

  ‘So what happened to your precious pool, then?’

  Not nice is it, sarcasm at three in the morning? ‘I think Fernando, dressed in a pink spandex mankini, performed a swallow-dive, with three-and-a-half turns, plus pike, off his patio, and burst the bloody thing! Happy now?’

  Suddenly the mattress is shaking, although whether with subterranean laughter, or if she is being sick, I cannot say, as I am asleep already…

  Next morning, following breakfast on the terrace, the approaching reverberation of spectacular throat-clearing can mean only one thing. Neighbour, look at your pool… ‘Neighbour! Your pool. The tide has gone out!’ What can I say? We think your brother went skinny-dipping last night, and popped it? Hardly. Shaving another few microns from my dental enamel, I smile widely, as if vanishing pool-water were an everyday occurrence in the lives of British ex-pats. Nothing to see here, Loli. Now kindly move along….

  Plus, of course, I have Chrissie on my case. ‘So are we having a dip, today, by any chance?’

  Not nice is it, sarcasm during my third mug. ‘Well, I have it all figured out, actually.’

  ‘Figured it out? How? It was pitch dark last night, and you haven’t even been down there this morning.’

  I flash her my best self-satisfied man-smile. ‘I figured it out during the night, if you must know.’

  ‘During the night? You were asleep before your head hit the pillow, snoring away like that sea-lion you referenced yesterday. I was going to throw you a fish, actually, but I didn’t have one to hand.’

  ‘It’s what us guys do best! It’s what I do best. Fixing things. Solutions to problems, working it all out. Why my head is so big, stuffed full with brains. Problem-solving brains.’

  Which earns me my first whack of the morning, with a patio-chair cushion. ‘OK Mister huge-brain, what is the problem, and what is your solution? I can’t wait to hear this, agog as I am. I don’t think my teeny-weeny woman-brain can absorb your gigantic man-brain thought-processes, but let’s hear it, anyway.’

  This is only going to end one way, for me, isn’t it? Badly. I have stuffed-up, yet again, although maybe, just maybe, I can get away with it. Gonna cost me, for sure, whatever happens. Right, here goes. ‘Well, did you notice, yesterday, when you were getting perved at, the pool had a deep-end, and a shallow-end? Not by much, admittedly, but at the bottom of the patio it was deeper than the top? Well, ye canna change the laws of physics, Jim. It’s the slope on the patio, see? I had to build a slight slope on the patio, so that rain could run off, plus any escaping water, so there is always going to be a deep-end on the pool. And the water pressure on the rubber ring bit is just too great, it forces the valve open, so the pool deflates.’

  She considers these nuggets for a few seconds. ‘So your gigantic man-brain has identified the problem. What solutions has it come up with?’ And she cups her hand to her ear.

  Not nice is it, sarcasm when I am offering solutions. Trying my best, aren’t I? ‘Well, apparently, Carrefour sell a free-standing, tubular-framed, heavy duty rubber version. So I have just heard. We have to call in there tomorrow, don’t we, to get a parasol, to stop Mister Budgie-Smuggler leering at you? So maybe we could think about buying a free-stand…’

  Which earns me my second whack of the morning, with a patio-chair cushion. Didn’t get away with it, did I?

  CHAPTER 6. PAYING THE RATES, SPANISH-STYLE.

  A few days later we arrive home to find a yellow printed form stuffed into our mail-box. A curious feature of life here is that very few houses have letter boxes cut into their front doors. No idea why. Cannot trust a Spaniard to saw straight, possibly? Quite likely, actually, considering some of the DIY disasters on display, as we wend our way around the town. Instead we have these metal post-boxes, flap at the top and a key to open the front, fixed to the walls of the houses, many clearly without the benefit of a spirit-level. The inability of the local populace to drill two horizontal holes is shocking, quite honestly. At least ours is level. Had a good eye, did old Joe Shepherd.

  So what is this yellow slip? Looks official, bearing as it does the town crest at the top. Can only herald bad news, one way or the other. Someone is after us, and clearly not to wish us a merry Christmas, in mid-October. The form seems to be part of a carbonated set, as some of the words are printed, and some handwritten, although in what language is impossible to say. Hieroglyphics, possibly? Are there Ancient Egyptians in this part of Spain? As always in these situations, we have a network of friends, and translators, at the library, and by a stroke of good fortune there is a conversation class today. Sadly, the senior financial guru, Juan, seems to be running late, and Jose and Teri appear completely baffled. Rafi however detects a glimmer of sense in this missive. ‘Who Jose Ocana Pastor, plees? Thees message for he.’ We explain that ‘Joe Shepherd’ was the previous owner, and that we bought the house just over a year ago. ‘Then you must to pay you ee-bee. How you say ee-bee in Eengliss, plees?’

  Ee-bee? The only expression I can think of is ‘heebie-jeebies’, which describes perfectly my feelings regarding this mysterious communication. Marie meanwhile has been checking the dictionary. ‘Taxis’ she exclaims. Not a clue. There is usually a motley collection of licensed conveyances gathered outside the bus station, but we have certainly never taken one. Some of the other neighbours, yes, on account of them having no lungs to speak of, but us? Never. So is this incomprehensible yellow document a taxi account, possibly? Has crafty old Joe Shepherd been blagging free jaunts around the town, or who knows, trips to the seaside, and ‘accidentally’ omitting to notify the authorities of his new address? Over my dead body am I paying that, although quite what the Spanish translation of that might be I have no idea. But what the hell. We are here to learn, are we not?

  ‘Arriba mi cuerpo!’ I announce, which causes wild hilarity, and they seem to get the message, hopefully. Fortunately at that moment Juan strides in, and takes charge of this complete chaos. Relieving Rafi of the pesky slip, he studies it carefully for about ten seconds, then whacks it down on the desk. ‘Ee-bee’ he announces. Yeah we all knew that bit, thank you very much. ‘Tax.’ he continues, ‘tax of you house. Every year you must to pay tax of you house to a-junty-mento. You pay tax to a-junty-mento plees thees year?’ Not as far as I know. Tax of you house? Rates? Community charge? Poll tax, or whatever they call it now? Daylight robbery, whatever name it goes by. Eighteen hundred quid we were paying, before we emigrated. So is that what all this is about? And a-junty-mento? We haven’t paid any form of ee-bee to any mento, certainly not a junty one. ‘A-junty-mento?’

  Rafi senses my confusion. ‘Hall of town, you say in Eengliss, near to chur of Santa Maria, and house of polices-mans.’ She wags her finger severely at Juan. ‘Cristina and Jonneee not to go hall of town to pay they ee-bee. For to pay thees they must to go office at La Fuente Marbella, office with banderas.’

  Amador meanwhile has just arrived, catching the tail-end of Rafi’s speech. ‘BANDERAS! Oh my GAAD. Antonio Banderas, he so SEXY!’ All this for one manky bit of paper. But Amador is in full-flow now. ‘Oh my GAAD, last week die my haunt, after funeral Cristina and Jonneee take me PISSY! With they Eengliss friend CRAZY! I no understand one word they friend SAY. Oh my GAAD! We get PISSY!’ Well clearly he did understand one word Del taught him. ‘After funeral Eengliss persons get PISSY! I love you COUNTREE! Oh my GAAD!’

  Not one single Spaniard present has the foggiest idea what the newest member of the group is talking about, and some are clearly beginning to regret kicking Alicia out. Maria meanwhile still has hold of the dictionary. ‘Sorree, I no see thees word pissy. Explain me plees?’

  ‘Yees, in Eengliss, drink much beers, get PISSY!’

  Teri however remains totally baffled. ‘You say me last week died your haunt, and after funeral you went drinking? Are you insane?’

  Chrissie rapidly takes up the reins, before a fight breaks out, and explains that, yes indeed, there is a tradi
tion in Britain for a respectful get-together after a funeral, where friends and relatives of the deceased might partake of tea and cakes, and that on occasion these events can indeed involve the consumption of alcoholic beverages, in small quantities. Or you can get completely rat-arsed, the choice is yours. But please to bear in mind that funerals in Britain are often three weeks after the death, and not the following day as they are here. Which summed it up perfectly, I thought. Mind you, Amador and Del were completely rat-arsed that day.

  ‘Flags.’ Maria is still flicking through her Spanish/English tome. ‘Banderas. Flags, in Eengliss.’

  Oh yes, the flags, of course, I get it now, I think. In all this confusion about getting pissy, we had gone completely of the subject of our scrappy bit of paper. ‘So we need to pay our house tax for the year, and to do this we must go to the office of the town council, which is that old stone building with the flags outside, near the Marbella fountain? Correct?’ Spanish heads nod around the table. I grip the crumpled message with thumb and forefinger, and hold it disdainfully aloft. ‘And how am I supposed to know how much I have to pay?’

  Juan snatches it back. ‘No, thees not you beel,’ he cries, waving it viciously at no-one in particular, ‘this you moolta!’ Well that clears it up perfectly.