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

by John Austin Richards

  Meanwhile the old woman in the green coat is meeting her daughter here, but she phoned to say she was running late, on account of the dog vomiting all over the kitchen floor. A Labrador, apparently. Not sure if it is black, chocolate or golden, however. The dog I mean, not the vomit.

  And the chap with the gammy leg should be at the social security office really, but he received the red reminder from these Lad-Ronnies yesterday so didn’t want the Bastardos stealing his meter, which THEY DO, you know.

  Were you aware the best crusty pan in Santa Marta can be had from that little baker next to the post office? The woman with the stiff, 1950’s-style perm goes there every day, apart from Sunday of course as they are closed, and just bear in mind you have to get there before ten, when it is still warm from the oven. Good job Chrissie isn’t here, she is still madly in love with Jose sexy-eyes pan-man, who fulfills her daily order of a hot stick, but not on Sundays of course. As far as I know…

  The young woman with the baby is not happy, however, as young Felicia is not sleeping nights, and she is completely worn out. ‘Try some whisky in a little warm milk’ olive-man advises, although whether to administer to the mother, baby, or both, he does not specify. Not sure about that, personally. Surely brandy would be better? Or just forget the milk?

  In the far corner is a stick-thin woman in running kit, who is constantly tapping her feet in an agitated manner, whilst checking her Fit-Bit. Does sitting in the water board office count towards her ten-thousand daily steps? I suppose we shall never know. Although Lydia could probably arrange for us to meet up again, in case we were curious. Let me know, OK?

  Then of course it is time to explain who we are, and why we are here. ‘You bought the house of Jose Ocana Pastor’ smiles fifties-perm, which comes as rather a shock as I have never clapped eyes on the woman, until five minutes ago. ‘Lovely swimming pool you have there, and you have a nice colour from sunbathing in your garden.’ Has Loli been handing out photographs? We have a large parasol obscuring the view of our new Carrefour free-standing, tubular-framed, heavy duty rubber pool, from Loli’s observation deck, and the fig tree is still in leaf, so short of encasing our entire garden in a concrete bunker there is little more we can do, is there? Still, slightly spooky when complete strangers comment on your suntan, isn’t it? Hopefully she’s just referring to my face? At least I am not in Speedo's, AM I, Fernando? Imagine snaps of that doing the rounds.

  Lydia meanwhile is in full flow. ‘We are here about the house below the city wall’ she cheerfully confirms. ‘The owner and his boyfriend were here last week, he found a big hole in his roof, and now the water has been cut-off.’

  Did she actually just say that? Boyfriend? ‘Er, Lydia, Jake was not here with his boyfriend, he is married, to a woman, his wife stayed in England and Jake came for a few days with his friend. A mate, as we say.’

  She looks somewhat confused. ‘Oh my God, sorry, I thought you said they were sleeping in the same bed!’

  Well Jake did keep his jeans on, allegedly. ‘No no, sorry Lydia, I have confused you, they had to sleep in the same bed as there was a big hole in the roof of the other bedroom, and the spare bed was soaking wet. They are not, you know, boyfriends!’

  Too late, however. Olive-man is wagging his finger. ‘Ommo-sexuals! Tut tut tut…’ Oh, I cannot wait to recount this tale to Jake….Worth paying Lydia out of my own money.

  After what seems like about three-hundred years, it is finally our turn, I produce the red reminder and Lydia recounts the sorry tale, of which disinterested-woman is clearly less than impressed. Heard it all before, no doubt. Although, to be fair, neither of us has questioned her parentage, or her honesty, yet, which must earn us a few Brownie points, surely? Apparently not. A rapid exchange of Spanish ensues, and I can tell from the tone of water-board woman it is not going well. ‘She is a plug!’ giggles our translator, under her breath.

  Why do they employ all these plugs here? These miserable receptionists with faces like slapped arses? Can’t tell Lydia that though, can I? And I doubt the term will crop up in her English exams. Maybe I can explain it later. ‘Shoe-in. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’

  Meanwhile Plug is still rattling on. Lydia is really earning her fiver-an-hour. ‘She says, the bills have not been paid, by the bank, for three months, and the amount Jake must pay is one-hundred and fifty-nine euros.’

  HOW MUCH? FOR THREE MONTHS? Ours works out at less than a tenner a month, including filling two swimming pools, and we live here. Jake and Ros only came twice last year, once this, so far, and I don’t imagine Andy drank much water… ‘How can it possibly be that much? Sorry Lydia, but can you ask her again please? Has she made a mistake?’

  Apparently not. In a surprising demonstration of technology, Plug taps away at a keyboard, followed by the sound of a printer springing into life. She roots around under the desk and emerges with a sheet of A4, detailing the breakdown of the extortion, which our friend translates. ‘Water nine euros, re-connection fee twenty-five, new meter twenty five, and new contract one hundred.’

  ‘New meter? They still have the old one, somewhere. And a new contract? Why the hell do we need a new contract, and why do we have to pay?’

  Lydia is probably regretting not charging double, for these dumb Brits. ‘She say that the old meter is gone, and in Espain you always need to have a contract for water and electricity, and you must to pay.’

  New meter my eye. Probably they have the old one in the back of the van, just give it a wipe over and refit. Plug’s paper should read ‘re-connection of old meter fifty euros, but we did wipe it off for you.’ And a contract? For a hundred? Just a sheet of paper? And it’s not even a change of name, is it? Same address, same bank presumably, Jake did say there was plenty of money in it, so none of this seems to be his fault. The Lad-Ronnies.

  Suddenly, Plug turns her gaze in my direction. ‘Ha-cobo?’

  ‘Si.’

  Now why did I just do that? Why did I say ‘yes’? Every single Spaniard here has cautioned us against agreeing with something we don’t understand. The thing is, though, I do actually know what Ha-cobo is. A fritter. Indeed, a ham and cheese fritter, covered in breadcrumbs, and deep-fried. Phil and I were given one each as a tapas, in the bar, a few weeks ago. Deep-fried breadcrumbs would not be my first choice, but gift horses and all that. Went down a treat, too, with a glass of San Miguel. Just as I was about to make a polite enquiry, como se yamma in Espanol?, the artist beat me to it. ‘What the bladdy ‘ell is this, Antonio?’ The diminutive Spaniard regarded my friend without warmth. ‘Ha-cobo.’ So there you have it. A fritter. Unless Antonio was really saying something like ‘get stuffed you ignorant English peasant.’ Doubt it, knowing Antonio. He was probably thinking it, mind you.

  So do they give away tapas in the electricity board? Surely not. Actually there is a big dish of sweets on the counter, of which the locals have been freely partaking, but I cannot smell anything cooking. Still, if she is just popping into the back to bring out a tray of Ha-cobo, I am having one. But I still don’t know why I said yes. Greed, probably. To cover my embarrassment, I fish out my wallet, with which I have been entrusted today, under pain of death, and proffer my credit-card, tapping the bill.

  Plug wags her finger severely. Maybe we are not getting a savoury snack after all. ‘No. Effect-eebo only.’ Damn. I have no cash on me. Well, twenty maybe, but not a hundred and fifty-nine. So they are not all that advanced, at the water board, are they? The expats here are correct. Spain is like Britain was fifty years ago. Perhaps they will start accepting cheques, in the next decade?

  I give Lydia the nod, and smile graciously at Plug, in a save me a Ha-cobo if you’re getting them out kind of way. ‘Vamos al banco’, and the pair of us stumble gratefully into the sunshine. My student seems concerned about something, however. ‘John, why did you say that? Is very serious, to impers, to impers. How you say, to pretend to be a person?’

  ‘Impersonate?’

  ‘Y
es. Of course, impersonate. Why you impersonate plees?’

  ‘Sorry Lydia, I don’t understand, who have I impersonated?’

  ‘Ha-cobo.’

  What? Impersonating a fritter? Or have I got it wrong all along? Does Ha-cobo actually mean ‘you ignorant English peasant’? ‘Sorry, I thought Ha-cobo was something you eat? Cheese and ham?’

  My pupil has to lean on the wall, while she wipes away the tears. Of laughter, hopefully. ‘Your friend, Jake! In Espaniss his name is Ha-cobo. She was asking you if you are he. J.A.C.O.B. Ha-cobo. And you say yes! The ham and cheese food is San Ha-cobo. Saint Jacob. In bar we say only Ha-cobo, give me Ha-cobo, but is the name Jacob.’ And she delves into her bag for a pack of tissues.

  So Jake’s name is Jacob. Who knew? I mean, we were introduced to them as Ros and Jake, and I’d had a few to drink at the time, so Ros and Jake they have remained. Never gave it a minute’s thought. She must be Rosalind, or something like that, I suppose? So Jake has been sleeping with his boyfriend, and is named after a Spanish fritter? I’m gonna love this conversation with him later. Worth paying his hundred and fifty-nine euros, plus Lydia’s time. Oh my GAAD, as Amador would say!

  Returning to Aqualia, wallet bulging, we have of course lost our place in the queue, and there is no aroma of deep-fried anything, of course. There is however a golden Labrador tied up outside the door, looking decidedly green around the gills, although whether from this morning’s bout of bilious, or whether he’s just polished off a plate of Ha-cobo’s, is unclear. Anyway, I plan on keeping shtum, if Plug thinks I am Jake, and providing they don’t want to see my knee, and why would they as she already has those details, maybe I can get away with it, if I am lucky. And if not, I can always claim I didn’t understand, and thought she was offering me refreshments. Reckon I can wing this. Wrong! Another dispute has arisen, it seems. ‘This bank, it no longer exists’ Lydia explains. ‘Three months ago, more or less, in the creesis we have here in Espain, this bank of Jake went, how you say, boof?’

  Bankrupt? Blimey. We did of course read, in our British online newspaper, about all these banks here going boof, Caja-this, Caja-that, Caja-something else, the equivalent of Building-Societies in the UK, I suppose. Ours is Uni-Caja and that certainly didn’t go boof, as I have just been there, unless of course it happened in the last two minutes. So is Jake aware his Spanish bank went boof? Has he lost his money? No idea. Did a new bank take over? Surely he was notified? And if I am supposed to be Ha-cobo, why don’t I know the answers? See what happens when someone offers you free food? I smile sheepishly. ‘Please tell Plug my wife deals with banking matters, so I will have to ask her, and we can return here tomorrow with the new direct-debit details, but can I please pay the arrears now, and arrange to reconnect as soon as possible, as I have a big hole in my roof, and need some water to mix the cement to fix it?’ Not sure exactly how many lies I have just told, but only little white ones, surely? And I did meet St Peter last Easter in the surgery of Dr Have-a-Hard, didn’t I? He knows I’m a decent sort of chap. I hope.

  Right, pay Plug, sign the contract, remembering to put ‘J Mitchell’ and not ‘J A Richards’, which is fraud for a start, but only a little white one, nobody will care in the slightest, hopefully, and no-one can read my squiggle, anyway, pay Lydia, over the odds to buy her silence, home, recount the sorry tale to Chrissie, lunch under the fig tree, asleep in less than a few seconds.

  Waking from my slumbers, and dreams about being refused admittance to Heaven, It is time to call Jake. ‘Hello, me old fritter!’

  He is laughing already. ‘I’ve been called some things in my time, ‘me old mate’, ‘me old mucker’, ‘me old china’. But never ‘me old fritter!’

  ‘Well that is what you are, a Spanish fritter. A deep-fried, breadcrumb-encrusted, cheese and ham fritter! It’s what your name means in Spanish. Jacob. Ha-cobo. A fritter!’

  ‘Ooh, I like them’ he giggles, ‘is that what they are called? Me and Andy had them in the bar the other week. I am a really tasty geezer, you know! Anyway, enough of all that, did you manage to get my water put back on?’

  ‘Well I have good news, bad news, very bad news, and really, really bad news. Which do you want first?’

  ‘Oh here we go’ he is still chuckling, ‘come on, lets have the good news first?’

  ‘Well, the good news is that your water will be re-connected in the next few days, hopefully in time for Del and I to begin work on Monday.’

  He is so relieved. ‘Great, well done. So what’s the bad news?’

  ‘Well, the ordinary bad news is that you owe me a hundred and seventy-nine euros. A hundred for a new contract, fifty for a new meter and re-connection, and twenty for Lydia.’

  ‘WHAT? HOW MUCH? The thieving, robbing swines. Hang on a minute, that is only a hundred and seventy. Where did the other nine go?’

  ‘That was the actual water used!’

  He is huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning. ‘So the very bad news? Come on, give it to me straight.’

  ‘Well, the very bad news is that your Spanish bank has gone bust. Which is why the direct debit didn’t get paid.’

  Silence on the line for a few seconds. ‘Hang on a minute, I think we knew that, we were written to, they said the account would transfer to a different bank, but the money was safe, and debits would continue. This is Ros’s fault, she obviously didn’t check……’

  The phone is on speaker and Chrissie, who has been lying comatose on her sunbed, suddenly leaps into action. ‘DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO BLAME ROS AGAIN! YOU were here two weeks ago, YOU didn’t check your post. Remember, we have already agreed this? So if I hear any more from you about blaming poor Ros, I will personally go up your house and pour any remaining beer down the sink.’

  He thinks he has had the last laugh. His bank funds are safe, and as for the water bill, well it’s only money, right? ‘Best of luck with that, Mrs Richards. Me and Andy drank the bloody lot! So there!’

  There is still one final piece of bad news to come, however. The last laugh is with the Richards family, for sure. ‘Right, the really, really bad news. Are you ready for this? Do you remember I warned you and Andy not to hold hands when walking past the church? Well you obviously didn’t take my advice, did you. Lydia told the entire Aqualia office that you were sleeping together, so now the entire town thinks you are a pair of woofters!’

  ‘Away, thou beastly reprobate, I scorn you, scurvy companion. Methink’st thou art…….

  Thankfully I don’t get to hear the remainder of his Elizabethan tirade, as shaking with laughter, I have dropped the phone.

  Half an hour later, still chuckling to myself, I can feel my eyes prickling. Been a long day, all in all. ‘That was so funny, what Lydia said, in the Aqualia office! Jake was so offended!’

  Chrissie seems un-amused, however. ‘On the contrary, I think you are both completely childish.’

  ‘Ahh, just a bit of banter, wasn’t it. You know I always like to have the last laugh!’

  ‘But you haven’t, though, have you?’

  I regard her through half-closed eyelids. Something is coming, just that I cannot figure out what. ‘I think you will find I did, when he started on his Shakespe….’

  ‘Think about it, you buffoon. That Plug-woman thought you were Jake, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Then she thinks YOU are the woofter!’

  CHAPTER 9. WHO LET THE PIG OUT?

  It was just an ordinary day in Cordoba. We had already enjoyed a delicious lunch in one of our favourite restaurants there, albondigas for me, meatballs in a rich tomato sauce, and salmorejo for Chrissie, basically a chilled, thick, spicy tomato soup, and were meandering through the narrow, winding alleyways with their white-washed cottages, some affording tantalising glimpses of their inner, flower-bedecked courtyards, ruminating over how best to spend the rest of our afternoon in this World Heritage city. Truly we were spoilt for choice. We had already strolled across the Roman Bridge spanning the Guada
lquivir river, admiring the ancient water-wheels and mills, then through the Juderia, the former Jewish quarter. Maybe a visit to the Alcazar, the Palace of the Catholic Kings, with the imposing ramparts and towers bordered by sweeping gardens and fountains, and the old Roman city wall? Perhaps the ruined Roman temple itself? The Andalucian Riding School, home of the Royal Stables and their magnificent pure-bred horses? Or the jewel in the crown, the Mezquita Cathedral, breathtaking in its construction, the most significant example of Moorish religious architecture in Spain, and possibly the Western world?

  Or as we are doing right now, gazing in the window of Bimba y Lola? Nope, me neither. A ladies dress and shoe shop, apparently. With a few handbags thrown in for good measure. Fascinating. I could spend all afternoon doing just this. Who cares about two-thousand years of history when there are handbags to look at? Tearing myself away, my attention is drawn to a passing taxi, which just goes to show how interested I am in the delights and wares of Bimba y Lola. A white taxi, actually, a Peugeot, or possibly a Renault, maybe a SEAT, amazing how these modern cars all look the same, isn’t it? She is still looking at the ruddy handbags. There is a passenger in the taxi, which is slowing to a halt, a bloke, definitely, although I cannot see more due to the tint on the windows, not a dark tint but enough to obscure his features. Has she finished yet? No. Ooh look, the back door of the taxi is slowly opening, but strangely the passenger seems to be on the opposite side. So who has opened the door? A child, maybe. Cannot actually see anyone on this side of the back seat. Suddenly, the door springs back on its hinges and out jumps a pig. A real, live, grunting, pig. Nothing in my life so far has prepared me for this moment, but there it is. In the flesh.

  ‘Look, a pig has just jumped out of that taxi’ I whisper, as I don’t want to make a noise, and scare it away.

  ‘Oh you are so predictable, and childish quite frankly. Is that the best you can come up with, a pig in a taxi? I’m only looking in the window, surely you can manage to let me do that for a few minutes without being so utter……there’s a pig standing behind you.’