He is not serious? ‘You mean that room with the pile of wardrobe doors, the dog-food sacks, and the bed strewn with rubble, and weeds growing out of it. The bed with the shat-in sheets?’
‘Yeah, why not? The wardrobe doors and dog-food sacks is gone now, used ‘em on the roof, didn’t we? An’ I cleared away all the rubble, an’ the weeds all died back, so it’s like a bloody palace in there now. I was thinkin’ of doin' Airbnb, before all this happened.’ He pauses for a few seconds. ‘Ain’t changed the sheets yet, but who cares? I’ll give ‘em a bit of a sweep, be fine. Slept in worse, anyway, over the years.’ Slept in worse? Bedding down in a scrap-yard would be preferable, if you ask me. Still, at least we’re not having house-guests, tonight. ‘Anyway, the back wall of the ‘ouse is fine, so that’s a hell of a relief. But obviously, we ain’t gonna be able to start Jake’s job tomorra, are we?’ I was wondering when this was coming. ‘Can’t leave them beams just dangling, can I? Gotta get ‘em back in place, and the new support wall built at least, ain’t we?’ That Royal ‘we’ again. ‘Anyway, Jake’s roof ain’t leaking, is it? We got the tarpaulin up, ain’t we? So a week or so ain’t gonna matter, is it? Questions, questions. I’m keeping schtum, however. ‘So you can meet Dirty Diego termorra, can’t you? Get all the materials stowed away? Then maybe you can ask him to deliver me a coupla Acro’s?’
My schtum quota has just run out. ‘How do you say Acro in Spanish?’
‘Gawd knows, Acro I imagine, it’s a trade name, innit? And p’raps you better call Jake, later, tell ‘im there been a slight delay, but we’ll get round to it as soon as.’
I am now in negative schtum. ‘Right, let me see. I have to go home tonight, permanently disfigured possibly, explain to my wife how I almost died, why I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. And bearing in mind she never wanted me to work on this shitty hovel in the first place, she is gonna KILL ME. Then I have to phone Jake and explain why we won’t be starting on his roof tomorrow, and he will quite possibly want to KILL ME. Then tomorrow I have to meet with that disgusting Dirty Diego, listen to him gobbing and flobbing, watch him scratching his balls, after which I will no doubt want to KILL MYSELF. And then, to cap it all, you want me to come back here on Tuesday, and help you restore this desolate bog-hole for about the tenth time, but you won’t be able to pay me will you, oh sorry mate, bit skint at the moment, have to pay you after Kingdom Come, so then I will have to KILL YOU. And then I will have to explain to Chrissie how I’ve been working all week with sod-all to show for it, and she will KILL ME ALL OVER AGAIN! So yes, I AM heartily sick of you. I DO rue the day we ever met. You ARE nothing but a total nightmare, for me. Probably save us all a load of grief if I beat you over the head with that shovel, right now, and bury next to your confounded DOGS!’
My little East-Ender is laughing so much he has to hold on to the wall.’Save me a load of grief an’ all, mate! Whack me on the ‘ead right now, bury me next to me pets, ‘an I’ll be a ‘appy man! Don’t know how much more o‘ this I can stand, actually. Seven bloody years I been fixin’ up this ‘ouse, and look at the state of it. Come on, ‘urry-up, get it over wiv!’
I pick a bit more grit out of my ear. ‘I can’t, at the moment. Sorry.’
‘Why not? Quick whack acrost me ‘ead, boof, in the ‘ole, sorted.’
I wipe the smile off my face, as best I can. ‘Because I need you to tell me where you’ve hidden that two-hundred and fifty you got from the artist, so that I can spend it on your wake. The whole town will want to get totally rat-arsed!’
He shoots me a hunted look. ‘Too late, mate. Spent it, ain’t I?’
Which explains why Del is still alive. For now….
CHAPTER 12. THOSE LAD-RONNIES FROM THE WATER BOARD, AGAIN!
The second week of December we receive a letter from our dear friends at Aqualia, the water company. Addressed to Jose Ocana Pastor. Chrissie is outraged. ‘What is the matter with those idiots? The bills are all in your name, so why are they writing to Joe Shepherd? The left hand doesn’t know what the right is doing, clearly. What is it in Spanish? Mano izquierda and mano direcha? I’ve a good mind to go down there right now, and tell them that! The TONTOS!’
Quite impressive, isn’t it, getting cross in a foreign language? And I bet she never learned that for her O-Levels, all those years ago. ‘But have you actually read the letter? What do they want? They might be offering us a refund, or who knows, a contribution to Del’s wake! Read the rest of it, before you start having a go!’
Yes, sadly, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, and I am keeping schtum on the subject, the Crafty Cockney is still with us. We have repaired his back wall, built a complete new one with concrete blocks, reduced the size of the sitting-room by six inches or so but at least he won’t have to worry about the floor above collapsing, when he is having a quiet beer of an evening. And no, the Spanish for Acro is not Acro, for all you budding builders who intend to completely ignore my advice, and buy one of these ruins. Poonto-something, I forget now, although I do vividly remember causing mayhem in the builder’s yard that morning, asking for ‘two iron tubes with a screw in the middle for holding up a beam in an emergency’, which I thought was a pretty good attempt, all in all, seeing as how I didn’t study Spanish for O-Level. Cue blank faces in the office, however, which meant a search of the entire yard accompanied by Dirty Diego, gobbing and flobbing, and scratching his balls, until we came upon a pile of the cursed things. What a morning that was.
And no, we haven’t managed to fix Jake’s roof yet, either. Or ‘El Fritter’, as he is now called, to his extreme annoyance. Del’s emergency repairs took rather longer than expected, and then we had about ten days of unsettled weather, but the sunshine is back now thankfully, so we absolutely, one-hundred percent have promised the fritter we will get it done before Christmas. Starting the day after tomorrow. Got to, as Chrissie and I are off to the UK for the holidays, flying Granada to Manchester on Christmas Eve, a brand-new service from that orange airline, but don’t mention that to Phil the artist if you see him, visiting our elder daughter who has just started a new job in north Wales, then heading ‘down west’ to our younger daughter, and Chrissie’s mother, travelling back Bristol to Malaga. Cheap flights, too, as we are going in the opposite direction to the mass exodus of Brits seeking winter sunshine. See what good advice I am giving out? Travel against the flow, and don’t buy the first old wreck you encounter. Saving you thousands, in the long run, and so much grief!
Anyway, this letter. Chrissie is frowning with concentration. ‘El contador, we have to change el contador. The water meter. It has to be moved, ours is inside the house, apparently, good job they told us, we’ve been looking for it, these past fifteen months, haven’t we?, and it has to go outside, according to some law passed in 2010, and another law from 2011, and then……the BASTARDOS! If we don’t do it within thirty days of this letter, they will cut our supply. Suministro. That’s supply, right? …..AND THE LETTER IS DATED 30TH NOVEMBER. Where the hell has it been, this last ten days, coming from…..SEVILLE! I could have crawled from Seville in ten days. So that means we have effectively until Christmas to do this, or we will get cut off. What a way to treat a paying customer. That is completely outrageous.’
I have to agree. It’s not as if we have ever been late paying, although the letter is actually addressed to old Joey Shepherd, maybe he always waited for the final demand before getting his cash out? ‘Are you sure that is what it says, cut us off? Sounds a bit extreme, to be honest.’
She narrows her eyes, and flings the letter across the table. ‘Well you have a read, Mister Russian O-Level, and a fat lot of good that did you, living in Spain! Unless you intend moving to Vladivostok.’ Anywhere to get out the way of you, my dearest…
I finger the missive disinterestedly. ‘Ah well, we knew this was coming, didn’t we? A few of the neighbours have had to change theirs, Del and I can knock this off in……..HANG ON A MINUTE! The bloody swines! We are gonna
be tied up with Jake’s roof until Christmas. Oh my God! We’re gonna have to pay a plumber!’
Chrissie is chuckling. ‘Not so tranquil now, are we! And no, WE are not going to pay a plumber, YOU are going to have to pay one!’
I have calmed down a bit, however. ‘Don’t worry, Lydia is coming here for a lesson tonight, I will ask her if she can come to the Aqualia office tomorrow, explain to them that we are busy this next two weeks, then going to the UK for Christmas, but will move the meter in the New Year. That is common sense, right? And the letter was in the post for ten days, not our fault was it? Surely they will grant us a short extension?’
‘Oh that plug-woman in the Aqualia office?’ she giggles. ‘The one who thinks you are Ha-cobo? Who is convinced you are a woofter? Well best of luck with that, sunshine!’
The following morning Lydia and I make our way, a-back-o, to the office of the cursed water people. When I suggested to my student that she start a new career as a translator to dumb Brits, I never envisaged I might be one of her clients. Bit embarrassing, really, but what the heck, good practice for her, translating into English, and for me too, hopefully picking up a few choice phrases along the way. And renewing my acquaintance with those cheery souls of Aqualia, who today appear to have acquired a new member of staff. Plug-woman is still seated behind her desk, maintaining her slapped-arse demeanour, dealing with an old man, otherwise the place is deserted. But a new lady is seated at the back of the office, behind a completely clear desk, performing a passable impression of absolutely nothing. Mid-twenties maybe, tight sweater, even tighter jeans, and stilettos, a great improvement on her colleague I have to say, but still with that couldn’t give a toss about you losers look on her pursed lips. Not the full slapped-arse style yet, she is new, obviously, still in training no doubt, but a cat’s-arse, most certainly.
I turn to Lydia. ‘Is she a plug, also?’ I giggle.
‘Oh yes, of course’ my student replies. ‘She is doing nothing!’
Just then the telephone rings, and I expect to see young-Plug spring into action. No doubt this is her moment, she has been lying in wait, like a coiled spring, a lion in the Serengeti, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting gazelle. Not that there is a telephone on her desk, mind you. Perhaps she has one of those modern ear-pieces buried under all that hair, explaining why she is constantly flicking it? Wrong. She remains completely immobile, and impassive, while old-plug answers the call. The old man turns to us with a ‘don’t you just hate it when that happens, I walked all the way down here, with my bad leg, early, and now some lazy swine, who is no doubt still tucked up in bed, or sprawled on the sofa, has called up and interrupted’ kind of look. ‘I’m paying my water, chica!’ he informs us, proudly, in case we happened to be wondering exactly what he was doing in the water board office, clutching what looks suspiciously like a red demand. Well he certainly isn’t here for the Christmas cheer, that’s for damn sure. Glancing round the office, you would never know it was the season of goodwill. Maybe that is what young-plug is up to. Perhaps she will start digging out the decorations, a tree with fairy lights, tinsel, balloons, paper-chains, a string of Christmas cards sent by appreciative customers, a box of crackers, and a tin of Cadbury’s Roses for the counter. And here she goes, look! Now we’re going to see something! She rises to her feet, slips her coat off the back of her chair, struggles into it with a heft of her chest, picks up her bag, and with a cry of ‘I’m off to breakfast’ to no-one in particular, totters across the room and out through the door.
Breakfast? At eleven o’clock? Didn’t she have it, I dunno, but here’s a suggestion, before she came to work? And why does she need sustenance, anyway? Not done a stroke, since we’ve been here, certainly. And how many calories has she expended, preening her hair? About three? Unbelievable.
Maybe I misunderstood. ‘Did she say she was going to breakfast, Lydia?’
She seems unperturbed, however. ‘Yes, it is usual, with these public employees. They allowed breakfast, during the morning.’
I am staggered. ‘And how long are they allowed? And didn’t she have her breakfast when she got up, this morning?’
‘Oh, about an hour, I think’ she smiles. ‘In Espain it usual to have a break, middle morning, tostada, coffee, thees kind of thing.’
AN HOUR? They only work mornings, for pity’s sake. This place will be locked and shuttered by half-one. At least the shops will open again at five, after the siesta. But this lot, like the electric board, and the council offices, only put in a paltry morning. And what is young-Plug actually doing? Is she training? Why doesn’t she answer the phone, leave old-Plug to get on with serving the customers? Would make sense, surely. Questions questions. I can just imagine the uproar in Britain, social media, the local newspaper, about people doing absolutely naff-all, then going for a breakfast. I know, I know, Spain is different, but honestly, there are times….. Then again, I imagine young-Plug is now seated contentedly under a parasol, outside a pavement cafe, sipping a cafe solo, gossiping with her friends possibly, flicking through her messages, stress-level zero, cholesterol entirely normal, blood-pressure and heart-rate no cause for concern.
The old man meanwhile has turned and is regarding the departing figure with undisguised lust. ‘Nice arse!’ he comments, with a grin. Don’t look at me, mate. I am keeping schtum, in front of my student.
Eventually, it is our turn. Now, I have already rehearsed the possible scenarios, for this very moment, given that just a few weeks ago I was here, with Lydia, inadvertently posing as someone else. My pupil has the offensive cutting-off letter, addressed to old Joey Shepherd, plus one of our previous bills, addressed to me, so we have agreed she will do the talking, and I will remain seated, until called upon to do something, no idea what, as this cannot be that difficult, can it? Letter was in the post for ten days, let your left hand know what the right is doing, please, we are off to the UK for Christmas, but we promise to get the meter shifted after the New Year. Simples, as they say. Wrong. Plug studies both communications intensely, gazes across at me, opens her mouth as if to speak, closes it again, glances at Lydia, studies the paperwork again, taps her keyboard, and pauses while the gears turn in her head. Something is about to happen, but what? Surely, she will smile, sheepishly, say something like ‘oh those accounts people, what are they like? Yes, no problem, sort it out after Christmas, have a good holiday in England, take a warm coat, mind!’
Nope. She looks me square in the eye. If she accuses me of impersonating Ha-cobo, and implies I am a woofter, I will jump up, beat my chest, and start talking about the Bears match last weekend, in a deep voice, hell of a game, hell of a game. But if she asks if I am Jose Ocana Pastor, I will blow my top. There are not two people in this town who are that stupid, surely? But no, once again I am caught completely flat-footed. ‘Tee-too-lar?’
Not a clue. I stare helplessly at my translator. ‘She is asking about your title.’
Well, that is an easy one. Chrissie has been known to refer to me as Your Royal Highness, or His Lordship, on occasions, for some strange reason, but bearing no connections to the aristocracy, I am of course plain old Mister. I stifle the urge to giggle. ‘Mister.’
Now it is Lydia’s turn to look puzzled. ‘No sorry, your title. Tee-too-lar. How you say thees in Eengliss?’
Well sounds like title to me, to be honest. ‘Well, title, your designation, Mister, Mrs, Miss, that kind of thing.’
She takes a deep breath. Not easy, this translation stuff, is it. ‘No, your title, on the bill. It has not been changed.’ And she taps the account, which clearly reads Austin John Richards, followed by our address.
Can’t see the problem, quite honestly. I smile serenely. ‘Well those are my names, in the wrong order actually, but that is me!’
‘No no, the title, it was not changed, look!’ and she points to some minuscule printing, barely visible to the naked eye, about a third the way down the page, bearing the legend Titular. Jose Ocana Pastor.
Well so
what? Big deal. Someone forgot to change the Titular. Woopy-doo. My name is on the bill, so who cares? Get it changed, and let’s get on with our lives.
Wrong. ‘No, sorree, you need a new contract. Thees contract still in name of Jose Ocana Pastor.’
My turn to take a deep breath. ‘Sorry Lydia, but I didn’t type the bill, did I? My name must be on the contract, as there it is! Our lawyer did all this, when we bought the house, and the bills arrive each quarter with my name on. I don’t see what the problem is.’ And so confident am I of being entirely in the right, I wave the bill at Plug, tapping the name and address box. ‘Mi nombre!’’ So get your typewriter out and get it changed.
Plug narrows her eyes. If she calls me a fritter that is it, I am off. She turns to Lydia, and an exchange of Spanish, containing the words titular, and contracto, takes place. My star pupil exhales deeply, puffing out her cheeks. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but the bill is still in the name of Jose Ocana Pastor. Your name is the address, only. You understand? They put your name, above the address, but the contract was never changed. You need new contract, now.’
Ridiculous? No, this is way, way beyond ridiculous. How can one single sheet of paper show two different names? Official paper, too, as arranged by Pedro, our Spanish lawyer. Anyway, I need a new contract. ‘So where do I sign?’
Cue more discussions. ‘She say, you must to pay fifty euros, and seventy-five centimos, for new contract. Plus, she need to see your knee.’
HOW MUCH? FOR A BIT OF PAPER? And what is the extra fifteen-bob for? A Mars Bar, for young-Plug’s breakfast? Inwardly seething, but trying not to show it, in case someone calls me a fritter, or Jose Ocana Pastor, I turn to my student, who is clearly enjoying this, unless she too is inwardly seething. At me. ‘Look Lydia, I have to get this sorted today, as we are starting on Jake’s roof tomorrow. I will call Chrissie, ask her to come here with the knees, so I need to go to the bank right now, get the money out. Are you coming?’
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 21