Of course she is, no point staying in the office talking to Plug, especially when there is free, intelligent English conversation to be had, is there? Well something like that, anyway. The cash-point is only a few hundred yards up the street, and the news is bad. It only has fifty-euro notes. On the other hand…’Do you know what the English expression ‘getting your own back’ means, Lydia? Well, the contract costs a ridiculous seventy-five cents extra, and I only have two fifty-euro notes, so Plug is going to have to give me forty-nine euros and twenty-five cents change!’
‘My student has the decency to sound concerned. ‘Oh no, no, don’t worry, I have seventy-five cents I can give you!’
I smile widely. ‘No. Thank you, but no. I will make her give me the change, as punishment for having such a stupid price. That is getting my own back!’
Chrissie is waiting outside Aqualia with the knees, but cannot stop as she is meeting Marie from the library for coffee. ‘If you bump into young-Plug down there, say hello from me!’ She has not the faintest idea what I am talking about of course. That will be a conversation for later.
Right, back into the office, and I hand over two crisp fifties, smiling sweetly. Plug looks as if she’s swallowed a lemon. ‘Do you have seventy-five centimos?’ We both shake our heads, stifling huge grins, so huffing mightily, she flings open her cash drawer and pointedly slaps down my change. My own back has been got. Wrong. Time for Lydia to request a short extension, on the cut-off deadline. And you can guess what the reply is, can’t you? Not Plug’s fault about the post, was it? And the cut-off has been ordered on the computer system, a laughable notion given that they don’t even have cashless payments, in this throw-back to 1963. Didn’t get my own back, did I? Plus, I am now going to have to pay a plumber, and I don’t know one, in this town. Well I do actually, but his name is Del, and we are going to be fifty feet off the ground, tomorrow. Curses, as Dick Dastardly might have said.
‘Does Plug know the name of a plumber, please?’ I enquire. She does, it appears, pushing a business-card across the desk. ‘Electra-Man’ he is called, apparently, which doesn’t inspire confidence that he might know anything about moving water meters, does it, although the small-print at the bottom of the card assures us he does.
Now, already I am having heart palpitations about letting a stranger loose on my house, and we haven’t even spoken to the bloke yet. But the fact remains that many local tradesmen and DIY-ers can be complete bodgers. Some of the lash-ups you encounter in this town defy belief, quite frankly, and a large proportion of those horrors involve new water meters. Basically, a rectangular aluminium trap-door, maybe fifteen inches by ten, has to be fitted into the outside front wall of the house, maybe six inches or so above street level, and the meter, and associated pipework, go inside the door. Del and I have performed a number of these tasks, and we usually charge around thirty euros, plus materials. Mark the outline of the door, cut a neat, straight rectangle in the wall using an angle-grinder/disc-cutter, then punch a hole through to the inside of the house for the new pipe, using an electric chisel. The door then fits neatly, secured by a flop of mortar the same colour as the wall, and there you have it, a lovely neat job. Inexplicably, however, the locals just bang a huge hole in the wall using the chisel, whack in the door, and flop a load of mortar, usually the wrong colour, into the jagged, irregular hole, then go and sit under a parasol somewhere. Incomprehensible. I cannot think of a single reason why someone would not cut a neat rectangle, even if they had only the bare minimum amount of pride in their work. But that is the reality.
But not on our house, however, of this I am adamant. We have a beautiful grey and cream granite finish on our facade, and no way am I permitting electric chisels anywhere near it. Lydia calls Electra-Man, who by a stroke of good fortune can do the work this week, and impresses on him the need for a neat and tidy job. A hundred and thirty euros, all-in, including a brand new meter supplied by Aqualia, who are good friends of his, apparently. Yeah, I bet they are. Clearly Del and I are under-pricing….
Two evenings later and Electra-Man arrives, armed with pipes, fittings, the aluminium trap-door, a new meter from his ‘friends’ at Aqualia, but no disc-cutter. Grrrr. ‘No corto-disco?’ I enquire, politely but firmly. ‘Remember, I want the wall cut straight, like this one?’ And I indicate Loli’s water-door, fitted neatly, perfectly, into her facade, which is the same finish as ours, just a different shade. He babbles something along the lines of ‘don’t worry’ and ‘it’ll be fine’, but I’m not having it. ‘It’ll be fine’ doesn’t cut the mustard, so I pop downstairs and dig out my disc-cutter, plus extension-lead, then mime cutting a nice straight rectangular hole, just so that no-one is under any doubt. He nods in agreement, but is no doubt thinking ‘fussy English idiot, what’s wrong with just banging a huge hole, then filling it with plop? I got a parasol I need to sit under, after all.’
Leaving the front door ajar, in case Electra-Man needs to borrow any more of my tools, I head back inside and flop on the sofa. I am utterly beat, I can tell you. Completely whacked. Been a hell of a few days, on Jake’s roof, long days too, up and down steps and ladders, lifting, carrying, and the damage was worse than we feared, too. Should be watertight by Christmas Eve, though, it has to be watertight by Christmas Eve, but boy oh boy, I am feeling my age. And my evening’s work is not complete yet, either, I still have an English class on Skype with Rosa, my student who moved to the north of Spain, but who was reluctant to give up her lessons. Great to be popular, and in demand, but who knew early-retirement was going to be like this?
The unmistakable sound of a disc-cutter, hopefully travelling in a straight line, invades my tranquility, but that is a good thing, all in all. Get the job done, get Aqualia off my back, one less thing to worry about. And I am being completely un-Spanish about this work, too. One of my least-favourite aspects of life here is the extremely annoying, to me, habit of the locals to just stand around and stare at any form of construction. Just last week there was an electrician in the road fiddling with the street lights, and there must have been half a dozen neighbours gathered round the foot of his ladder, shouting advice, like a pack of hounds baying at a cat up a tree. So no way am I watching a bloke cutting a rectangle in a wall. He is a professional. He knows what he is doing. There is nothing I can add to the narrative, no value to my presence. Besides, I need to get my laptop out, ready for my pupil.
The next hour passes quickly, as it always does with Rosa on Skype, albeit punctuated by the noise of construction, and the shouting of Spaniards, emanating from the street. Just as well Electra-Man quoted for the entire job, rather than by the hour, as I wouldn’t want the neighbours holding him up, and inadvertently increasing my bill, would I? I close down the computer, and am suddenly aware of the silence. Has he finished? Has he got fed up with being bellowed at, and cleared off? Surely he must be used to that, being entirely normal, for him? Why wouldn’t people gather round, and holler? Opening the front door, and stepping into the street, I am confronted by the grotesque spectacle of my alleged plumber with his hands in a bucket of white mortar, sloshing it into the two-inch gap around the water door. He cut the rectangle out perfectly. But he cut it too big. He glances up, spots the look of sheer horror on my face, and smiles. ‘Almost finished! You can paint the mortar grey, when it dries.’
I am sick to the pit of my stomach. Our beautiful facade, ruined by this complete, utter cowboy. Paint it? I’ll give him paint it. I want to grab the bucket, stuff the remaining mortar into his mouth, hold him by the ears until it dries, and paint it a different shade of fleshy-pink. See how he likes it. Patching this mess now would be like fixing a hole in a tiger with a slice of zebra. Beyond belief, surely anyone with a grain of intelligence would have cut the oblong the same size as the door, just a few millimetres over all round, and fixed it discretely in place with grey cement? Instead of this play-fight in an infants school, this rampage by toddlers. Too late to complain now, of course, the damage is done, for all time.
In sheer, utter rage I snatch up my cutter, furiously wind up the cable, place them in the hallway, grab the money, stamp back outside, slap it in his hand, and dive back inside, slamming the door, and collapse on the sofa in sheer abject desperation. Inconsolable.
Thus Chrissie discovers me, half an hour later, when she returns from her student. ‘What in the name of all things holy is that God-awful mess outside?’ she wants to know. ‘Have we been visited by lunatics? Is this how so-called professionals behave? I could have made a better job than that with one hand tied behind my back, and my head in a paper bag. And do we actually have any water? Is the new meter in place?’
‘No idea’ I groan. ‘I was so angry, I forgot to look’ and I slouch into the kitchen, turn on the tap, and after a few feeble splutters, a goodly flow of water appears. So there must be a meter in the street, but I haven’t the heart to go out and check.
‘So what about the metal key, for the water door? Or do you have to get your pliers out again, as we did for Jake’s?’
‘Dunno.’
‘So what about the meter, and the stop-cock? Has he done it correctly? Please don’t tell me you have paid him, without checking?’
I take a deep breath, and place my head in my hands. ‘I was so furious when I saw what he’d done, ruining the front of the house, I just wanted him off the premises as soon as possible. So I didn’t get a receipt, or anything, didn’t check, didn’t look. And I haven’t moved off the sofa since.’
She flops down next to me and slips her arm round my shoulder. ‘So can you do anything to make it look better?’ she enquires, softly.
I raise my face to the ceiling, exhaling softly. ‘Yeah, I’ve got it all worked out, actually.’ A smile crosses my face for the first time in about an hour. ‘My huge man-brain has it all figured! At the builders they sell these edging-tiles, in grey, over a foot long, two or three inches wide. What I am going to do is make something like a picture frame, an edging round the trap-door, mitre the corners, you know, on an angle, just like a frame, so that will cover the horrible white plaster. The tiles will be a different shade of grey, a contrast, not fifty shades, just two, but it will look great, will finish it off beautifully.’
She brightens considerably. ‘Fantastic! Can you really do that?’
‘Of course, of a certainty, one hundred per-cent.’
‘Great! So why are you so upset? I mean, Electra-Toss has made a huge mess, but you can rectify it, put it right, so what’s the matter?’
‘Well the problem is I cannot do it until the New Year, can I? I am completely tied up until Christmas, then we are off to Manchester, then the builders will be closed, probably, so it will be New Year until I can start.’
She is doing her best to sound sympathetic. ‘So, you’re busy. That isn’t your fault, is it? You will get round to it in good time, won’t you? What is the problem?’
I am rubbing my face with my hands. ‘The problem is, that horrible, crappy job will be on full display, to people walking up and down the street, for the next three weeks or so, and I just cannot stand the thought that people will think that I did it, that people will say ‘blimey, look at the lash-up that Englishman made of his water-door. It’s my pride, isn’t it? Actually I’m thinking about putting up a sign, this wasn’t me, it was Electra-Toss!’
She is really laughing now. ‘Do you really think that anyone Spanish will worry about that? Have you seen some of the monumental disasters in this town? And what British people will see it? Seen the state of some of the houses in this street, lately? More cracks than Cheddar Gorge! Just stop worrying, and forget all about it.
At that moment there is a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the front door. Just what I don’t need right now, some nosey Spaniard telling me what a balls-up the front of the house looks. I struggle to my feet, and open the door a crack. Deep joy. Fernando.
‘Jabby del passo, neighbour!’ he cries, at deafening volume. That reminds me, Chrissie was asking what I wanted for Christmas. I need to put ear-defenders on my list for Santa. Essential equipment, living in Spain. I do my best to look confused. ‘Jabby del passo!’ he repeats, gesticulating wildly at something in the street. He’s not going away, is he? Better see what this jabby thing is. No peace until I do. I follow him into the street, and sure enough he is indicating the water-door. Yeah yeah, I know, I know, no need to rub it in, is there? How do I say it wasn’t me, it was Electra-Toss, in Spanish? It seems however that Chrissie might have been correct. ‘Beautiful job, neighbour, but you need to pick up your jabby.’ And he points at the little metal key, protruding from the new door.
‘Thank you, Fernando’ I smile, bashfully.
But he isn’t finished with me yet. ‘What you must do, is get some grey paint, and cover the white plaster, when it dries. Then it will be perfect. No rush, after Christmas will do!’ Well blow me down. Why didn’t I think of that?
I slump back on the sofa and start to laugh. Such a huge release of tension after a traumatic couple of hours. A beautiful job, neighbour. Who’d have thought it? Never ceases to amaze me, Spain. Just one small fly in the ointment, however.
Really got her own back, old-Plug, didn’t she?
CHAPTER 13. AND WE THOUGHT LAST CHRISTMAS WAS CRAZY…..
Two days before Christmas Eve, and I am utterly, totally and completely exhausted. Shattered, battered. Beaten up, beaten down, covered in wounds and abrasions, aching in places I would not have believed possible. If I never see another ladder, another bucket of mortar, another yard-long brick, another length of rubber sheeting, another roof tile, and another whingeing, whining Cockney wide-boy before Kingdom Come, that will be fine by me. But we did it. Jake’s roof. All done. A day early, too, praise be. And this was no Electra-Man job, either. Put our very souls into it, I can tell you, and there are pieces of my soul scattered all over that roof, went the extra mile, we did, proud of ourselves, we are. Climbed down the cursed ladder for the final time, and hugged. Let go again pretty swiftly, mind you, as we were both absolutely reeking, but still, it’s the thought that counts, right?
And now, all I want to do is sleep, hibernate until Spring, like Yogi Bear and Boo-boo. Wake me up in April. Can’t do that, of course, as we are off to north Wales the day after tomorrow, which, now that the thrice-damned roof of El Fritter is out of the way, I can start really looking forward to. Chrissie has it all organised, as always, given that I have been living and breathing nothing else but mortar these past few weeks. The passports and boarding cards, which she always does anyway, bearing in mind that if I cannot be trusted not to lose my wallet, being stuck abroad without a passport would be a monumental disaster. And the parking at Granada airport, wherever that is, given that, despite being frequent visitors to that magnificent city, we have never seen a single aeroplane flying about. Malaga yes, Michael O’Leary’s finest are often to be seen circling, plus the orange ones too, and whisper this, but not to Pieter, please, the occasional red, white and blue of BA, and there is even a giant DIY warehouse at the end of the runway where you can plane-spot, if you are that way inclined, whilst trying desperately not to drop that box of expensive tiles you are attempting to stuff into the car boot. But Granada airport? Not a clue. Still, there will surely be a sign, won’t there? Although hang on, this is Spain, so maybe there will be a complete absence. Perhaps I need to ask Mr Google.
So anyway, here are my plans for the next two days, providing I can heave my broken corpse out of this bed. Breakfast, a plate of ham and eggs on toast, washed down by a pot of coffee. Morning paper on the Kindle, with my feet up. Maybe check that Chrissie has packed all my holiday gear, which actually will fill less than half of a Ryanair-size carry-on, although I distinctly recall that camping trip to Jersey in 1982 when she forgot to pack my shoes. Still haven’t completely forgiven her for that one, especially as she waited until I’d got my trainers soaking wet on the beach, before breaking the bad news. Can you imagine the embarrassment for me, a Jim Bergerac-lookalike, trying to blag my way into the Ro
yal George, in a pair of sodden Reebok's? So gotta keep her on her toes with my luggage. Then, late morning, stroll up and see if anyone fancies a swift Christmas half, following which, as that looks distinctly like blazing sunshine forcing its way through the shutters, lunch in the garden, might even uncover the pool, water will be icy but I can bake in the sun for a while then plunge into the depths, get the old corpuscles pumping. People pay a lot of money to have that done to them in fancy spas, so I’ve heard. Then, at sunset, up on the terrace with a cold one to watch the olives coming in, a Rick Stein special for dinner washed down with a couple of glasses of red. Is that a plan, or is that a plan? And the following day, repeat.
My wife, however, has other ideas. Although she does at least grant me a temporary stay of execution, until after the eggs, and half the coffee, have been consumed, before informing me of how the next two days will actually pan out. ‘Right, listen to this very carefully.’ Words almost guaranteed to make my eyes glaze over, actually, but it will surely turn out worse for me, in the long run, if I fail to pay attention. ‘Tonight’ she smiles, ‘we have been invited to a kiddies’ Nativity play, at St Francisco school. Paloma’s little sister will be appearing, and she has asked us if we would like to go, it’s usually only family who are invited so we are really lucky. You didn’t say you had any plans, did you, so I said we would love to go, seven o-clock this evening.’
I’m struggling to keep up, quite honestly, and yes, my eyes have glazed over, although hopefully only I know that. To be honest, I’m not that keen, although give the Spanish their due, they do organise these childrens' events well, and we really enjoyed the nippers Easter procession, plus the choral concert last year, and besides, I was a kid once, believe it or not. A king too, in our school Nativity when I was about ten, and of course, the sheer joy of watching our own daughters’ school plays and activities, in years past. So snap out of it Richards, you old grump. Christmas comes but once a year. But Paloma? Do I know her? I’m struggling here, quite honestly. Hang on, though, wasn’t she the girl who came to the original conversation classes at the library a few times, before Chrissie took her on as a private student? About eighteen, wasn’t she, studying to be a teacher, or something? But her little sister? Did I know she had one? Have I been told about her? Blowed if I can remember. Not going well, so far, is it? What could the sister’s name be? Anna, probably, I mean, it’s not my fault I get confused, with hundreds of different women called Anna, in this town, Chrissie is constantly regaling me with takes of Anna this, Anna that, and as we all know, I’m a bear of very little brain.
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 22