She narrows her eyes, having twigged, no doubt. ‘You really don’t have the foggiest idea what I am talking about, do you?’
I haul myself, painfully, to my full height in the chair, and adopt my best indignant-face, with an added Paddington Bear stare. Right, time to wing it. ‘I will have you know, my dearest, that I am fully conversant. San Francisco school is next to the church of the same name. Paloma is the trainee teacher, your student. And her little sister is Anna, I remember you telling me all about her.’ And I poke out my tongue, then rapidly withdraw it, in case traces of fried egg are still in evidence. ‘So there!’
She doesn’t believe me, I can tell, but in the absence of proof to the contrary, by some miracle I have passed the first test. Oh yes! With her eyes locked firmly on mine, in an I know you are bluffing, really way, she reaches behind her and produces a travel agent’s flyer bearing the legend ‘Viaje a Belen’. Trip to Bethlehem. ‘There. I bought you that as a Christmas present!’
Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt! as my mother used to say. I have always wanted to visit the Holy Land. Blimey, this must have cost her a packet, what a wonderful present! I mean, her pension is kept for use as a ‘travel fund’, but I had no idea she had squirreled that much away. Ignoring my shattered spine, I leap up and plant an eggy kiss on her cheek, which she wipes away, theatrically. I am grinning from ear to ear. ‘Yes’ she continues, ‘it means an early start tomorrow morning, unfortunately, but I thought it looked good fun, what do you think?’
Hold on, tomorrow morning? We’re off to Wales the following day, so how can we possibly be…….. maintaining my smile, I return my gaze to the notice, and continue reading. ‘De chocolate. En Rute. Autobus ida y vuelta. Precio 7 euros.’ So we’re not off to Israel, then. Cursed Spanish. The word Belen does indeed mean ‘Bethlehem’, but also ‘Nativity Scene’, a fact I was well aware of, given that our own, all six feet by four of it, is standing proudly in the lounge, erected heroically by Chrissie last week, with man-shepherds, house where live donkey and shitting gypsy, while I was fixing that cursed roof with that cursed Cockney. We are off to see a chocolate Nativity, in some place called Rute, a return coach trip, apparently, and scanning the rest of the pamphlet, which I should have done first, of course, it appears the trip also includes visits to museums of sugar, anise, Spanish ham and chorizo. That’ll teach me to wing it. Sounds great, actually, but just one potential fly in the ointment. ‘An early start in the morning? How early?’ And Del and I were originally supposed to be working tomorrow, so how did you know we would be finished, when you bought the tickets?’
She beams with pride. ‘I called Del a few days ago, swore him to secrecy, and he said you would probably finish yesterday. And the travel agent said we need to be at the bus station at seven thirty, bit early I know, but it looks a fun day out, don’t you think?’ I do indeed, and to prove it she gets another eggy cheek. The other one this time, a matching pair. Probably best if I keep quiet about the Holy Land, however, so don’t say anything, please, if you bump into her in town…..
The rest of my day goes pretty much as planned, apart from the olive-pickers and the beer on the terrace, and just before seven we arrive outside the school, as we’re British and therefore always punctual. To find a massive hullabaloo going on inside. Has it started early? Surely not. Chrissie giggles. ‘Listen to that! No doubt we are in the right place, is there? This is why there is no need for signs, in this country. Just listen out for the noise!’ Into the entrance hall and we are confronted by about a million pushchairs, all left in a haphazard fashion to seemingly cause the maximum chaos. ‘And they park their buggies like they park their cars! Have you ever seen anything like this?’ We start picking our way through the melee, when a thought crosses my mind. Pushchairs? For ten year-olds? Obviously, there will be younger siblings, and the Spanish do tend to have large families, but realistically, how many people can be inside? Say twenty-five kids in the class, plus the parents, but not all of those will be able to make it, so forty adults possibly, call it seventy people in total, tops?
I open the door for Chrissie, to be assaulted by a barrage of noise, and a scene reminiscent of opening-time at John Lewis on a Boxing Day morning. Blimey, is this supposed to be a Nativity play, or a small war? A seething scrum of humanity, bellowing, hollering, like last orders on a New Year’s Eve in a pub full of thirsty dockers. I have a good six inches on most of the crowd, but all I can see are heads. Mums, dads, grandparents, aunties, cousins, plus, it wouldn’t surprise me, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Together with his old grey mare, for all I know. Who the hell are all these people? Suddenly, a female voice calls out, ‘Jonneee, I here!’. Well that’s as maybe, whoever you are, but I’m wedged in, some joker is standing on my foot and I sincerely hope that is not a hand, jabbing me in the groin. Chrissie meanwhile has completely disappeared, trampled underfoot possibly, but who can tell in this stampede?
Suddenly, without warning, there is a brief lull in hostilities, and I am able to inch my way around the back wall, extracting my privates from someone’s sweaty grasp, and find myself in a blessed six inches of space, and a better view of what is happening on the far side of the hall. What the…. there is nobody there! We are all hemmed in on this side, like sardines on our way to a canning factory, yet maybe two-thirds of the room seems empty. I cannot actually see the floor, but is there a fence of some sort, preventing free movement? I glimpse Chrissie chatting away happily to Paloma, so at least she has made it unscathed, being far nimbler, and closer to the ground, no doubt, whereas I, conscious of my size, am wary of treading on some diminutive Spaniard. Or inadvertently grasping anyone’s groin, of course. One thing is for certain, there is no way the play is starting at seven, not that we seriously expected it to, knowing, as we do, that start times in this country are mere suggestions, bearing no relationship to actual reality.
Gradually I am able to squeeze my way towards the girls, and for the first time snatch a glimpse at the floor, and the precise cause of this ridiculous chaos. Toddlers! A Nativity for two-year-olds. Oh my word, how utterly charming, there must be thirty of them, at least, arranged in a living village scene, tiny nursery-school tables and chairs forming authentic-looking market stalls, with bakers, fishmongers, fruit and veg, a butchers, a haberdashery, a cake shop, with each little ‘stall-holder’ dressed in Biblical costume. Standing behind the village is a cardboard-box Roman fort complete with centurions in togas and tiny sandals, waving plastic swords, then the Three Kings, one of whom is in authentic black-face, regally clutching their precious gifts, a couple of angels with huge fluffy wings, and finally the stable, Mary, Joseph, and in a tiny straw-filled manger, a plastic doll wrapped in swaddling bands. In the middle of this enchanting scene is the piece de resistance, a baby, eight or nine months old maybe, a little girl, sitting up, on a patch of plastic grass, surrounded by a white picket fence, dressed in a sheep’s costume, a fluffy ball of white, so unbelievably cute. And guarding her, outside the fence, four little shepherds, with tea-towels around their heads, dressed in hessian sacks.
Overcome by emotion, choking back the tears, I approach the girls, and we hug. Paloma first, then Chrissie. No idea why I am gripping my wife, actually, as I last saw her not five minutes ago, but it just seems the right thing to do, incapable as I am of speech, without blubbering. Truly, in my lifetime, I have never witnessed anything like this, and all my Christmases have come at once. ‘What do you think of my little sister?’ Chrissie’s student smiles.
Blimey, in all the kerfuffle I had forgotten about the sister. Not a clue. What was her name again? Anna? Is she here? Time to wing it again. ‘Yes!’ I lie, although hopefully only I know that. ‘So pretty!’ There, that should do it, hopefully, although my wife is staring in a you are so full of bull kind of way. She knows me, is well aware that my man-brains, although more than capable of figuring out how to cover Electra-Man’s hideous cock-up with a tiled frame around the water-meter door, simply do not have the capacity for remembering peop
le, or names, especially all these blinking Annas. Got away with it for now, however. Maybe.
Meanwhile the toddlers, being toddlers, are misbehaving mightily. The centurions are staging a massive sword-fight, the baker is whacking the butcher with a plastic loaf, who in turn is jabbing the fishmonger with a rubber steak. One of the angels is behaving in an extremely un-angelic manner in the cake shop, and the shepherds are poking the baby sheep with their crooks, trying to make her baa. Chaos descends upon the Nativity village. Mothers are attempting to separate the warring stall-holders, dads with smart-phones are taking photos, grannies are waving madly and Paloma dives into the melee like a modern-day Bo-Peep, to rescue the little lamb from a severe prodding. And this being Spain, everyone is bawling and shouting at the same time. Chrissie and I, meanwhile, are leaning against the wall, shaking with laughter, shedding a few emotional tears, no doubt. I know I am. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.
Suddenly, if it were possible, the noise intensifies, as through the door crash three blokes dressed as kings, Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, each bearing a large sack of festive gifts. The kiddies, forgetting their Nativity-Wars, hurtle across the room, en-masse, pushing and shoving, struggling between the legs of the frazzled parents, in one huge unholy bunfight. Three chairs are rapidly produced for the royal visitors, just in time too as within seconds they are engulfed by rampant nippers. Several school-helpers dressed as fairies attempt to restore order, and to steer the exultant ankle-biters into an orderly queue, but there is no chance. Within seconds, each King has at least three little terrors clinging to his robes, others scrambling for the best positions, and the fairies appear to have abandoned all hope of quelling this kindergarten riot. One fortunate centurion has wrenched a football from one of the kings and is attempting to dribble his way past the baker, who is laying into all and sundry with his loaf, when suddenly the little girl from the cake shop dives on the ball like an All-Black, a rubber steak flies through the air catching the fishmonger on the side of his head, he bursts into tears, then snatches a shepherd’s crook and shoves it unceremoniously between the legs of Frankincense. Who looks less than impressed to have had his Christmas ruined, quite possibly. As does one of the fairies, who I imagine might well be Mrs Frankincense, in real life. That’s Christmas night gone for a Burton, in their house.
Time for us to bail out of this lunacy, before I have a sheep-tending implement shoved where the sun don’t shine. Hugging Paloma, who has somehow shed her fluffy burden, we stumble gratefully, breathlessly, into the silent street, reflecting on what was undoubtedly the craziest Nativity scene of our entire lives. ‘Did you see the look on that king’s face?’ Chrissie splutters, ‘I bet he will be speaking with a high voice, for a few days!’
‘And walking with a limp, I imagine!’ I giggle, ‘and his wife didn’t look too chuffed, either. She won’t need to get her Christmas underwear out, this year! ’
‘Well that’s one blessing, I suppose!’ comes the not-unexpected reply.
We walk along in silence for a few minutes, before my wife takes my arm. ‘Right, now, be honest, you didn’t have a clue what was happening tonight, did you? I could see that far-away look in your eyes! Come on, time to confess!’
Told you, didn’t I? Rumbled. I puff myself up in mock indignation, all the while crossing my fingers. ‘Not at all. I recognised Paloma, of course. I must admit, I did think it was going to be a proper Nativity story, a play, and I didn’t realise the kids would be toddlers, but I think you will find I was completely up to scratch with everything.’
‘So what did you think about her little sister Anna?’
Not letting go, is she? ‘Well, you will admit it was fairly chaotic in there, to say the least, wasn’t it? So in the general melee, I have to admit I didn’t actually spot the sister. I was bluffing, to Paloma. Now please leave me alone! I am having enough trouble hauling my earthly remains up this damned great hill, having toiled NON-STOP for the last few weeks! I need a beer, after all that HARD WORK!’
Nope. Not happening. ‘So you didn’t see the little lamb, then, in the middle of the Nativity village?’
And I run my neck right into the noose. ‘Of course I did, that was the cutest thing I have ever seen, having a baby dressed as a sheep!’
Checkmate. ‘Oh, so you do admit to seeing Paloma’s little sister, then?’
It takes a minute for this latest nugget to permeate my grey-matter. Not my fault, is it? Been a hard couple of weeks, right? ‘A baby? Blimey, Paloma is, what, eighteen? Bit of a gap, isn’t it!’
I suddenly realise I am alone, as Chrissie has stopped dead. ‘That is it, I am taking you to the doctor, when we get back after Christmas. You know all this. Second marriage, isn’t it. Rosa, Paloma’s mother, was married before. We went to see the new baby, last Spring, didn’t we? Louise made a little patchwork quilt, for the cot, didn’t she?’
I am scratching my head, in desperation. ‘Well I forgot, all right? Last Spring? I can barely remember my name, these days. A quilt? What does that have to do with me? And who is Louise, anyway?’
She is open-mouthed, rooted to the spot. ‘You steaming, blathering nincompoop. Louise? Our elder daughter? Remember her, do you? Where we are going, the day after tomorrow? Her latest hobby is quilting? She made that beautiful patchwork one, don’t you remember?’
I screw up my eyes, in a vain attempt to get my feeble brain into gear. I just need to sit down, with a glass of red. Or four. Rick Stein can go to hell, we’re having sandwiches. Puffing, we reach the top of the hill, and our front door. ‘Anyway, never mind all that nonsense’ I pant, indicating the water-meter door, ‘what I reckon is four of those long edging tiles, mitre the corner joints, some of that grey fix-n-grout, will look lovely, don’t you think?’
Which earns me another bruise, to go with my collection…
The following morning, at the unearthly hour of seven-fifteen, we exit our front door, to be swept away in a torrent of olive-pickers and a rhapsody of windpipes, heading down aback-o towards the bus station. Never seen so many people on the move at the same time, in this town. So this is what it’s like, before the dawn cracks. Who knew? Although quite why we are assembling in the middle of the night Heaven only knows, as a quick check on Mr Google revealed this Rute place to be lying in the hinterland, on the borders of Jaen, Granada and Cordoba provinces, not a million miles from where we live. Half an hour, max, in the car, I am guessing, although there might be huge great mountains in the way, requiring a thirty-mile detour, and I cannot imagine a coach negotiating some of these crazy hairpin bends. Impossible to tell, from an online map. Mr Google might be all-powerful, but he ain’t no Ordnance Survey, is he? All will no doubt be revealed, in the fullness of time. Another Spanish voyage of discovery. Or it will be, when I eventually come-to, in about three hours time.
‘NEIGHBOUR! Where are you going?’ Oh for pity’s sake. It is pitch dark, I am barely awake, my body still thinks it is yesterday. Who is shouting, at this hour? Isn’t there a law about that kind of behaviour? Ahead, illuminated grotesquely in the streetlight, stomach bursting out of his ratty overalls, it can only be one person. Fernando. Going olive-picking, no doubt. Right, I’ll teach you, matey, disturbing my sleep like this. Has to love sweets, doesn’t he, with a gut like that? Can’t all be beer, can it? ‘We are going to the Belen of CHOCOLATE, Fernando! In Rute. On a coach.’ There. Give him something to salivate about, whilst he is harvesting. Although we have previously wondered what his function might be, in the team. Cannot possibly be bending over, gathering up the fallers. I bet he hasn’t seen his feet in years. And whacking the tree with a damn great stick? Hardly seems likely. Shouting, we reckon. Bellowing advice. That must be his task, for which he is eminently qualified, if you ask me.
‘Well bring some home for me, neighbour!’ he brays, waking-up the rest of the town. Oh we will, neighbour. The empty wrappers…
Outside the bus station is the usual total Spanish mayhem. Tractors and trailers, wheezing an
d belching out fumes, and olive-pickers, well, just wheezing, completely blocking the street. The air is thick with the enticing aromas of diesel, and phlegm. ‘I hope the coach is here already!’ Chrissie giggles, ‘imagine trying to drive through this lot?’
‘Well watch where you’re stepping’ I warn. ‘you know the old saying, as slippery as snot!’
She screws up her face in disgust. ‘Oh, you horrible old man! You’re putting me off my breakfast.’
‘Just telling you, darling’ I snigger, ‘don’t want you getting anything on those extremely expensive shoes, and jeans, you bought in that Bimba place in Cordoba, do we? Just remember what happened to you, the last time we had a day-out, when you trod in that pig-piddle?’
‘SHUT UP, RIGHT!’
Oh yeah! One-nil to the boys, and it ain’t even daylight yet! But hang on a minute. Breakfast? Two rounds of toast and a mug of instant, due to this ungodly departure time? Call that a breakfast, on a Christmas? Or as near to Christmas as makes no difference? Actually, we have no idea what is happening about meals, on this little jaunt, given that the bumph we got from the travel-agent was vague to the point of being worse than useless, regarding a return time. Tardey was all it said, afternoon, and bearing in mind there is no Spanish term for ‘evening’, that could mean any time from mid-day until getting on for midnight. Still, the seventh rule of travel is something will turn up, and in this country of a million cafes where menu del dia, three courses plus wine, can be had for as little as seven euros, we are unlikely to go hungry. And we’re off to a chocolate factory….
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 23