Stepping gingerly around the harvesters, keeping a wary lookout for slippery, unsavoury deposits, we squeeze our way into the bus station, where a single coach is drawn up in one of the bays. Cannot be ours, however, as about a hundred shouty Spaniards are crowding around, many of whom are bearing Ryanair-approved hand luggage. The sides of the bus are raised, and the harassed-looking driver is shoveling suitcases on board for all he is worth, like the fireman on the Flying Scotsman. Baggage safely stowed, the passengers attempt speedy-boarding, all at the same time, a physical impossibility given the girth of some of the back-sides in evidence. ‘So where is our coach, then?’ I groan, ‘late, as usual, I imagine.’ I just need to flop down in my seat, any seat, and catch up on my beauty-sleep. Wake me up when we arrive in chocolate-city.
‘That is it, look’, Chrissie confirms, ‘the sticker on the window. Zeus Tours, Belen de Chocolate, Rute. That is us, quick, get on board, before they leave without us!’
‘Leave without us? Are you insane? Ever heard the expression threading a needle with a sausage? Gonna take about a year to squeeze this lot on. And besides, what’s with the luggage? You didn’t say anything about stopping overnight, we’re flying tomorrow, so that is it, we can’t go, I am off home.’
My wife regards me without affection, tearing savagely at the contents of her handbag, emerging with the tickets. ‘Right, look, seven euros. You don’t get overnight accommodation for seven bloody euros, do you? The travel-agent said we would be home in the tardey. So just get on the damned bus!’
I am quite enjoying this. Gonna be two-nil to the geezers, any minute now. ‘But which tardey did she mean? Boxing Day tardey? And I repeat, we don’t have any luggage, we will look a right pair of losers, with no bags! I will need clean pants, at the very least, by Boxing Day! Possibly.’
She calms down slightly, maybe at the thought of me in my pants, or then again, no. ‘Well I don’t know about the suitcases, all right, but this is definitely a day-trip, because I checked. You know what the Spanish are like, maybe they’ve brought extra coats, scarves, gloves, thermal underwear, who knows?’
‘Extra coats? They are bundled up like Sherpa Tenzing as it is! Where do they think we are going, Mount Everest?!’
She smiles sweetly. ‘Well, the melee has thinned out. Let us have a look on board, maybe ask the driver, shall we?’
I follow her up the steps, to be greeted by what appears to be a small general store. Spread out across the dashboard are a bottle of wine, a fruit cake, a box of biscuits, various shower products in a cellophane bag, a tin of chocolates and a cuddly toy. All right, I made one of those up, but what is this, a bus, or a duty-free? Are we crossing frontiers? Have I looked up the wrong Rute? Is there another one, in, I dunno, Portugal? Could we get from here to Portugal in a day? Easy. In fact, I romanticise about being able to see it from our terrace, even though I know it is not possible. But are we headed in that direction, hence the luggage?
The middle-aged, balding, paunchy driver is grinning widely, although whether he has expectations of us buying something from his shop, or wind, is impossible to tell. ‘Tee-kay?’ he grins. Now we are sufficiently au-fait with the language to know he is not referring to that jumble-sale shop you find on many British high streets, where I was unfortunate enough to be dragged once, and once only, unless of course he is opening a small branch here. T.K. Coach, anyone? No, he means ‘ticket’, which Chrissie produces with a flourish. Wrong. He is in fact pointing to his wares. ‘Tee-kay Sort-ayo?’ Blimey, we are expected to buy something. Got my eye on the fruit cake, actually. Were I to be marooned on a desert island, provided there was a plentiful supply of pork pies and fruit cake, just forget all about having me rescued, OK?
I tap my chosen delicacy on its wrapper. ‘Quanto?’
‘Two euros only’ he smiles.
Blimey, give the man the money! Unless it has gone way past the sell-by date, that is the bargain of all time. And fruit cake keeps for years anyway, doesn’t it? Not that one has ever lasted more that a few days, in our house, mind you. Chrissie is delving for some coins in her purse, and I reach over the dashboard and grab my purchase. Wrong again. A massive hullabaloo kicks off, the driver and passengers are laughing and shouting, which is the default setting for Spaniards, even before the crack of dawn, apparently, but it appears I have committed a faux-pas. What? Am I expected to leave it there, on display, sun blazing away through the windscreen, when it eventually rises? Do I pick it up later, at the end of the day? Will it be delivered to my seat by the cabin-crew? Or does he think that because I am British, he will drive round a few mountain passes, open the door, let it roll out and watch me chase it down the hill? I don’t care what he read in his English text book, when he was a kid, I don’t go in for that malarkey, and anyway, as we all know, that was cheese, not cake.
Suddenly there is an almighty kerfuffle from the back seats, and a young woman comes trip-trapping down the aisle. ‘Jonneee! Cristina! Ha ha ha ha!’
NOOOOOOOOOOO! PLEEEEEEEEEASE! Elena. Crazy Elena. Totally. Barking. Mad. Elena. Batty, scatty. Potty, dotty. Completely round the bend, and back again Elena. My latest student, of two months, although, believe me, it feels like two hundred years. In a country of nut-cases, Elena is a surely the original Fruit-and-Nut-case……… It all started on that fateful morning, at the library conversation group, fifteen bonkers minutes engraved on my very soul, for all time. There we all were, the usual crowd, Teri, Rafi, Marie, and the fellows Jose, Juan and Amador, plus Chrissie of course, totally minding our own business, with me attempting to explain Halloween and the Guy Fawkes Gunpowder Plot, under the general heading ‘Autumn Fiestas in Your Country’, when suddenly there was a scuffle in the corridor, and into the room burst this rather scary-looking lady, mid-twenties maybe, dressed entirely in black, tight jumper, short skirt, thick woolly tights and high heels. With her long chestnut hair, she reminded me of the Cadbury’s Milk Tray woman, if there is such a person, and if not, why not, in the twenty-first century? Anyway, don’t look at me, love, all because I prefer Quality Street. She fired a rapid broadside at the locals, who, totally passing the buck, nodded sheepishly in my direction, the bastardos, whereby Milk Tray glanced at me, seemingly for the first time, broke into a manic cackle, bumped into the desk, thudded clumsily into the chair next to me, grabbed my arm and uttered those immortal words, which will surely follow me to my grave. ‘Ello, my name Elena. What you name plees? Ha ha ha ha!’
Why do they always attach themselves to me, these lunatics? Alicia was the same, until she got expelled from the group, for being a complete nut-job. Do I cut a professorial air? Hardly. Drunk too much beer, eaten too many pork pies, plus the odd fruit cake, to ever project a scholarly image. I promise you this, there are no leather elbow-patches on my Harris tweed jacket. I did have an inkling, of course, of what she was after, and no, it was not my body, strange as that may seem, what with me being a dead ringer for Jim Bergerac and all. English lessons, of course. Well bad luck, Mrs, I am fully booked, well into the next century.
She flapped her arms vigorously, either calling for complete silence, or attempting a vertical take-off. ‘Plees. I study Eengliss at official school, ha ha ha ha.’ Well congratulations, you don’t need me then, clearly, as I am so not official. In fact, I am so unofficial as to scarcely exist. She glanced suspiciously round the room, either struggling to concentrate, or admiring the institutional decor. ‘Sorree, I nervous!’ You’re nervous? I am bricking it. ‘Ha ha ha ha! Plees, in official school, no speaky moocho Eengliss. I prepare my examins, Deathy-embray, ha ha ha ha, es good for me speaky Eengliss with joo.’
Across the table, Amador, who had clearly been itching to interject, glanced at me and, under his breath, muttered ‘Fox me!’ Del-speak for well I never did!
Chrissie seemed to be enjoying the charade, however. ‘Which particular day were you hoping for English classes, Elena, before your exam in Deathy, I mean December?’
Once again Elena looked shocked at
the presence of other people, staring vacantly at my wife. It’s like she is here physically, but mentally on another planet entirely. ‘Ha ha ha! You Eengliss also? You woman of he? Plees you speaky Eengliss with me, ha ha ha!’
Not great tactics, I felt, referring to Chrissie as my woman, but she refused to feel offended. ‘Sorry, I have no spaces left at the moment, but Johnny does, don’t you dearest? So which day do you want?’
Being stitched right up, wasn’t I? Elena was bouncing on her chair, like a manic toddler on Santa’s knee. ‘Ha ha ha ha, I to go official school on Wed-nest-day, plees I speaky joo antes thees?’
‘Before this?’ Now why did I say that? Me and my big mouth. Should have just kept schtum, denied everything. Now I’ve gone and implied I’m available. Done myself up like a kipper, as Del-Boy might have said.
Elena sprang out of her seat and enveloped me in a bear hug. ‘Ha ha ha ha, ees perfecto, nine-and-half on Wed-nest-day. You come my house plees, ha ha ha ha?’ As the spider said to the fly, I seem to recall. And she does bear more than a passing resemblance to a Black Widow…. The opposite side of the table seemed highly amused at this turn of events, which earned them a mild Paddington Bear stare, I recall, but my new student seemed highly delighted, to put it mildly. Hopping from foot to foot with excitement, although perhaps she needed a bathroom break, who knows, she jotted down her address, crashed into the table, and with a final frenzied cry, departed the room, leaving us in a state of complete bewilderment, like we had been struck by a whirlwind.
Jose was the first to speak. ‘Good lucky with she!’ And the group dissolved into uncontrolled laughter.
Fixing Chrissie with a severe Paddington, I continued where I left off, half a lifetime ago. ‘Anyway, in the Houses of Parliament, on the fifth of November………’
My first English class with Elena was unlike any educational experience since education was first invented, I imagine. Usually, I ask a question, and let the pupil speak, correcting as required, but with someone studying for an exam, a little more structure is necessary, following the syllabus. Arriving apprehensively at her door, I was dragged across the threshold, dumped on the far end of the sofa, against the wall, penned in by a coffee table, unable to escape. And it was one of those sofas where, if you lean back, you end up with your knees round your ears, almost. ‘Ha ha ha ha! Jonneee! Good see joo! Happy morning! I show you my syllaboooo! Ha ha ha ha!’
Barely able to speak, what with my windpipe resembling a concertina, I hauled myself to the edge of the settee. ‘Good morning, Elena, please show me your syllaBUS!’
‘Ha ha ha ha! No, first I show you my cock! Plees, come, see my cock, thees way plees!’ And she grabbed me by the hand. Oh my good God. Please let this be a chicken. Although where she might be storing a fowl in an apartment heaven only knows. Across the sitting room, onto a small outside terrace, and there, deepest joy, sweet blessed relief, was a cockatoo, in a cage.
Wiping cold sweat from my brow, I found myself croaking. ‘Cockatoo. You have a cockatoo. Cock means something different. Are you talking about your pet in the exam? What is his name, and what colour is he?’ Flaming hell. Just wait until I see my spouse, later this morning.
‘Ha ha ha ha! Yees, I speaky my cock, in examins. But now I show joo my keetcheen. Thees way plees.’
This woman has the attention-span of a goldfish, but time to assert some authority. ‘No, Elena, please, we only have an hour, and we need to talk about things which you must practice for the exam. Now, sit next to me, and tell me about your pet cockatoo.’ God I felt old.
She grabbed me round the shoulder, batted her eyelids, and directed me back to the sofa. ‘Wrrrrrrrrr! Jonneee, you so machisto! Ha ha ha ha! I love mans machisto.’ She flapped her arms. ‘OK. My too-cock, he name Pedro. Ha ha ha ha. I show you keetcheen, plees, now?’ Not gonna pass this exam, is she? Might as well go and look at her bloody kitchen, for all the good I am doing here.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a key turning in the front door, and into the room stepped a young man, who I have to say looked entirely unconcerned at the sight of his girlfriend virtually horizontal on the sofa with a grey-haired old bloke. ‘Ha ha ha ha! Thees my friend-boy Won-ma! Say ‘ello my teacher of Eengliss, Jonneee!’ I struggled to my feet and gripped his hand, smiling, all the while keeping a wary eye out for a swift knee in the groin. Well you just never know do you? These hot-blooded Latin types. I needn’t have worried, however. ‘Won-ma he make brax-fass. Joo want see keetcheen, plees?’ This time a stern wagging of my finger was sufficient to bring my errant student to order. ‘Wrrrrrrrrr! Jonneee, you so machisto! Ha ha ha ha!’ And she leaned across, and breathed into my ear. ‘Won-ma, he no moocho machisto, like joo!’
The rest of the lesson passed in a similar vein, and couldn’t end soon enough, for me, as somewhat punch-drunk, light-headed, and stunned, I made my way unsteadily up the hill homewards. If ever I deserved a cold one on the patio…. Oh and by the way. If you were interested, that is. Pedro, the too-cock? He was white, with a few yellow, punk-rocker, fanned-Mohawk feathers on the back of his head, rather like a Johnny Rotten lookalike taking his pig to a Sex-Pistols concert…
And so today, this general store with a small bus attached, down the aisle comes the vision of craziness, who launches herself at the pair of us, almost knocking me into the bag of shower products. ‘Ha ha ha ha! Jonneee! I so ‘appy! I win tee-too-low! I passy my examins! Thanks to joo!’ Bloody hell! She passed? Unbelievable. Good to get the credit of course, but honestly? Did I do a scrap of good? The woman was unteachable, as far as I was concerned, up and down like a Weston donkey, unable to focus for more than a few minutes at a time. We had six lessons all-told, her kitchen wasn’t even that great, to be honest, and I was utterly sick of talking about that cocka-flaming-too, come the end.
Suddenly, a thought crosses my mind, and I dig my wife playfully in the ribs. ‘One hundred-percent, eh? What about that, then!’
‘More by luck than judgement! comes the frosty reply. Oh yes!
Elena is still bouncing around, making an awful song and dance of herself, as my mother would have said, but which the Spaniards in the first few rows seem to regard as entirely natural, although they must surely be wondering why this lunatic is cavorting with two Britons, in the front of the bus, at half-seven in the morning. Crazy-woman puts them out of their misery. ‘My name is Elena, and I passed my English exams last week!’ she hollers, ‘and this is my English teacher, Jonneee! Ha ha ha ha!’ And the whole coach, including the puzzled-looking driver, burst into spontaneous applause, cheering and stamping their feet. Hell, you don’t get this on the National Express, do you? We travelled from Exeter to Gatwick airport once and didn’t speak to a single soul, the driver merely grunted when I handed him the cases, and there were no fruit cakes on sale, that’s a fact.
My former pupil quietens down slightly, but only slightly. ‘Plees, you have no bags?’ Why you have no bags?’
I decide to let Chrissie answer that one, as she bought the tickets, and I’m still unconvinced we are not headed overseas. She smiles confidently, although I suspect she was bluffing, really. ‘Why do we need a bag? We are only going for the day. Aren’t we?’ See what I mean, that little uncertainty at the end?
‘Yees, one day only, ha ha ha ha, but you need bag for you em-boo-tea-toes.’ Nope, me neither.
My wife feels vindicated however. ‘See? Thermal socks, for cold toes? Told you we were only going for the day, didn’t I?’ Didn’t mention the ‘em’ or the ‘boo’ or the ‘tea’, though, did she?
‘So what are these tea-toes things please Elena?’ I query.
She breathes deeply, flapping her hands. ‘I not know how you say em-boo-tea-toes in Eengliss, ha ha ha ha! Theengs to eat. You see, thees day, at fack-toey.’ So not thermal socks then. Not sure I fancy eating body parts, however, thees day, or any day. And the fifth rule of travel might need to be amended again to eat what the locals are eating unless you suspect there might be lumps of r
at in it. Or toes. We shall see, if ever this damned trip actually gets going. Not yet however, as Elena is still hopping. ‘Plees, you buy tee-kay? Sort-ayo? Ha ha ha, how you say sort-ayo in Eengliss?’ Oh for pity’s sake, not the flipping tee-kay again?
At that moment, her eyes come to rest on the driver, seemingly for the first time, as if she was maybe expecting the coach to steer itself. Who knows? ‘Hello, ha ha ha ha, my name is Elena, what is your name please? And do you know how to say sort-ayo in English?’
He thinks he has pulled, no doubt about it. Sucking in his gut, puffing out his chest, and failing miserably, at both, he leans nonchalantly against his seat back. ‘My name is Pepe, but sorry, I don’t speak a word of English, but don’t worry, I will ask the passengers.’ And he cups his hands to his mouth, and hollers down the bus. ‘Anyone know the English for sort-ayo?’
Pandemonium ensues. Everyone is shouting at once, some wag bellows ‘I thought you just passed an English exam, Elena, don’t you know?’ but sadly it appears no-one does. And none of the old duffers has a smart-phone, either. Well so what? Not life and death, is it? Or do we have to remain here, until we get to the bottom of the mystery?
Mercifully, Pepe comes to the rescue by rummaging around behind his seat, and bringing forth a book of raffle-tickets. A RAFFLE! So that is what all this is all about, although why we need to have it now, in the middle of the night, and not on the journey homewards, I guess we will never know. Chrissie still has her two euros to hand, which she exchanges for a strip of tickets, on the pink, and grabbing me by the arm, Elena leads us down the aisle. ‘I have seat in back, plees you seat with me thees day, ha ha ha ha!’
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 24