‘I SAID, WRITE DOWN YOUR CHOICES!’ I giggle, loudly
‘WHAT?’
‘I’M HAVING A NUMBER SIX, A FIFTY-FOUR, ONION RINGS AND THE PIGEON!’
‘DON’T THEY HAVE ANY ME-GAS? OR WOLF?’
Strangely, not a single eyelid is batted, on the other table. That was normal volume, for them. Anyway, we have made our decisions, so what happens next? There is not a single waiter in sight, does this mean we order inside? In a country where going up to the bar is uncommon, to say the least, it appears we do. Well, that is what the girls are doing, so who am I to disagree. I am about to follow when suddenly my wife snatches the list. ‘You stay there, old man, we don’t want you drooling in there, do we? I will place the order, you just sit here and LOOK THE OTHER WAY!’
I am rightly aggrieved. ‘Oh heaven forbid I should as much as glance at those young ladies. Unlike you, who was blatantly perving at commando-boy in the garage, not half an hour since.’ She giggles, pokes out her tongue, and hurries off to place the order, leaving me to ponder the injustices of life.
Around five minutes later, sipping our lemonades, just as we were beginning to wonder what was happening, I almost jump out of my skin, as someone has surely crept up behind me and started bellowing into a megaphone. ‘CRISTINA, POR FAVOR!’ I slump, ashen-faced onto the table, while my heart rhythm reduces to something like normal. Dear Go…. ‘PILAR POR FAVOR! MARIA POR FAVOR! ALICIA POR FAVOR! LOLIS POR FAVOR! PATRI POR FAVOR!’ Hell’s teeth, this is like sitting inside Big Ben. I have spilled about half my drink down my shirt, and turn, head spinning, to see that we are positioned in front of a speaker, and that up at the counter, some half-wit is hollering into a microphone.
Chrissie finds this immensely funny, of course. ‘Al right, all right, I will go. They said they would call me, but they weren’t supposed to blow your bloody head off!’
Never like this in Gregg’s, is it? And we are going to have to move tables, as any more shocks to the system I will surely peg it. Or was that her plan all along…. Now clearly I cannot move nearer the girls, lest I am accused of further lewd behaviour, and the only other spare places are on the other side of the terrace, and she will not know where I have gone…..quickly I gather up the glasses, tiptoe away, then chuckle to myself as she emerges, balancing three large, heaped plates, staring in disbelief at the empty seats. That will get her back for salivating at some spotty youth. Hang on a minute. Three plates? I dash across to give her a hand. ‘How much have you ordered, you have enough to feed an army here! I am sure there will be other occasions, we don’t have to try the whole hundred on the menu today!’
‘ALBERTO POR FAVOR! MANOLO POR FAVOR!’
She flinches at the aural assault. ‘This isn’t all of it, there are three more plates to come!’
‘So why did you buy so much? I only ordered two montaditos! You have about eight here!’
‘JOSE POR FAVOR!’
She returns with the three extra platters, each one piled high. ‘Look, I got confused, right? He was babbling on about his brother, or something, I don’t know, I was saying no no, four only, he was shouting si si, you take, and the brother business. Anyway, nip up to the bar and get the chips, onion rings, and two lots of pigeons!’
‘PACO POR FAVOR! MANUEL POR FAVOR!’
Our feast barely fits on the table. ‘Bloody hell, Ramon said to come back in an hour, we will be here until next week, eating this lot. How much did you spend, for heaven’s sake? We have the tyres to pay for, don’t forget!’
‘ANGELA POR FAVOR!’
‘It came to twelve euros-something. Not a lot, really!’
I perform some quick mental arithmetic. ‘You have almost twenty-quids worth here, are you sure this isn’t someone else’s order? And why do you have two lot’s of pigeon?’
‘FATIMA POR FAVOR!’
‘OH SHUT UP! Palomitas aren’t pigeon, you plonker. This one is deep-fried brie, with cranberry. Yours are chicken bites, with barbecue sauce. My montaditos are goat’s cheese, smoked salmon with cream cheese, tuna with tomato, and the rest are for you! Now stop moaning, and get it down you!’
‘LOLA POR FAVOR!’
I stare in disbelief at the mound of food in front of me. We won’t be needing a Rick Stein special when we finally get home tonight, that’s for certain. Before I start tucking in however I have one further question. ‘So which one of these is the christorra?’
‘RAFI POR FAVOR!’
After what seems like about fifty years, we waddle painfully back to Maris to find the little white SEAT standing proudly outside the workshop door, new rear tyres gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. ‘There you go, look!’ I exclaim, proudly, bending over to examine my new neumaticos, sorry ruedas, ‘see how the new tread pattern has been designed to……’ Where has she gone? Vanished! Glancing angrily around, I spot my errant spouse peering expectantly through the workshop window. THE DIRTEE COO! I stomp into the office to find Ramon in full flow. ‘Yes my brother is the manager of Thee-en Montaditos, so I called him to give you a small discount! I hope you enjoyed it there! Now, you must return here next month to change the front wheels, OK?’ Chrissie is nodding expectantly, like a breathless schoolgirl, all the while keeping an eye peeled for commando-spotty-youth, who to my huge delight seems to have disappeared. Amazingly, she then delves into her bag, fishes out her credit-card and, simpering, hands it across. Well well, looky here! Has she been hypnotised? I am keeping schtum.
Spilling out into the warm sunshine, I fire up the engine, and, shifting my seat back a notch to accommodate my extended belly, gingerly edge out of the car park and along my secret short-cut, under the motorway and past the golf course, to the far end of Torremolinos beach. I need a long lie-down, and a snooze, before the journey home. Settling into her beach-chair, my wife still appears to be in somewhat of a trance. ‘Ahhhh, well that was a lovely morning, wasn’t it? And we have to come back again next month, too! Oh, by the way, did you discover what that christorra thing was?’
I raise my head off the towel and look her firmly in the eye. ‘I have only one word for you after today’s performance. Shoshage!’
A few weeks later we are in the city of Jaen, or HH-ayen, as it is pronounced, throatily, in these parts. Capital of the province of the same name, Jaen forms the northern point of our inland triangle, featuring Granada in the east, and Cordoba to the west, and one of its most attractive features is a hilltop castle, part of which has been converted to a Parador, an upmarket hotel. A track leads along the summit to a huge, white concrete cross, thirty feet high maybe, from where commanding views over the twisted, tortured mountains to the south can be obtained. The piece de resistance of the city however is the Renaissance-style cathedral, home to the Holy Veil, which according to legend, was used to wash the face of Christ. The twin towers of its Baroque facade guard the surrounding labyrinth of narrow streets and arches, and it was there that we dined Royally, at a pavement cafe, on blan-kettas marineros, which might or might not translate as ‘sailor’s blankets’, large chunks of crusty bread the size of a boxer’s hand, topped with smoked salmon, tuna and sliced tomatoes, smothered with toasted cheese. Angels sang, let me tell you, especially when they learned the price; less than three euros each. Estupendo, no? We certainly thought so.
Returning to the car, late afternoon, we discover a glossy publicity notice shoved under the windscreen wipers, announcing the opening of a local tyre garage, Neumaticos MK. A wide range of new and secondhand wheels, at competitive prices, with friendly service, it confidently predicts. Hmmmm. I wonder….. ‘This looks good,’ I smile, ‘there is a map on the back, and it is only a few streets from here. We could swing by there on the way home, and see about those front tyres we need to get. What do you think?’
My wife’s face is a picture of crushing disappointment. Now, why do you think that could be? ‘But I thought you said we would go to Maris again? We had good service there, didn’t we? Old Ramon was good fun, and he got us that discount at Hund
red Montaditos, didn’t he? We could go there again, for lunch, couldn’t we?’
I am struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Yes, but we both agreed our weekend breaks are sacrosanct, didn’t we? You complained before about me going to that DIY warehouse, and you having to mingle with a load of sweaty blokes, when you could be basking in the sunshine. Correct? That time at Maris was an emergency, wasn’t it? And besides, my guts still haven’t shrunk back to their former size, after eating all those Montaditos. So I suggest we have a look in this MK place, while we are here, and if it’s no good, fine.’
She splutters. ‘Your guts haven’t shrunk to their former size since you were about eighteen, I think you will find! But I really liked it in Maris, there was a good atmosphere, I thought, they were good people, and you know I have a sixth sense about these things.’
‘Sixth sense be beggared! Just be honest, I know why you want to go back to that place, which I thought was totally unhygienic by the way, people going to work with no underwear. Eughhh! Anyway, for all you know, this MK might be stuffed with oiled-up ‘totty’. So get in the car, get hold of this map, ‘cos you are navigating!
It takes us around twenty minutes to arrive at Neumaticos MK, situated on a nondescript trading estate, after what I suspect were several deliberate misdirections on the part of the ‘navigator’, due in part to the screwed-up nature of the map where it had been snatched from my hand, but we eventually pull up on the forecourt and step inside, to be greeted by Kevin Keegan from about 1976, complete with curly mullet and sideburns. ‘There you go, look!’ I mutter, ‘I said there’d be totty, didn’t I?’ The place is huge, with no ‘customer’ area, glossy magazines or complimentary coffee, but an impressive display of tyres, floor to ceiling, lining the right-hand wall. Sadly however, I am unable to spot any remoulds, but otherwise we could have been beamed back to a previous century. My kind of place. And, blessed relief, the handful of old men standing around are properly clothed, in the underwear department, I would imagine.
‘Buscando dos ruedas delantay, para mi coche’ I smile, ignoring my wife who appears to have returned to the car, for some unknown reason. Now then. Please pay particular attention to my word delantay. It means ‘front’, and there will be questions on it, later.
Kevin glances outside. ‘For the SEAT?’ And he leads me across to the far wall, indicating a small selection of different brands, in my size, which I have carefully memorised. My attention is drawn to a pair of Michelins, and I reach out my hand and lovingly caress their rubbery flanks. I always aspired to a Michelin, back in my remould days, but simply never possessed the wherewithal. Great tyres, right? Kev senses my interest. ‘Seventy euros, the pair, all included. Good price, no?’
It is indeed, but I just have to check. ‘Including mont-akky, equilibrio, and balbo?’ I query. Not worth mentioning the special air, was it, bearing in mind the last forty years haven’t happened yet, in this particular emporium?
He nods emphatically. ‘Everything.’
Well that’s it settled, as far as I’m concerned, but ‘I need to speak to my wife a moment’ I inform him. Heading back outside, she is seated in the car, glowering. ‘They have a pair of Michelins for seventy, all in.’
‘Good for you.’
I am really trying here. ‘Well that’s a good price, don’t you think? Top brand, Michelin. I reckon we should go for it.’
‘We? Who said anything about we? If you want to do business with that slimy old grease-ball, that is your decision, and your money.’
I try a different tack. ‘You don’t fancy Kevin Keegan, do you?’
‘FANCY HIM?’ she hisses. ‘I was a Leeds United supporter. ‘Course I don’t bloody fancy him! The Michelin-Man is better-looking than him! Just get on with it, and get me out of this ratty old dump.’
Kev is rubbing his hands at the prospect of a sale. ‘Come back in half an hour?’ he suggests, so we trudge off down the dismal street in search of a diversion, in silence for a few minutes. I am in the dog-house, and she’s not keen to let me out, any time soon.
Suddenly, around the corner, we spot a cafe, bearing the legend Cafe Pingu, together with the image of a cartoon penguin. ‘Ohh, look, a cafe!’ I bluster. ‘A penguin cafe, too. You like penguins, don’t you? Come on, let me buy you a coffee, while we are waiting.’
She regards me without warmth. ‘Oh, let me think. The last time we bought tyres, in Malaga, I took you for a right gut-busting lunch. In fact, it was so big, your belly hasn’t returned to normal, even now. Followed by an afternoon on the beach. But you bring me to this imitation of a Soviet gulag, and try to buy me off with an invitation to a greasy-spoon.’
I cannot help chuckling. ‘So is that a yes, then?’
After an excellent coffee, admittedly without the drama of the Montaditos experience, or any sand, we head back to Senor Keegan’s and are somewhat surprised to see the car jacked up at both ends, and all four wheels lying on the floor. Kev freezes for a second, a guilty look etched on his face, as though he’s been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t, although I cannot work out what. ‘Equilibrio?’ I smile.
‘Si, Si’ he nods, frantically, teeth exposed in a sickly grin. ‘Another fifteen minutes.’
We head off, puzzled, in the opposite direction. ‘I know I am only a mere woman’, Chrissie ponders, menacingly, ‘but I thought that Maris had balanced those tyres on the back already. What do you imagine old slimy was doing, just then? He is up to something, you mark my words!’
‘Well, I cannot imagine what, quite honestly. Perhaps he feels the rear tyres need re-balancing, I don’t know, but he is the expert after all.’ If only we knew then, what we know now.
We walk for another aimless ten minutes, then back to Kevin’s, to find the car standing proudly on the forecourt. Right, don’t have to think about tyres for another year, do I, apart from checking the pressures, occasionally? I pay the man, cash only of course, and we head homeward.
Dusk is falling as we arrive back to Santa Marta, the western sky shot with crimson, and, avoiding scuffing my new purchases on the kerb, I step regally out of the car. ‘Right, come and see this. Ta da ta da! Presenting, new Michelins to the front, and….’
‘SECONDHAND TYRES TO THE REAR!’ bellows my furious spouse.
‘Yeah, yeah, very funny!’ I giggle. ‘OK, so you didn’t get to see commando-boy this time, but I promise that when we need to have a service, we will go to Maris, OK? But you must admit that was a great price on the Michelins, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, such a great price, that he had to STEAL THE MARIS TYRES TO MAKE UP FOR IT!’ she fumes, gesticulating angrily at the rear wheels. ‘Look, come and see what Mr Greaseball has done.’
What the hell is she is talking about? Stealing my neumaticos, what a ridiculous…….WHERE THE BLOODY HELL HAVE MY TYRES GONE? The nearly-new Maris ones have been replaced by a pair of scruffy old things. I simply cannot believe this. ‘Hang on, hang on, let me get the penlight out of the glove-box a minute, let me check properly. I flop down onto the road, face about six inches from the wall of the tyre, shining the torch, and read out the brand name. ‘Cheng-something. Chinese remoulds? THE DIRTY THEIVING SCUMBAG! THE ABSOLUTE BASTARD.’ I am stunned. Completely and utterly poleaxed. Beyond my wildest comprehension. How can something like this have happened, at a tyre-dealer? Boiling with rage, I stagger to my feet, and administer a swift kick to one of the offending ruedas. Hurts like hell, of course, bearing in mind I am wearing espadrilles, but it deflects my anger for a second or two. From hopping mad, to hopping painfully, in two seconds flat.
Chrissie is indignant. ‘Oi, stop kicking Juan like that’ she fumes, using her pet name for the little white SEAT. ‘It’s Keegan who needs a swift boot up the arse. Speaking of which, what are you going to do about this unholy mess you’ve got us into? I told you that low-life was up to no good, but you wouldn’t listen.’
I have my head in my hands. Had I any hair to speak of, I would have torn it out by now
. ‘All right, all right, it’s me who needs a damn good seeing-to, with a size ten. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here, maybe the walk home will give me time to think. I need a few minutes to clear my head.’ My mind is a jumble of rage, fury, and yes, hurt, that this has happened to us, but by the time we reach home I have it mostly worked out in my head. ‘Right, it’s too late to go back there today, so I will go tomorrow. I know exactly what to say, and how to say it, to get him to put the Maris tyres back. The problem will be if he starts arguing, or denies all knowledge. I will need to go to the police, and I have no idea where the police station is in Jaen, or whether it would be the local Old-Bill or the Guardia Civil. So we need to ask one of our Spanish friends to come with me, and it’s a big ask, isn’t it, several hours out of someone’s day?’
‘What about Juan?’
I screw up my eyes. ‘Yes, he would be perfect, but I don’t want to keep asking him things, bothering him with our problems all the time.’
Chrissie is one step ahead of me, as always. ‘Don’t you remember he said he was on a course at Jaen university, for the next few weeks? Travelling there and back three or four days a week? Maybe he could meet you first thing in the morning, or when he finishes in the afternoon? Give him a call, I’m sure he won’t mind.’
Now why didn’t I think of that? Our dear friend is suitably outraged. ‘Thees man is lad-ron! He is teef! He picker of olives! He cholo! We go he shop of wheels, tomorrow, we frighty sheety of he! Yees! Don’t to worry, Jonneee! I must to start at university at eleven hours o-clock, so I meet you at ten-and-half, I know thees place, I see you there!’
I spend a restless tortured night, my mind a jumble of angry thoughts. At one stage I am dreaming I have stuffed Keegan inside a tractor tyre, encased in concrete, leaving only his sideburns and mullet flapping in the breeze, following which I take him to the top of the nearest mountain, and push him off, like a grotesque wheel of cheese. He rapidly picks up speed, then hits a huge bump, catapulting into the air, where he soars like Eddie the Eagle, coming back to earth directly on top of Neumaticos MK, completely obliterating the building, leaving nothing but a huge, steaming crater. Suddenly, from out of the pit, like a creature from the deep, crawls a curly mullet, which is grabbing and shaking me by the arm…. I wake to find Chrissie gently caressing my shoulder. ‘Come on, the alarm has just gone off, you need to get going if you are meeting Juan at ten-thirty. You just have time for a quick coffee, and a slice of toast.’ Yeah, not only has that slime-ball nicked my tyres, he’s denied me a decent breakfast. Don’t know which is the worst crime, quite honestly.
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 30