I am just finishing off my mug of instant when Chrissie squeezes in next to me on the sofa, and places her hand on my knee. ‘Now look, I don’t want you getting angry today, OK, and doing something stupid. We are totally in the right, just remember that, please. I will be worrying about you up there, so give me a call when you get it sorted.’
I smile sweetly. ‘Don’t worry, I will give him a Paddington Bear stare, and he will swap the tyres back in a jiffy!’
She giggles. ‘Paddington Bear? More like Yogi Bear, you mean!’
I laugh for what seems the first time in ages. Such a huge release of tension. I adopt my best Yogi voice. ‘But I’m smarter than the aver-age bear, Boo-boo!’
On the drive north I am endlessly rehearsing my speech. Do I act calm, or fly into a rage? I need to stand firm, clearly, but do I charge in, or wait for Juan? My pride is at stake here, so do I let him do all the talking, or attempt to sort it myself? It is only ten-fifteen as I round the corner past the Pingu Cafe, no sign of our friend yet, so decision made, I am going in, and to hell with the consequences. And strangely, the red mist clears. I am calmness personified. The garage doors are open so I steer across the forecourt, into the workshop, and I step out of the car and lock the door. Going nowhere, until this is sorted. Keegan is on the far side, talking to what appears to be a customer, patently ignoring me, so arm extended, finger pointing, never mind Yogi Bear, I adopt my best ten-foot grizzly, with a raging toothache. I frighty sheety of me, let alone he. ‘YOU! HERE! NOW!’ And I point my arm towards the car.
Grease-ball makes a big play of apparently spotting me for the first time, although he does look startled. He mutters something to his customer then scuttles across, sickly grin on his face. He knows he’s been rumbled. ‘Buenas dias!’
Buenas dias my arse. I fix him with a fiery glare. ‘Yesterday, I bought a pair of Michelins here, for the front of my car.’ And I make a sweeping gesture in their direction.
‘Yes, yes, I remember’ he whimpers.
Slowly, I pull the Maris receipt from my pocket, and make a big play of unfolding it under his nose. ‘Last month, I bought a pair of wheels for the back, at Maris in Malaga, and here is the bill.’ And he is actually reading it… Theatrically, I indicate the back tyres. ‘Look, here they are…. oh, where have they gone?’ And I raise myself to my full height. ‘YOU ARE AN EFFING THIEF! CHANGE MY WHEELS BACK, NOW!’
The effect is spectacular. Like a whipped puppy, hopping from foot to foot, he almost disappears up his own backside. ‘You want me to put the Maris wheels back?’
That is indeed what I said. And he knows it. ‘YES. AND MY LAWYER WILL BE HERE IN TWO MINUTES.’ And at that precise moment Juan comes striding into the workshop, thunderous look on his face. Consider yourself frighty sheety, Senor Keegan, who is dancing around, desperately trying to open the car door. I hand him the key. ‘Equilibrio, and new balbo, also’, I hiss.
I embrace my friend warmly, as always. Wouldn’t do that to my alleged lawyer in the UK of course, but here is different. And you can certainly say that again. ‘I think you frighty sheety of he already!’ he giggles, ‘what say you to he? Thees cholo move much rapido!’ He has indeed. One rear wheel is already off and grease-ball is frantically searching for the tyres he stole from me yesterday. ‘I think I speaky weeth he now!’ And he winks, conspiratorially.
‘I have told him you are my lawyer, don’t forget!’
‘Perfecto!’ And he strides across the workshop and engages Kevin in serious conversation, amid much arm-waving, while I lean on the wall and enjoy the squirming. The other customer, meanwhile, has departed. Juan comes strolling back, while cholo resumes his hectic tyre-changing. ‘He say me, he no understand you Espanees, he think you want back wheels changed also. But I say he, we maybe go to polices-mans. He very frighty!’
I narrow my eyes. ‘He is lying, Juan, why would I want nearly-new wheels changed? That is completely ridiculous. And I know the difference between back and front, trasera and delantay. And I didn’t mention the word trasera. He stole my tyres, and he knows he did, end of story.’
Soon, the changing of the neumaticos is complete, and Kevin backs the car out of the workshop, avoiding eye contact. But I have one last comment for him. ‘I live in Santa Marta. I need money for the petrol.’ And I click my fingers, and hold out my palm, in best grizzly-bear fashion. Like a bulldog swallowing a wasp, he delves into his greasy overalls, producing a small wad of ten-euro notes. Oh, if you insist, Kevin. A fiver would have done. I flick my fingers again, and like a bulldog who’s swallowed the wasp and started sucking a lemon, he peels one off and hands it over. I hold it up in front of him, and proceed to tear it up into tiny fragments, easily done with this Euro paper Monopoly-money, and fling it across the workshop, where it flutters down to earth like expensive confetti outside a church. With fire in my eyes, I raise my finger at the pathetic, cowering figure, invading his space. ‘Fay-boo. Tonight.’ And turning, Juan and I stride out of the workshop, heads held high.
Out on the forecourt we embrace. Getting to be a worrying habit, this cuddling of men, isn’t it? ‘OOH, JONNEEE!’ You magnifico! Destroy he money! I laughing so much! You no need me!’
I grip my friend warmly by the hand. ‘No, you were a big help, Juan. You gave me the confidence to do what I did! I could not have done any of that on my own. Thank you for being such a good friend to us.’
Driving home, I have time to reflect on what has undoubtedly been the most unpleasant episode of our lives in this country. OK, so nobody died, and one bad apple and all that, but this has left a nasty taste, I can tell you. And I am beginning to realise why the locals always scrutinise their tradesmen closely. In many cases they simply cannot be trusted. Had we remained in the workshop, and not gone for the coffee, there is no way this could have happened. Same with Electra-Man and the water-meter door, had I drawn up a chair and sat watching him in the street, as Loli or Fernando would undoubtedly have done, I could have prevented him cutting an over-sized hole in our wall. Are we too trusting, us Brits? I think so. Certainly something to bear in mind in future.
And, I have already alluded to the fact I am a slow typist, so you appreciate none of this happened in the Spring just gone. Therefore I have recited this tale to many people hereabouts in the interim period, and tellingly, none of the locals seemed that surprised. Despite his claim to the contrary, there is no doubt in my mind that grease-ball saw an opportunity to relieve a tourist from his property, thinking we would be back home before we discovered the deception, although clearly he didn’t possess the intelligence of a goat, as why would a holidaymaker be driving a vintage, Spanish-registered, car? A shiny new rental, yes, but a little white SEAT? His comeuppance was well deserved.
All in all a valuable lesson learned.
CHAPTER 15. VOTING, SPANISH-STYLE.
Back last summer, we each received official letters from the government of Spain. Always a bit nerve-wracking getting contacted by the Government, isn’t it, especially this one, the Gobby-Enry, Bastardos, as Alicia calls them. We needn’t have worried, however. All they wanted to know was, did we want to register to vote, as was our right as European citizens? So clear and easy to understand were the letters we didn’t even need to refer them to our Spanish friends at the library group. Yes or no, sign the form, and post it back. ‘Should be good fun, at least, to see what a Spanish election is like!’ Chrissie giggled, ticking the ‘yes’ box on her form.
‘I cannot begin to imagine!’ I replied, doing likewise. ‘The only thing for certain is that it will involve a lot of shouting!’
Into the post, then we promptly forgot all about matters of democracy.
And now here it is. A local election. The mayor, and town council, it appears. Which is actually of great interest to us, benefiting as we do from council tax of eighty euros per year, with free everything, fireworks, the fiestas, processions, band concerts, cultural visits, flamenco shows, daily rubbish collections, legions of council workers swee
ping the streets, pruning the trees and shrubs in the public areas dotted around the town, and numerous other events. And personally, as I studied Local Government finance and administration as part of my higher education, I am fascinated how the Town Hall can afford all this stuff, on the amount we pay them. Just doesn’t seem possible, particularly when compared to Britain, and what we used to pay, with services stripped to the bare bones. Now clearly, local services are funded differently here, but none of our educated Spanish friends are able to explain whether the money comes from the central government, or the Andalucian administration, which must itself be funded by Madrid. A complete mystery. All they will ever say is that all politicians are Lad-Ronnies, quite a few are Bastardos, they all live in big houses and have deep pockets. Corruption is rife, apparently, with more than a whiff of European money sloshing around. Have we seen the plethora of traffic signs on the country lanes, for example, with road surfaces like billiard tables? We have indeed.
This was brought home to us recently, with the resurfacing of a little lane from the middle of nowhere, to the back end of beyond. Little more than an olive track, used by grizzled old farmers in Jeeps and tractors. Up went a huge sign at the side of the road, announcing a complete re-construction, at a total cost of seven-hundred and ninety-five thousand, three-hundred and sixty-six euros, and seventy-five centimos. Seventy-five centimos? That is less than fifteen-bob. Who on earth could have costed out re-tarring a road down to the price of a Mars Bar? And who would possibly care? ‘I wonder what the seventy-five cents will be spent on?’ Chrissie laughingly observed. ‘The bolts holding up the sign?’ Mind you, they were stainless-steel. And the surface on the finished result could have hosted the World Snooker Championships, if only there had been pockets at the side of the road, and little white spots at strategic points. Better look out, Crucible Theatre, Sheffield. Next year’s event could be coming to Andalucia.
So this stuff matters, right? Plus the fact that we are on more than good speaking terms with the current mayoral incumbents, Francesca and Paco. Quite why there are two mayors is uncertain, something about the previous contest being more or less a draw, so the pair of them decided to divide the role between them. Now one rather special, if somewhat embarrassing, aspect of being a Brit in this town is that we seem to be singled out at the various events. Francesca in particular always makes a point of coming up to us and saying how pleased they are that we are interested in the local customs, and introducing her ‘English friends, who live in Castle Street, near Loli, Isabel and Fernando, and who always come to the festivals’, to the locals, who quite possibly are muttering ‘bloody foreigners’ under their breath, but I have to say, always respond with grace.
‘Dignified’ is I think how we would describe Francesca and Paco. Both in their early sixties, always smartly dressed, not showy, smiling at the townsfolk and behaving in precisely the way Lord and Lady Mayors should, sometimes in their official regalia, but more usually in their own clothes, a discreet dress and sensible heels for Francesca, collar, tie and lounge suit for Paco. We like them, a lot, and sincerely hope they are returned for another period of office, however long that might be.
The election is set for Sunday, and we have received our voting cards, with directions to the polling station, a local neighbourhood association hall. Precise instructions, too, commanding us to present ourselves to table number six, as we enter. Blimey, a bit daunting, to be honest. Makes you wonder what would happen if we rocked up at table two, doesn’t it? And we are required to produce identification. Not those confounded knees again? Think we’ll take our passports. In Britain, I would simply stroll down the scout hut with Nelson, my retriever, who would nose around the assembled electorate, looking for biscuits, while I placed my cross in the box. Easy. This here sounds a lot more, well, regimented. No doubt all will be revealed, on the day.
On the Thursday before, I receive a phone call from Jose, of library group fame. ‘Plees to come thees night, a-junty-mento demonstration of loo. Streets of old city, will be new loo. Carlo will coming so opportunity speak with he. We meet at eight and half, a-junty-mento, plees.’ Not the foggiest. Very difficult, to be fair, speaking a foreign language on the phone, so probably best just to go along, and see what happens. A new loo? Are we having a pissoir installed somewhere? Will there be a ladies, in the interests of equality? And how on earth will they squeeze a public bog into these tiny, narrow streets? Carlo? Do I want to speak with he? Not that I was aware.
Chrissie is out with a student, so when she arrives home I recount the tale, and as it’s almost eight and quarter, we need to get a move on. ‘Oh yes, I saw this in an e-mail from the library. I was telling you about it, remember?’
Time to bluff. ‘Yes, of course’ I lie, ‘I had forgotten it was tonight, what am I like!’
She narrows her eyes. ‘I keep telling you to see the doctor. You don’t have a clue what I am talking about, do you? I knew you weren’t listening, when I told you.’ Sussed again. But am I getting a de-briefing? It appears not.
At eight-and-half we present ourselves outside a-junty-mento, the town hall, to be confronted with a group of around twenty townsfolk, including Francesca and Paco, who are talking to a much younger, scruffily-dressed, skinny little man, who immediately reminds me of Mister Potato-Head, from my youth. Mid-thirties maybe, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a suit jacket, and jeans. Oh please. Does he imagine he is a Hollywood star? Were he a snake-hipped, dapper, dasher, in a stylish pair of Levi’s, then possibly. But workman’s jeans from the market, combined with a kiddies jacket which doesn’t even do up in the front? Francesca and Paco smile at us and wave enthusiastically, whereas potato-head simply stares. Don’t like the guy, whoever he is.
Just then Historian-Anna from the library steps forward, grabs a microphone, and announces the candidates for the upcoming election, who are asked to take a bow in turn. Francesca, Paco, and, oh no I don’t believe it, Carlo. Mister Potato-Head. He is running for Mayor? This refugee from a clothing bank? Now don’t get me wrong, he might be eminently qualified to be chief-executive of a small town, and we all know you shouldn’t judge a book by the cover. Francesca and Paco might look the part, but actually be completely inept at managing a budget of what must be millions of euros, although they certainly seem to have made a pretty good fist of it, as far as we are concerned. But come on, first impressions, and all that? We need to speak to a few locals, get their opinions, form our own judgement based on facts. And here is one now, puffing his way up the street, Jose, late as usual. ‘Sorree I late! Ahh, ees Carlo, Lad-Ronnie. Ees pig, he father mechanico in garage. Ees picker of olives. He sheet.’ Right, not a fan, then.
Smiling, Historian-Anna then invites us all to follow the three nominees around the old streets, to inspect the new loo recently installed, although the milling, gossiping collection of Spaniards seem in no hurry to move off, so the three of us jump in ahead, all the better to see what is actually happening, and the new sanitary arrangements, hopefully. We have only gone a few yards however when the whole procession grinds to a halt. We appear to be admiring a street-light. Fascinating. Actually, the illuminations in the old town are rather quaint, resembling vintage gas-lamps, fixed to the walls of the cottages, rather than on lamp-posts, a ridiculous notion considering how some of the locals drive. I cannot even begin to imagine the carnage, not to mention the hole in the council budget, which would surely be caused by inattentive motorists, were there lamp-posts to avoid. Jose grabs my arm. ‘A-junty-mento change all bom-beelos in old city, friendly environment, bom-beelos no illuminate sky, shine street only. Blanco, white. Soddy-oom no. How you say bom-beelos een Eengliss, plees? Soddy-oom?’
Never mind the sodding soddy-oom, what about the pissoir? I could offer to christen it for them, actually. Luckily, Chrissie benefits from a much higher tolerance level than me. ‘Light-bulbs? And sodium? Yes, I see! The lights have a different shade, there is no more of that horrible orange glow. What a wonderful idea!’ She is correct,
actually. The light is more diffused, softer somehow, much less of a glare, casting a Dickensian radiance over the up and down, in and out, higgledy-piggledy streets and houses. Gonna need that pee soon, however.
As is usual around dusk, elderly residents of the street have emerged to gossip, after the heat of the day has subsided, a number leaning against walls, and many perched precariously on ancient wooden chairs, with raffia seats, for me one of the emblems of Andalucia. Nattering Spaniards on rickety furniture. As the politicians approach, smiling and waving, the atmosphere turns, if not actively hostile, then certainly antagonistic. ‘Oh look, here they come!’ mutters one old woman. ‘Must be an election coming. Where have you been, Paco? Not seen you for four years!’
Her companion is equally unimpressed. ‘What are you doing for me, Francesca? Nothing, as usual?’
Consummate politician as she is, the Lady Mayor brushes off the criticism. ‘Well, today we are unveiling the new street lights, see? This will cut down on light pollution, and make it easier for you all to see at night, walking around.’ And she puffs out her chest, as she and Paco gesture proudly at the recently-installed illuminations.
Suddenly matters deteriorate. A squat old man, forty-six waist, twenty-two inside leg, maybe, squeezes out of his front door, but only just. ‘Why do we need new street lights, you stupid people? Where is all the money gone? You are a bunch of LAD-RONNIES.’
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 31