Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!

by John Austin Richards

  At that moment the massively-timbered doors open, and out steps a lady, in her seventies, clad tastefully in a Chanel two-piece suit, string of pearls and matching earrings, exquisitely coiffured. A Lady of the Manor, at the very least, a Doo-kessa possibly. Not the Alba one, as we all know what happened to her, ending up in a sugar museum, but a close relative, surely. I instinctively duck down behind Juan, in case she spots me and summons the police, get off my land, although it appears I was worrying about nothing. ‘Welcome to El Cortijo’ she beams. ‘Follow me please, and I will show you around.’ So were we expected? Is this part of the sendero experience? I glance at Chrissie, surreptitiously fingering the collar of my polo in a do they let scruffy British oiks in here kind of way, but she just shrugs, pokes out her tongue, and moves on, following the group.

  Her Ladyship leads us through into a parquet-floored entrance hall, with beamed ceiling and minstrels gallery, all the while providing a regal commentary, which I am struggling to hear as I am bringing up the rear, as far to the rear as possible, then through another huge doorway into what was once possibly a massive wine-cellar, with ancient stone arches, and curved brick ceiling, all laid out with tables and chairs. ‘Is this a wedding venue, by any chance, Juan?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yees’ he smiles. ‘Baptisms, weddings, parties, reunions, all of thees things.’ So not wakes, then….

  ‘Now I will show you my private quarters’ she smiles regally, pushing open yet another huge wooden double door. Blimey, what is this, the full tour? Will there be a ticket booth, a liveried footman handing out audio-guides, in twenty different languages? Is there an entrance charge, with glossy souvenir booklets? Well best of luck with that, your Highness, as we only have a fiver, and that has been earmarked for the breakfast. This room is a massive banqueting hall, with a beamed ceiling, but planed, sanded and varnished, not knobbly tree trunks like Del-Boy has in his kitchen, wood-paneled walls hung with family portraits, and tapestries, and a table in the middle, fully twenty-five yards long, and simply groaning with food. Blimey, are the family coming to lunch? Bone china crockery, silver cutlery, crystal goblets, at least five different plates of cheese, myriad sausage, chorizo and em-boo-tea-toe platters, dishes of pate, bowls of ripe, beefy tomatoes, empanadas of various shapes sizes, quails eggs, little toasted montaditos, sliced, crusty bread with little curls of rich, yellow butter, triangles of tortilla, and on a sideboard, the desserts, flans, trifles, sweet biscuits and fruit. On the far wall is the wine table, the whites, chilling away regally in silver ice buckets, and the reds, breathing freely. And not your everyday Mercadonna plonk, either. Oh no, this lot is off the top shelf of the bodega, I can tell you. How big is this family? There must be enough here to feed a small army. Or is this some sort of a formal function? Will there be dignitaries, ambassadors, Archbishops? Not Royalty, clearly, as there are no pork pies or scotch eggs, but this is one hell of a banquet.

  But hang on a minute. The food is already out, so the arrival of the distinguished guests must be imminent. I can imagine about a mile of red carpet being laid out, as we speak. So won’t their eminences be a bit cross to find their grub being breathed on by a dozen dusty, sweaty ramblers, and an English bum? Curious.

  Her Royal Highness smiles sweetly, heading for the door. ‘Enjoy your lunch, please, and I will return later to see you all, before you leave.’

  Oh. My. Good. God. In panic, I turn to Chrissie, nodding my head towards the exit, and taking our friend by the arm, ‘look, Juan, we are going to wait outside, in the courtyard, OK? We will meet you when you leave.’

  He looks completely flummoxed. ‘What? You no want you lunch? Plees, sit down, we must to take lunch, now!’

  I swallow hard. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, because we didn’t bring much money. We have enough to cover the breakfast, so don’t worry about that, but we will just wait outside, now, and see you later.’

  He narrow his eyes, frowning. ‘I no understand. Why you need money, plees?’

  I want a big hole to open up. Why does he keep going on about it? ‘Juan, please, we only brought five euros with us, we didn’t know we were having lunch, and we have no money to pay for it. But don’t worry, we can sit outside, in the sunshine. Cristina has some biscuits, in her bag. You enjoy your lunch, and we will see you later.’

  He throws back his head and roars with laughter. For God’s sake will you shut up? I am starting to get annoy…. ‘Plees. You no need money. Thees food is free! Brax-fass, lunch. Not to paying. All is free. Todos. You not worry about thees!’

  I am staring at him like he has lost his mind. ‘Sorry, how can it be free? A car full of food for breakfast, and now all this. It cannot be free, somebody must be paying. Who is paying for all this?’

  He is still finding it extremely amusing. ‘The a-junty-mento paying! How you say, hall of town? They will to pay. Now don’t worry, take you foods, plees!’

  The town hall? Is this serious? The council are treating us to a day out, with enough food to last us a week? My brain, admittedly only on half power, is unable to process this information. We only paid them less than forty quid for a half-year. Two breakfasts, two lunches, glasses of wine, cans of drinks? This is beyond belief, no wonder this country is virtually bankrupt, carrying on like this. Two grand a year in England and they don’t even collect the rubbish every week. ‘But why do they pay for all this, Juan? You know how much we give them for our ee-bee?

  ‘Because a-junty-mento, they say, ees good for healthy, sendero, like thees. They no want people fatty. And Espanee people say you must to buy lunch for we! Ees normal! Plees! Eaty!’

  Well if you insist, my friend. The wooooolfs are already diggy in, so without further ado, we join them. Someone hands me a glass of expensive rioja, and I make a beeline for the em-boo-tea-toes. Could murder a scotch egg mind you, but beggars, and all that. I still can’t really believe this is on the town hall, maybe that is why we had to sign the form, and perhaps the year after next someone will shove a manky yellow slip into our letterbox. Should have said I was old Joe Shepherd, shouldn’t I? Anyway, what the hell, we eaty.

  A companionable hour and more passes in this fashion, before the doors open and Her Excellency returns, smiling graciously, thanking us for coming, and slowly, we are making for the door. No bill, no tin plate for donations. I love Santa Marta council, did you know that, the forty bucks we gave them has to be the best value in the known universe. And I did, of course, vote for the mayor….. ‘She is a lovely lady, Purity!’ smiles our friend, under his breath, as we head off into the olives once again.

  Chrissie looks puzzled. ‘Is that her name? Purity? I have never heard that one before!’

  He frowns. ‘No, her correct name Conception, but she called Purity.’

  She giggles. ‘Well I never heard of Conception as a name, either!’

  ‘Ees older name, not much popular thees days’, he frowns. ‘I not know why, but Conception ees Purity. Also, Jose ees Pepe, and Francisco ees Paco. But Miguel ees Miguelito. I am Juanito. I no understand!’

  Well if he doesn’t, neither do we…

  The pace after that huge lunch is modest, and the mood relaxed.This morning we were rambling, now we are ambling. By rights, I should be having a little nap under a certain fig tree right now. Suddenly, there is a burst of activity from the group and one of the blokes goes tearing off through the olive trees, returning with what looks like a glass jam-jar. Fair play to him for litter-picking I say, and may the fleas of a thousand camels invade the nether regions of the moron who left it there. I detest people who would do that, leaving glass around, a danger not only to wildlife, but a real risk of forest fires too, in this arid countryside. So lazy. We have barely gone another hundred yards however when it happens again, the original picker, and another chap, hurtling across the parched soil, where, after some good-natured tussling, the second one claims an identical prize. Who the hell is eating all this jam, out here, anyway? Actually, scrub jam, the containers look like the jellies with
fruit which were produced in the sixties, by Hartley’s, was it, or Chivers? Mother used to buy them for picnics, whereupon a scuffle would ensue, as the whole family attempted to avoid the green one. Dad invariably ended up with that. Anyway, back to the present, fruit jellies are still made, of course, but surely in plastic containers these days? Although they do say that Spain is fifty years behind the UK…..

  I glance at Trinny, rolling my eyes, expecting her to be suitably outraged, but for some reason she seems amused. Just then, incredibly, a third jar appears, half-buried, and three of them go sprinting off, and Juan is shouting encouragement. He turns to me, smiling. ‘En-dessa!’ he confides.

  En-dessa? The electricity company? The only electricity company, at least in these parts. The people who continue to issue bills, admittedly for extremely moderate amounts, at irregular intervals, to Jose Ocana Pastor? Never had any dealings with them, other than that, but they have an office in town, similar to the water company, staffed by plugs, I would imagine. Might have to pay them a visit, next week, providing I can learn the Spanish for please tell your blokes not to leave their jelly-jars scattered all over the damned countryside. Someone has to make a stand, right?

  One of the fellows then produces a hanky from his pocket, polishes off his recycling, and holds it out for the rest of us to examine. Hang on a minute, it’s not from a fruit flavoured dessert at all, it appears to be an electrical insulator of some sort, from a telegraph pole, or the like. I glance skywards, but cannot actually see any cables, because they’ve been removed. Duh. En-dessa have been out here, I can see it now, a row of wooden poles, in amongst the olive trees, and the cables have either been buried, or re-routed. Still doesn’t excuse the savages though, does it? Anyone know the Spanish for please tell your blokes not to leave their glass insulators scattered all over the damned countryside?

  ‘Collectable’ our friend chuckles. ‘Would you like one? There might be more, if you are quickly!’ Well actually, they are quite interesting….. I glance at my wife, who, like wives everywhere, is able to read my mind, somehow, and has a don’t even think about displaying that crap on the mantelpiece kind of look on her face. She is correct, of course. ‘De-cluttering’, we called it, when preparing to move to this country, or ‘never again will we accumulate any more of this rubbish’, when boxing up our possessions to take to the car-boot sale.

  The sun is sinking slowly in the western sky as we arrive back at the no-horse town, from the opposite direction to what I had been expecting, proving that my built-in compass is not always accurate, after what has been a memorable day. Our friend drops us back at the library, but instead of heading home, he jumps out of the car, and asks us to join him on a nearby bench. ‘I have some news for you’ he smiles. ‘I have new job. I want to tell you person, not with the others. All is thanks to you, helpy me so much, I am so happy!’

  We are delighted, of course, and to prove it my wife envelops him in a huge hug, followed by a kiss, then from me a man-wrap, with added back-slaps. We are somewhat puzzled, however. ‘How did we help with your new job?’ Chrissie smiles. ‘What did we do, exactly?’

  ‘EENGLISS!’ he chuckles. ‘You teach me Eengliss! You know I was working research, at university, but in past I was not possible to speak to lecturer or estudent in other countrees, only Espain. Now, I prove to they I can have conversation in Eengliss, so can to speak to persons in United States, Eengland, Germany, Holland, rest of Europe. Ees ver good for me, and thanks to you I so ‘appy!’

  ‘But we didn’t teach you German, or Dutch!’ I protest. ‘Anyway, your level of English was very good when we first met you. We did nothing, really.’

  He is still on cloud nine. ‘Confidence! You give me much confidence! And Eengliss ees international, so university in other country must to speak Eengliss. I learn much vocabulary from you. And weeth new job I continue work at home, same as before, maybe must to go Granada and Jaen university more times but will be ver similar.’ And he opens both arms wide, and hugs the pair of us, again.

  I have a lump in my throat, and Chrissie is wiping away a tear. Such a lovely young man, a wonderful friend, and we are delighted for him, naturally. ‘But you help us too, Juan!’ Chrissie snuffles, emotionally. ‘We could not manage without you! Pretending to be our lawyer, when we got our tyres stolen, getting our medical cards last year. But we must celebrate your new job, OK?’

  He extracts his keys from his pocket, and heads back towards his car. ‘YEES! The next week. We go to pub, we take beer, and like Amador say, WE GET PISSY!’

  Our memorable day just got even more memorable, and walking up the cobbled streets homewards I feel as if I am floating, emotionally. Be good if I could float literally, up this damn great hill, but you can’t have everything, can you? ‘Can you believe the past, what, ten hours?’ I ponder. ‘We thought, sorry, I thought, we were headed for a car demo. And what did we actually find? A new job for Juan, tree-climbing wild wooooolfs, or whatever they were, free breakfast, that great piling lunch, with wine. It was just…..’

  ‘SHUT UP, RIGHT! Just don’t say it, OK? I know you, what you are thinking. Zip the lip!’

  What? I am flabbergasted. ‘What are you talking about? Thinking what?’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘You are so predictable sometimes. I could see you, those piggy little eyes, scanning that great mound of food, lunchtime.’

  I adopt the moral high ground. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you are going on about. So come on, spit it out, whatever it is you think I was going to say.’

  She pokes out her tongue, and mimics a whiny, kiddies voice. ‘It was just a shame there were no pork pies or scotch eggs!’

  The following evening, Monday, I am awaiting the arrival of my student, Alberto, when there is a knock on the door. I glance up at the clock. Quarter to six? Cannot possibly be him. Never in the history of the Iberian peninsula has a Spaniard been early for anything, and more often than not he is five or ten minutes late. I open the door to be confronted by a British couple… blimey, Babs, and what was he called, the people who came round on my first morning back in Spain, what, over ten months ago? Andy, that was it, they didn’t return for the de-brief that evening, and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since, so we just assumed they were so shocked by the experience with the Virgin Mary in Antonia’s house, and had given up on the whole idea of moving to this crazy corner of Europe. And yet here they are, looking mightily pleased about something, and Andy is holding a huge cardboard box in his arms.

  ‘Come on in’ I smile, ‘sorry I cannot offer you a drink or anything as I have a pupil coming shortly, but sit down and take the weight off!’

  ‘Actually we can’t stop’ Babs grins, ‘but we brought you a present, for everything you did for us that day! Sorry it’s a bit late, but we’ve bought a house, which used to be a shop years ago, and it’s taken all this time for the lawyer to get the change-of-use permission. Or so he said! We got the keys a couple of days ago and have been clearing out, we fly back to the UK in the morning but wanted to see you while we were still here!’

  ‘Oh many congratulations!’ I exclaim, ‘we thought you had gone off the idea, after your experience down the street! So where is this new place, then?’

  Andy rests his burden on the floor. ‘It’s a four-storey townhouse, with a roof terrace, behind the city wall in the jumble of streets back there. Been empty for donkey’s years, it’s in pretty good nick considering, just needs a paint up, and we thought we might keep the top two floors as an apartment for the kids, when they fancy popping over, and live in the bottom two ourselves. We’re not ready to retire for a few years yet so will just be shooting over for holidays, but it was so cheap that it would have been rude not to!’

  ‘Anyway’ Babs chuckles, ‘we found this lot in the basement, must have been old stock I am guessing, but seriously, if you don’t want it, just chuck it away! And, there are a few leftover food things in the box we couldn’t eat, if you can use them. If not, give it to thos
e crazy next-door neighbours of yours!’

  ‘You have me intrigued now!’ I chuckle, ‘May I?’

  I drag the box towards me and open the lid, revealing a pile of dark, rustic, wooden souvenirs of various shapes and sizes, each one bearing the town crest. One is an ashtray, complete with glass centre, then a carved wooden key, maybe a foot wide, with half a dozen or so brass hooks, and a chain for hanging it up. Next comes a guitar-shaped barometer, together with a heart-shaped plank to which is fixed a photograph of one of the town squares, with a thermometer below. ‘Wow, I love this stuff!’ I giggle. ‘And it must be, what, thirty or more years old, look, you can tell by the photos, the clothes people are wearing, and the cars. Is that a Ford Cortina? And it proves what I have been saying for ages, someone must have thought there was scope for tourism in this area, all those years ago, to have commissioned these souvenirs to be made. I mean, Granada and Cordoba get the lion’s share, but here, the area in between, there are dozens of little towns and villages, historic old churches, castles, with an abundance of tapas bars! Ripe for tourism, if only people knew about this area. All it needs are a few articles in the weekend travel sections of a couple of newspapers, and this place would be like Benidorm! Anyway, as soon as my student is gone, I will hang them on the walls, apart from the ashtray of course! Thank you so much!’ Chrissie is gonna kill me, mind you, I can just hear her now, I’m not having that crap on display! Better get it hung up before she gets home. Fait accompli!