‘I have a blockage inside my nose’ Chrissie smiles, word-perfectly. Remarkable, I would have forgotten my lines by now, after the morning we’ve just had. But she does have a Spanish ‘O’ level of course.
Now you would have thought, wouldn’t you, that upon hearing the symptoms so described, our unfriendly medico might whip out a pen-light, ask the patient to tilt back her head, and, here’s a suggestion, take a quick peek? No. She reaches forward, taps disinterestedly at a keyboard, then straining her tired back in the direction of a printer, extracts the single sheet and passes it across with two fingers. ‘Take this, come back next week.’ Dismissed.
Stunned, we slowly turn, as strictly we still have almost two minutes left of our allotted time, and with a muted gracias, we fight our way through the milling, shouting herd, slope off down the stairs, and stumble into the bright sunshine. Chrissie examines her prescription, giggling. ‘What do you suppose this is? Ointment?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me if it was a stick of dynamite, knowing this lot!’ I chuckle. ‘That would clear your blockage! Anyway, here’s the pharmacy, up the hill on the left. I guess you are about to find out. Light the blue touch-paper, and stand well back!’
The pharmacist is the model of politeness and efficiency. Chrissie hands her the prescription, she disappears into the storeroom, returning a few seconds later with a paper bag, stapled at the top. ‘Take tree times day’ she smiles. ‘Seven euros plees.’
Oh, hell. Forgot my wallet. I turn to my wife, but she has anticipated the next question, and is already extracting the coins from her purse. Stepping outside, she eagerly tears open the package, when her face suddenly falls. ‘Nasal spray. I’ve paid over six quid for bloody nasal spray, which I could have got in Poundland. For the sake of all….’
‘Well how much is it in Poundland, then?’ I enquire, all serious-face.
My intended joke falls flat, of course, she’s heard it all before. ‘Oh six hundred and fifty quid, how much do you think? Honestly, nasal spray, can you believe it?’
‘Ah, but it’s special Spanish nasal spray, for Spanish nasals!’ I smile. ‘You know, like the honking nasals we hear each morning, from the direction of Fernando and his sisters. Like the phlegmy nasals coming down the street, each morning. The Spanish nasal chorus! Just poke it up your hooter, and within the week you will sound exactly like……’
Nursing painful ribs, I unlock our front door, and usher the patient inside. ‘Would you like me to administer the treatment, dearest?’ I enquire.
‘Not ruddy likely!’ she exclaims, ungratefully, I feel. ‘I need a little puff, not Niagara Falls. And stop flapping your wrist like that. I said PUFF. Your jokes are getting so old. For pity’s sake go and lie in the garden, I will get lunch ready.’ Thus dismissed, abruptly I feel, I turn to go, when suddenly she grabs my arm, and plants a wet slobbery kiss on my cheek. ‘Thanks for your support, this morning.’
Over the next five days, she duly applies the spray as directed, and I am on hand with the torch to supply progress reports, which are sparse to say the least, as nothing whatsoever appears to be happening. The lump is getting no bigger, which is a blessing, but neither is it shrinking, although I do my best to sound encouraging. That evening, as I drain my final glass of wine, she slips her hand in mine. ‘Now, please don’t be offended, or get upset, but I’ve asked Rafi to come with me the day after tomorrow, for my next appointment. You don’t mind do you, only I realised at the first appointment that our Spanish was not really good enough, for something like this. I was talking to her, and she actually suggested it. She said we should have insisted on seeing a proper doctor instead of that auxiliary, as she called her, and she knows her way around the system and all that.
I smile sweetly. ‘I think you are right, we are completely out of our depth for something as important as this. Of course I am not offended, I can get on with the next level of the garden, and be here when you return.
So on the day in question I am laying out a few blocks, trying to picture what might go where, when my mobile rings. Chrissie sounds somewhat breathless. ‘I have to go to hospital! The doctor didn’t know what the lump was, he didn’t think it was anything sinister but said it should be checked-out by a specialist.’
My heart lurches but she sounds relatively upbeat about the whole thing, even though this inevitably means a further delay in a final diagnosis. ‘So did he give you any idea how long the appointment might take to come through? Months, I suppose?’
‘Now!’ she cries. ‘We have to go now! Rafi’s husband Pablo has gone to get the car, so can you meet us outside her house in about five minutes?’
My heart lurches for the second time. Bloody hell, it must be serious, surely, getting an appointment on the same day? ‘Where do you have to go?’ I croak, mouth having gone dry, but trying to keep the mounting panic out of my voice.
‘Jaen .’ she confirms. ‘Rafi knows where the hospital is there, and which department we have to go to.’
‘Jaen?’ I splutter, ‘blimey, isn’t there anywhere nearer than that?’
‘I don’t know, it’s where the consultant or specialist or whatever is, today, apparently. Anyway, see you in five, OK?’
After a quick swill, and, quite remarkably for me, remembering to grab some petrol-money, a few minutes later I am puffing my way up the stone steps to the street above, where a battered, dusty, war-torn Ford Sierra, with non-matching body panels, comes wheezing into view, driven by the diminutive figure of Pablo, mid-thirties maybe, dark, shoulder-length hair, straggly beard, intense, hypnotic eyes, faded Pink Floyd tee-shirt, a far-away look on his face as if he has just been beamed in from a Tibetan retreat. Chrissie is ensconced in the back with Rafi, who I can always imagine with a daisy-chain in her long, glossy chestnut hair, dressed in Woodstock-inspired hippy-chic, but who in reality is an unemployed primary school teacher, subsisting on short-term supply work, in this train-wreck of an economy. A tragedy, and such a waste of talent. Not sure what Pablo’s background is, as we know Rafi far better from the library group, of course, although invariably, when we call in on them, he is upstairs ‘meditating’, which might or might not translate as ‘having a bit of a kip’.
Unable to give my somewhat bewildered-looking spouse a comforting hug, I slide into the front passenger seat and flash her what I hope is a reassuring smile, before turning to Rafi, then Pablo. ‘Thank you so much, both of you, for helping us out like this. You are such good friends to us!’
‘Ah no to worry!’ Pablo grins, scraping a battered wing-mirror along a cottage wall. ‘I speak you of Peterrr Pan.’ Riiiight. Not the first clue.
‘How you say otto rhino in Eengliss, plees?’ Rafi enquires. Otto the rhino? Was he a character in the story? Been a long time since I read the book, admittedly, but I only remember the crocodile. Oh yes, and the dog. Nana, was it?
‘ENT.’ Chrissie confirms. ‘Ear, nose and throat, that is what we say.’ Otto the rhino. Oh my God, get a grip, Richards.
Pablo manages to negotiate the narrow streets without further damage, and soon we are speeding along the main road. Chrissie and her friend are nattering away contentedly in the back, and as a passenger I can start to admire the stunning scenery, huge craggy mountains surrounded by a sea of olive trees, and allow myself a wry chuckle, bearing in mind my last trip along this road I was a pent-up ball of anger and frustration, on my way back to sort out that thieving tyre-dealer. ‘Yees’ Pablo continues. ‘Lass jeer, Rafi and me we visit Lon-Donn. We take tooor see Peterrr Pan, in the night. Beeg Bens. Ees ver good. We take brax-fass Eengliss, een Lon-Donn. Oh my Gaad! Rafi she say me, I eaty brax-fass Eengliss, I must to die!’
His wife pipes up from the back seat. ‘I never see brax-fass like thees! Bay-Conn, eghhs, shosh-shage, beeens, po-tayto fry, bread-th fry, I say Pablo, I no understand peoples Eenglees eaty thees!’
‘Anyway,’ I smile, trying to steer the conversation back to matters in hand, ‘was the doctor helpful? Did you have all that aggro
with the locals pushing in, and the online booking? Was there a receptionist this time, or was she on her break? Did he give you any idea what it might be?’
Before Chrissie can frame a reply, however, Pablo is off again. ‘Thees jeer, we want visit Stonn-henhh, and Glass-tonn-booor. Joo visit thees place, plees? Harry Potterrrr. Lass jeer we see Harry Potterrrr. Thees jeer, we see Merr-leen. How you say, Merr-leen, magico?’
‘How you say tranny-via in Eengliss?’ Rafi enquires, before I have time to advise Pablo that Harry Potter is all grown-up now, and that Merlin the magician has been dead for quite a few years. ‘Tranny-via. I so embarrass-ed. Gobby-Enry, he fixy tranny-via, een HH-ayen, he fixy the via, but no have tranny.’
Less than one iota, clearly, but while we are still digesting that news, and please let it be lost in translation, her husband is still in holiday mode. ‘Sallis-booor. Cathedral much high. Batt. City of Romano. Hot Batt. Stonn-henhh. Glass-tonn-booor. Problem is mooch expensive, travel from Lon-Donn.’
The real problem at this precise moment is, actually, for the British contingent in this car, that we are approaching the outskirts of Jaen and I for one can feel, not panic, certainly, but rising tension, for sure, and I know my wife will be of similar mind. No, scrub that. She will be panicking. And the last thing she needs to hear is about Glass-tonn-bloody-booor. I turn to face our friends. ‘Why don’t we come to your house over the weekend, say Sunday evening, and we can help you with the various options, make some suggestions, work out what is best for your trip, when we have a bit more time, and can relax?’
Rafi claps her hands, bouncing in her seat. ‘Fantastic! Thank you ver much. Now please shut-up about holly-day, Pablo!’ Amen to that….
We leave the motorway and take a dual carriageway into town, and I notice what appears to be a tram-track down the middle of the road, complete with a huge ‘park and ride’ car park, little stations, crossing points with fully functioning lights, a massive warehouse bearing the legend Tran-via, but with a complete absence of actual trams, or passengers. The famous tranny, hopefully. No wonder she is embarrass-ed. ‘So nothing is happen here, I say you,’ she continues, ‘Gobby-Enry pay for thees, but no money for tranny. Elephante Blanco. Was choice, thees tranny-via, or university hospital. Imagine, hospital of study, how you say, research, similar Granada, peoples want thees, no peoples want estupid tranny-via. I embarrass-ed my countree.’
Before I can frame a suitable reply, however, my heart takes another lurch, as up ahead is a hospital, a grey, forbidding structure, five stories maybe but who is counting, and a sign announcing Hospital, which is usually a good thing, although not today, actually, as we would have preferred to remain in the dark. This is it. Pablo steers expertly around the triple-parked melee, avoiding collateral damage, while I fish around in my pocket for change for the ticket machine, which causes massive hilarity on account of there being no charge whatsoever. Embarrass-ed you countree, Rafi? Come to a British hospital, see how much they stiff you for, and don’t even think about transgressing for more than thirty seconds, otherwise you will have bailiffs knocking on your door. Now THAT is embarrass-ed.
We follow our friends into the building, Rafi checks her directions with a receptionist, and we head up to the first floor and a huge waiting room, maybe half-filled with patients, the majority of whom are clutching manila envelopes. So you have to take your x-rays to hospital too? Who knew? I feel conspicuous, somehow, an impostor, without any, as if the locals are whispering behind their hands, look at those English people, with those hippies, and no raddyo-graffico. Pablo and I slump into the uncomfortable plastic chairs, clearly designed for snake-hipped matadors, while Rafi guides the English patient to the corner of the room where a brief consultation takes place, then the pair of them disappear behind a curtain, my wife managing a brief, desperate, backwards glance in my direction. I turn to our friend, head in hands. ‘I should be with her, Pablo.’
He fixes me with a deep, hypnotic stare, like Kaa the snake in the Jungle Book, although if his eyes start swirling in a go to sleep, man-cub sort of way, I am off. ‘Ahh, no to worry, Rafi weeth she. Now, tell me, airporto, Lon-Donn. Soutt-end. Ees Soutt-end much distance Glass-ton-boor?’
God I hope she will be OK. I am worried sick. WHAT? Southend? My wife is stuck here in a foreign hospital and he is rattling on about bloody Southend? ‘Why are you talking about Southend airport, Pablo? That is completely the wrong side of London, for the south-west. Do you want to visit the east coast, or London?’
I wonder what they are doing in there? ‘No, lass jeer we visit Lon-Donn, we fly Soutt-end, ees much cheap. Thees jeer, I not know airporto Stonn-henhh, Sallis-booor. We no want visit Lon-Donn thees jeer.’
Must be seeing the consultant, I imagine. ‘How much distance Glass-ton-boor to Sallis-booor?’
Incredible service, though, isn’t it? She only saw the GP this morning, and here we are, just a few hours later, with the consultant. ‘Ees possible walking Glass-ton-boor city to top of Glass-ton-boor Tooor?’
Bloody hell though, the GP must have thought it was serious, to get in that quick? ‘You know King Artooor? Table round? Where city of he, plees?’
I glance down at the diminutive Spaniard, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Sorry Pablo, I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. The best airport for that area is Bournemouth, and you can fly there direct from Malaga. Bournemouth is a seaside town, so you can stay there for a ….HERE THEY ARE!’ And I jump up, narrowly avoiding scattering half a dozen locals in my wake, and fling my arms around my approaching spouse. ‘Oh my God, where have you been? I was getting so worried!’
Fanning her flushed cheeks, and returning, literally, to earth, she perches herself on a chair. ‘Three consultants! I saw three consultants. The Three Amigos! The first one didn’t know what it was, he called a second who wasn’t sure, so they had to get the top guy, who luckily was here today, and he said it was nothing, just a bone deformity, I’ve probably had it all my life, but it’s most likely the dry atmosphere here, which I’m not used to of course, after humid old Britain…..but hold on! Whoa, boy!..’ I am just about to perform back flips…. ‘The camera revealed something on my throat, polyps they think, so I have to go for an MRI scan, downstairs, now. That is correct, Rafi?’
Our friend nods in agreement and seems about to comment, but her husband, who is bubbling with excitement, dives in ahead. Bless him, he was worried all along, just trying to take my mind off everything. Or not. ‘Rafi! Jonneee say me no es necessary travel Soutt-end Lon-Don! We must to travel Booorn-mooot! Es seaside! Eengliss seaside! Like we school books! Fees and cheeps! Donkeys! Pier! Fees and cheeps on pier! How you say, man-zanna caramelo?’
Did I say there were donkeys? ‘Toffee apples.’
‘Yees, toffee apples! Hot dohhs!’
His wife, becoming increasingly agitated, has clearly heard enough. ‘Pablo. SHUT THE FOX!’ She turns to Chrissie, head in hands. ‘I sorree, Amador teach me thees! My hoos-ban, he so excity! Pablo! Jonneee say we, he come our house Sunday, talk about holly-day. Plees. Cristina have three doc-tor poky camera up nose of she! Not want listen you fees and cheeps! SEET DOWN!’ And she grabs my startled wife by the arm and whisks her away, back down the stairs towards the MRI department, I assume.
Blimey, she might be only five-foot, but these Latin types ain’t half fierce, when they get fired up. Actually, we are making a right spectacle of ourselves, and were this the UK, security would undoubtedly have been alerted by now. Here? Entirely normal. No one is batting an eyelid. A few old ladies are fanning themselves with their x-rays, and an old man is grinning widely, no doubt storing up the memories for out in his street tonight, but the rest are gazing disinterestedly at the Spanish soap opera playing at maximum volume on the giant TV screen on the far wall.
Hell, an MRI scan? Didn’t I see a picture of one once, a woman disappearing into a giant, shiny tube? Didn’t I know someone who had one? I bury my head in my hands. I am hopeless at this stuff. Cluel
ess. I could tell you the spark-plug gap on a 1200cc Harley Davidson, .038 of an inch, I usually set mine at .040, in case you were wondering, but medical matters? ‘Jonneee, what distance Stonn-henhh to Booorn-mooot, plees?’
And they must think it is serious, getting her in straight away? ‘Ees easy get Sallis-booor?’
Although maybe as she was already here, they managed to squeeze her in? ‘How we travel Glass-ton-boor, plees?’
Very claustrophobic, MRI scans, aren’t they? She is going to hate that. ‘What name city of King Artooor?
FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE. ‘Right, Pablo, you fly Malaga to Bournemouth, on Ryanair, have a couple of days at the seaside, then train to Salisbury, two hours maximum. You change trains at Southampton but it’s easy. Have a couple of days in Salisbury, tallest spire in England I think on the cathedral, lovely historic buildings, and there are local buses to Stonehenge. From Salisbury it is under an hour on the train to Bath, stay there, say, two nights, beautiful stone buildings from the Georgian period, Jane Austen, Roman baths. Then half an hour on the train to Bristol, huge waterfront, many bars and restaurants, an historic iron ship and suspension bridge. There are buses direct to Glastonbury from outside Bristol station, takes around an hour, but you can stop in Wells, England’s smallest city, beautiful cathedral and architecture, on the way. Then in Glastonbury you have the ruined abbey, destroyed in the time of Henry the Eighth, the tor, of course, and a thorn tree planted by Joseph of Arimathea, who legend has it brought the infant Christ to Britain. Fantastic ancient pub in the High Street too, one of my favourites, and you can get a world-class giant pasty in a little cafe around the corner so you won’t need to eat again for about a week! The train and bus tickets for all this maybe cost around fifty pounds each if you get them in advance. The seat of King Arthur was called Camelot, but there are several different locations for this, the most famous is a place called Tintagel, which is way down in the south west, you can get a train down there but would need a local bus to get to the village, not sure about that, but we can look it up ON SUNDAY WHEN WE COME ROUND!’ God, my head is banging. I wonder how she is? I should have gone down there with her, not stayed up here. Would they have let me in? Doubt it actually. ‘Pablo, I’m just off to the bathroom a minute, I won’t be long.’
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 38