Two Old Fools - Olé! Read online

  Two Old Fools ~ Olé!

  Another slice of Andalucian life

  by

  Victoria Twead

  For Joe

  Without him, I’d have given up long ago.

  And for Carrie Compton

  For her kindness and support from the very beginning.

  Table of Contents

  Map of El Hoyo

  1.The Fish Van

  2.Kids and Cake

  3.An Expedition

  4.Football and Fifi

  5.Little Tabs

  6.The Monstrosity

  7.Half a Melon

  8.Hair

  9.A Night-Flight, New Faces and Melons

  10.Battles

  11.The Log Man and the Gin Twins

  12.Poinsettias and Underpants

  13.Rain

  14.Lollipops

  15.The Procession

  16.Chickens

  17.Mysteries and Midnight

  18.Expensive Cake

  19.The Rain in Spain and a Donkey

  20.Killer Caterpillars and a Dentist

  21.Cranes

  22.Cowboys and Getting Plastered

  23.Three New Faces

  24.Traps

  25.Jumping over Babies

  26.Soccer and San Juan

  27.Operation Sage & Onion and Vuvuzelas

  28.Red and Yellow

  29.An Accident and a Party

  30.A Bombshell and a Puzzle

  31.Joe’s Shame

  32.The End, and a Beginning

  33.Epilogue

  Cat Family Update

  So, what happened next?

  1.Footprints in the Sand

  Contact the Author and Links

  Acknowledgements

  RECIPE INDEX

  Books by Victoria Twead

  Map of El Hoyo

  1 The Fish Van

  Spanish Roasted Tomato Salad

  Olive Oil Infusions

  Joe and I were in the kitchen, drinking coffee and feeling deliciously smug. It was a Monday morning in April and we were remembering what Mondays used to bring, back in the grey old days, before we moved to Spain.

  “We’re so lucky, aren’t we?” I said. “In England, we would’ve been getting ready to go to work. You’d have been stressing about getting your uniform sorted, or paperwork prepared. And I’d be planning my lessons and worrying about getting reports done, or staff meetings, or whatever.”

  Joe nodded. “Yep! Instead, we’re sitting here, listening to the cuckoo in the valley and Geronimo’s donkey singing to his girlfriend in the next village. I might even start writing my book soon.”

  I was unconvinced. Not a word of Joe’s masterpiece had been committed to either paper or word-processor as yet. His book was a bit of a standing joke.

  One of the chickens launched into her Egg Song, the triumphant announcement that another egg had just been introduced into the world.

  “And new-laid eggs for breakfast,” I said.

  I sighed, the self-satisfied sigh of the truly content. Five years had passed since we’d left England behind and set up home in El Hoyo. Five years of living in a crazy, tiny mountain village, miles away from the nearest big town.

  I stole a glance at Joe across the kitchen table. When you’ve been living with somebody for a long time, you can sense when something is bothering him. Joe was deep in thoughts of his own.

  “You are glad we decided to stay in Spain, aren’t you?” I asked, after a pause.

  “Of course I am! It’s a wonderful life here.”

  “Then what are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that sometimes I...”

  “Sometimes you what?”

  Joe held his hand up, a signal for me to remain silent. “Shh, Vicky... Is that the fish van?” he asked, a puzzled expression creasing his brow.

  I stopped and listened. I could hear birds, the chickens scratching outside and, yes, the distant familiar hoot of the fish van.

  “That’s odd,” I said. “The fish van doesn’t usually come on a Monday in April. There aren’t enough people in the village to buy fish. Let’s take our coffee up to the roof terrace and look.”

  “You’re so nosey,” said Joe, but he followed me just the same, and picked up the binoculars on the way.

  On the far side of the valley, we could see the white fish van wending its way down the twisting mountain road, horn beeping to announce its arrival as it always did. But it was not alone, it headed a procession. The convoy consisted of three vehicles. First the fish van, then a largish truck with canvas sides and finally a black minibus. Any traffic in the village during the week was unusual, but a convoy?

  “What is that writing on the side of the truck?” I asked.

  Joe focused the binoculars and concentrated. “Er, I think it says, ‘Ufarte’ and ‘Almería’.”

  We digested this gem of information in silence.

  “Ufarte?” I repeated at last. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep, quite sure. Ufarte.”

  As the three vehicles entered the village, all three drivers leaned on their horns and wound down their windows allowing three different sets of music to blare out into the valley.

  Joe and I exchanged glances. Who were these people? What were they doing in our village? We had a bird’s eye view from our roof terrace and we froze in horror as the raucous convoy thundered past the village square, turned into our street, and parked below, right outside our house.

  Nothing much had changed in the five years since we’d made El Hoyo our home. Our ability to speak Spanish had improved hugely but there were only a handful of permanent residents in the village with whom to practice it. However, every Friday evening, the population of the village rose, only to plummet again on Sunday nights as the weekenders returned to the city.

  Of the permanent villagers, dear old Marcia had hardly aged at all. Always dressed in black, with her silver hair secured by ever-escaping hairpins, she continued to run the only village shop. The shop was aging faster than she was. The walls were beginning to crumble and the steps had worn away. Luckily, her two strapping sons came up to the village most weekends and carried out basic maintenance.

  Uncle Felix, the illiterate, retired shepherd, still shared his two-roomed cottage with his beloved mule and a pair of chickens. Ancient, but like most Spanish peasant folk, he enjoyed rude health and frequently boasted he had never visited a doctor. Although toothless and wizened, he still possessed more energy than either Joe or I.

  Every February we relied on Uncle Felix to supervise the pruning of our grapevine. He would arrive, cloth cap pulled low over his eyes, ready to bark out orders. His mule would wait patiently outside in the street, thoughtfully grazing on our window-box, aware that her adored master would rejoin her soon. If the window was open, she’d push her long face into the room, rattle her ears, and snicker for her master.

  “Cut there! No, not there... Further up! ¡Madre mía! Not that branch, cut the one to the left!”

  Joe and his clippers would dance hither and thither, obeying Uncle Felix’s commands. But it was worth it. Every year, the grapevine produced huge, plump bunches of grapes, more than we could possibly eat.

  And how could El Hoyo continue to function without Geronimo? Who else would sweep the streets, assist the old folk and give us chicken advice? Along with his three moth-eaten dogs, Geronimo had acquired a donkey, which he often tethered beside Uncle Felix’s mule. The mule and donkey were fond of each other and grazed flank to flank while Geronimo sat on the drystone wall, swigging from his bottle, watching them. Geronimo still enjoyed a beer or brandy a little too enthusiastically, but everyone turned a blind eye. Geronimo was part of the fabric of El Hoyo, and arguably Real Madrid Foot
ball Club’s most devoted fan.

  Paco and Carmen-Bethina, the best neighbours in the world, were still very much part of our lives. Every Friday they’d arrive from the city, noisy and exuberant, shattering our peace in the nicest way.

  Paco’s balled fist would pound on our front door, making us jump.

  “English!” he’d bellow. “We have tomatoes for you!” (Or cherries, or shiny red and green peppers - depending on the season.) He’d hand us a huge bag crammed with produce while his wife, Carmen-Bethina, stood behind him, a broad smile dimpling her round cheeks.

  Of course ‘Bethina’ wasn’t really Carmen’s name, but five years ago, when Paco had introduced himself and his wife, he’d said ‘vecina’, meaning ‘neighbour’. We’d misunderstood his Andalucian accent, (because ‘v’s’ sound like ‘b’s’) and assumed her name was Bethina. And so the name had stuck.

  Carmen-Bethina frequently baked us cakes, and our waistlines expanded. Their son, Little Paco, had grown tall, but played enough soccer in the village square to avoid piling on the pounds, despite his mother’s baking.

  The same could not be said of Bianca, Little Paco’s cocker spaniel. We had watched her grow from sickly puppy to barrel-on-legs and it was easy to see why. Bianca had become the family dustbin. All Carmen-Bethina’s cooking scraps and left-over dinners were disposed of inside Bianca. Brown eyes innocent, tongue lolling, she had also become a master thief. Turn one’s back on anything vaguely edible, and Bianca snaffled it. She was crafty. As silent as a feather, she could clear untended plates quicker than a blink, and was often banished from the house, tethered and wailing outside.

  In our street, Paco’s family lived on our right-hand side. The house on our other side had always stood empty, although long ago, we had been introduced to the old man who owned it. He was quiet, and on the rare occasions when he visited his house, we seldom saw or heard him. One day, Paco told us that the old man had died. We were saddened to hear that, and the house next door remained empty, locked and silent.

  It is rare for old Spanish houses to appear on the property market as traditionally they are passed down from generation to generation. I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised when the fish van, the truck and the minibus drew to a halt outside our house that April Monday morning.

  The empty house next door! The old man’s relatives had come to claim it. Up on our roof terrace, like unseen birds perched in a tall tree, we stared down at the activity below.

  Simultaneously, all three vehicle doors flew open. We recognised the Fish Man immediately - was he a relative of the family? Probably. Everybody else was new to us, we didn’t recognise any of them.

  Two men jumped from the Ufarte truck’s cab and began to roll up and tie the canvas sides, revealing stacked furniture, boxes and household goods. The Fish Man got out of his van to help them.

  “Do you think we should go down and introduce ourselves?” I asked Joe. “Perhaps we should offer to help?”

  “Pardon? Vicky? What did you say?” The music from the minibus was still blaring.

  “I just wondered if we should go down and... Oh, NEVER MIND!” Ordinary conversation was impossible above the blast of the music. I noticed Joe was scratching his nether regions, a sure sign that he was agitated. I followed his gaze to the street below and understood his consternation. The minibus occupants were spilling out into the street...

  If you know me, you’ll be aware that I’m a list-maker. I can’t fight it. I’m compelled to keep records and compile lists. In England, my friends nicknamed me Schindler. Already I was forming a mental list as I spied on our new neighbours. My first impressions were as follows:

  Family Member (1) (Later we found out his name was Juan.)

  Papa Ufarte: Surprisingly tall for a Spaniard, handsome, bearded, athletic build, dressed in jeans and T-shirt. Carrying a guitar. Loud-voiced, shouting orders. Probably 35 years of age.

  Family Member (2) (Maribel, but we referred to her as Mama Ufarte)

  Attractive, masses of black hair pulled back into a high, swinging ponytail. Wearing jeans and a bright smock top. Maybe early 30’s. Lots to say, barely stopping to breathe. Displayed a certain poise and grace, even as she balanced (7) on her hip.

  Family Member (3) (Jorge)

  Boy: Mop of black hair. Lots of energy. Barcelona football shirt. Chewing gum. About 7 years old.

  Family Members (4) and (5)

  Twin Girls: Beautiful, identical. Identical pink sparkly fairy costumes, pink fluffy wings, pink tights, pink shoes, pink shoe-ribbons. Black shiny hair held aside by identical pink flowery hair-slides. Carrying identical dolls and magic wands. Maybe 5 years old?

  Family Member (6) (Carlos - hereafter referred to as Scrap.)

  Boy: A tiny scrap - miniature version of (3) minus the chewing gum. His mouth pursed around a dummy (pacifier) that appeared to be a permanent fixture. Followed (3) wherever he went. Obsessed with kicking. (In that short space of time: kicked car tyre, stone in the street, sister’s ankle, our front door.) Probably about 3 years old?

  Family Member (7) (Real name Sergio - hereafter referred to as Snap-On.)

  Boy/Girl(?): Tangle of curly dark hair, bare feet. Maybe 18 months old? Looked old enough to walk but wasn’t set down by mother.

  Was that it? No. A pair of high-heeled shoes emerged from the vehicle, followed by a pair of shapely legs, a very short denim skirt, a tight top that left little to the imagination, arms with jangly bracelets and a dark head of hair. She yawned and stretched luxuriously, tossing her mane of hair over her shoulders. Leaning languidly against the minibus, she examined her fingernails. I mentally added her to my list:

  Family Member (8) (Lola Ufarte)

  Auntie(?): Maybe a little younger than Mama Ufarte, slim, gorgeous. Dressed to kill, flirtatious. As my mother-in-law would have said, “No better than she should be.”

  “Whew,” Joe shouted into my ear. “That’s a big family! How are they all going to fit into that little house?”

  I shook my head, still engrossed by the scene below. If you counted Scrap (6) and the babe in arms (7) we had eight new neighbours! I felt a little sneaky observing from above, unseen, but it was deliciously tempting. We’d often noticed that if we were on the roof terrace looking down, people seldom looked up.

  A familiar figure turned the street corner, Real Madrid soccer scarf draped loosely round his neck trapping some of his long curly hair. He was leading his donkey by a rope. Three dogs trailed behind. Geronimo.

  “¡Hombre!” shouted Papa Ufarte. Geronimo, the Fish Man and the two other men shook hands and clapped each other on the back. Geronimo and Mama Ufarte exchanged kisses. The children danced around Geronimo and patted the donkey. Geronimo swung the twins in the air and pretended to box with the eldest boy. Only the voluptuous young lady leaning against the minibus, examining her nails, held back and I sensed she was choosing her moment.

  At last, the young lady straightened and, hips swaying, sauntered over to Geronimo. The effect was instant. Geronimo’s head dropped shyly, and his hands hung by his sides. The lady offered her cheeks to be kissed, and toyed with his scarf coquettishly. I could sense Geronimo’s embarrassment as he quickly kissed her and backed away, flushing red. A moment ago he’d been greeting the adults and playing with the kids, but this siren had transformed him into a shambling oaf. Geronimo waved a hand and hurried away, his donkey and dogs trotting behind him.

  Oblivious to this painful scene, Papa Ufarte rattled the keys in his hand and tried the lock of their house. It opened easily and he disappeared inside, followed by Mama Ufarte and the seductress. The children milled around, went inside, ran out again and amused themselves as children do.

  The oldest boy produced a football and began dribbling and kicking it in the street. Scrap tried to join in and kicked a wardrobe in temper when his big brother wouldn’t allow him to share his game. The fairy twins settled down in the dust and played with their dolls.

  Then a surprising thing happened. The Fish
Man suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead, indicating that he had recalled something important. He cupped his hands to his mouth, loudspeaker-style, and roared over the deafening music.

  “Juan? Maribel! JUAN! What about Grandmother?”

  2 Kids and Cake

  Mama Ufarte’s Lemony Sponge Cake

  Joe and I were mesmerised. We leaned further over our terrace wall, watching the scene playing out in the street below.

  “Your Grandmother!” shouted the Fish Man again, and turned back to his van.

  “¡Madre mía!” Papa Ufarte shot out of the house with Mama Ufarte close on his heels.

  “¡Madre mía!” echoed Mama Ufarte, the curly-haired toddler still glued to her hip, her free hand over her mouth.

  The Fish Man hurriedly unlocked and swung open the back doors of his van. The smell of fish wafted up to us. The men from the truck stopped unloading furniture into the street and came to assist. We couldn’t see the contents from our lofty vantage point until the men hauled something weighty out. It was an armchair.

  And that was the first sight we had of:

  Family Member (9)

  Granny Ufarte: Grey hair, black clothes, shawl around her shoulders, rug on her knees, heap of knitting in her lap, fast asleep and snoring in the armchair.

  The children continued playing, unconcerned, as the men lifted the armchair, complete with snoring Grandmother, out of the fish van and into street. The old lady twitched a couple of times, then carried on sleeping, head lolling, mouth wide open revealing bright pink gums.

  “Vicky, can you believe that?” mouthed Joe and raised the binoculars to his eyes again, training them down on the street below. It was a bone of contention between us that he utterly refused to wear glasses, maintaining that his eyesight had remained unchanged since the 1980’s.

  “Pardon?” I said, absorbed by the tableau unfolding.

  “I said, CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?” Joe roared above the music.