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

  There is a bit of history attached to that house next door, which Janie and Nigel refer to as ‘Miguel’s’ after the old man who used to live there. He sadly died a few years ago, following which his family, who lived in a different part of Spain, simply locked the house and effectively abandoned it to the elements. The brutal heat of summer has left the masonry cracking and paintwork peeling, contributing to the general air of dilapidation.

  And does someone need to contact the police? I am unaware of the position here but presumably breaking and entering, or squatting, or whatever you want to call it, is against the law wherever you are? Glancing out of the window, I can see crazy man in the street trying to ignite a gas cylinder with a cigarette lighter, a physical impossibility without the regulator attached, but something needs to be done, before he blows us all to Kingdom Come. I need to get to the library, take advice from the locals and hopefully get one of them to contact the Old Bill. After I’ve phoned Nigel. Decision made.

  He greets the news with less than enthusiasm. ‘Oh bloody hell, no. That damned Miguel’s, I’ve been worried about something like this for a long time, going to rack and ruin, depreciating the value of our place. Janie will have a fit, I know. Can I ask you a big favour? The wall in the back garden, between us and Miguel’s, is falling down, can you have a look, and if you have time, get it rebuilt, whatever it takes? I’ll transfer some money today, if you need it.

  I totally understand how he feels, living over a thousand miles away. Our bungalow in the UK, whilst managed by highly competent letting agents, remains a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. ‘Look, don’t worry’ I hopefully reassure him, ‘everything is secure here, I will keep popping down and if Crazy Man spots me going in and out maybe he will think your place is occupied. I will look at the wall now and call you tonight with an update, and we can talk about money then, OK?’

  Easy for me to say, but what if Crazy Man is out there right now? What if there are garden implements in Miguel’s? A soup ladle I might just about be able to avoid, but a damn great spade? Unlocking Nigel’s back door, I pop my head out quickly, but all seems quiet. Maybe Crazy Man is taking a nap, after all his exertions. Perhaps he has popped out for food, who knows? On this side of the street, the gardens are accessed up a flight of steps. ‘Uphill houses’ I call them, as opposed to ours which is a ‘downhill house.’ The consequences of living on the side of a mountain. On our side we have the extensive views out over the town, and the olive fields beyond, plus of course the spectacular sunsets. This side, they only have a huge great mountain to look at, very pretty in its own way, but I know which I prefer. Edging up the steps, I spy the garden wall, which in typical Spanish fashion is indeed falling down. Three feet thick, made from two parallel courses of stone, the middle filled with any old junk, soil, rubble, small rocks. The whole thing is then capped off with cement, which over the years cracks, letting in the winter rains, causing the whole wall to burst open. A lack of basic maintenance, we had a similar problem in our garden, but our damage was a couple of square feet only, simple enough to repair. This damage is maybe eight feet long however, although the remedy is the same. Mortar in a couple of courses of stones, leave it to go off overnight, then next morning fill in behind with the rubble. Another couple of courses, let them set, and so on until I eventually reach the top. Cap the whole lot off with some of those yard-long bricks they sell here, mortar it over, and job done. A week’s work easily, but actually less than an hour or so each morning.

  In Nigel’s scullery is a small set of steps, so as silently as possible I prop them against the undamaged section of wall, and climb up for a better look, my first view down into Miguel’s patio. And what a truly depressing sight it is, cold and damp and totally uninviting, even though it is probably over thirty degrees in the sunshine today. If the front of the house was bad, the rear is ten times worse. Just about everything that could possibly crack and flake, is. Gutters and down-pipes hanging off, rusty ironwork, weeds sprouting from just about everywhere. There is a first-floor bathroom extension, clearly a 1970’s add-on, providing a covered patio area outside the back door, similar to ours, although whereas we have repaired, tiled and painted, walls decorated with plants and pictures, Miguel’s resembles a back-street chippy which has been condemned on health grounds. And scary somehow, although that might be my imagination running away with me, on account of who or what might be lurking inside.

  At the top of the steps up from the back door is a garden area, which could one day be made into a pleasant setting, but which right now looks as if it has been used for military exercises. Tank traps, bomb craters, plus the rubble from the collapsed wall. This Miguel fellow was clearly not a gardener. Suddenly, I spot what appears to be a snake, nestling in a clump of dried, dead grass. Now had this been a rat I would have been back into Nigel’s, with the door firmly bolted, in record time. Snakes I am just about OK with, although I do adjust my position from sitting, to kneeling, in case said reptile decides to go walk-about. Or slither-about I suppose. Strange-looking creature to be honest, about a foot long, stubby nose leading to a pointed tail. And strange colours too. I thought snakes were diamond-patterned, not that I am an expert mind you, but this one is various shades of chocolate brown, darker at the head, and milky at the tail. Clearly a Spanish snake as it seems to be asleep, even though it’s not siesta time for another few hours.

  Right, Hendrix and Joplin will have to wait for another day. Down the library now, via the builders merchant to order the materials for tomorrow morning. Looking forward to meeting up with our local friends too, and learning a bit more of the language, although what the Spanish is for ‘what is a morrow loco, how much is four million pesetas, and by the way who wants to accompany me to the police station?’ I have absolutely no idea. The class is underway by the time I arrive, although the room is in uproar due to the sensational news that Alicia has been kicked off the course. Crazy, lovable Alicia, always arrived half an hour late, causing massive disruption to the group, dressed in hooker-chic with ankle boots, fishnet tights, a leather mini-skirt and a low-cut blouse. Not a great look for a woman approaching sixty, at an English lesson. And she always managed to squeeze her way in next to me, for some unknown reason, a fact which Chrissie always managed to remark upon. Her place has been allocated to a young man called Amador, mid-twenties, and very camp. Camper that a field of bell-tents at a Boy Scout jamboree in fact, but great fun, excellent English, although he does tend to end each sentence in a high voice. ‘My name is Amador, I have twenty-six years, and I live Santa MARTAA’ he explains by way of introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you JONEEE!’ Not a problem for me of course, and at least I won’t have Chrissie glaring at me for the entire lesson in future…

  The other members are the same as before the summer recess, Teri, mid twenties, Rafi early thirties, Marie late thirties, and the guys Jose and Juan, mid and late twenties respectively. All of them highly educated and qualified, and sadly looking for work in the total car-crash that is the Spanish economy. Such a crying waste of talent. Juan is the economist of the group, so I address my query about the pesetas to him, without mentioning any names, obviously. ‘Ahh thees es Antonia in you street, she is my haunt, sister my father, she selling her house.’ Well that went well, didn’t it? Auntie Vera’s tax-dodge exposed to the four winds. ‘Many ancient person in Espain no trust the Euro’ he continues, ‘the goberment they fixy the peseta to Euro, at one million to six thousand. So four million peseta es twenty-four thousand Euro.’ I am almost expecting him to shout ‘SIMPLES’ like the Meerkat at the end of Coronation Street, but thankfully he has never had to endure British television soap operas.

  Marie chimes in to the conversation. ‘Much peoples here think pesetas, if you see in supermarket, prices show in Euro, and pesetas. Ver small on label.’ Oh yes, of course! I have seen this, ‘400 pta’, written in small figures after the Euro price. I thought it referred to Club-card points…

  So next question, about the ‘morrow lo
co’. Teri explains. ‘Moro is bad word for Moroc person, many old people still say thees word, but today it shows no respect. You must not to say thees to head of Moroc peoples.’

  ‘Face?’ Chrissie suggests.

  ‘Hoder!’ Terri cries, ‘face, yees, sorree, I forget my Eengliss over summer! I must to start my classes of Eengliss with you, Cristina!’ Indeed she does.

  Rafi however is concerned about Crazy Man. ‘You say thees person, how you say, break-in, to house of Miguel? My house close to thees. We must to go to house of polices-mans, after the class. You come now, plees!’ It is approaching one PM, the class is breaking up anyway, so off we head, up the cobbled street, to the house of polices-mans. On the way, I ensure she is fully briefed about the soup ladle, the gas bottle, and the effect on the value of Janie and Nigel’s house. Not to mention, as a serious issue, the effect on the elderly people in the street, with this lunatic on the loose. Plus of course, the danger to the Englishman who has to repair the garden wall in the morning. I referred to the local boys in blue as the ‘Old Bill’ earlier. Actually I should amend that to the ‘very, very, extremely ancient Bill’, given that most of them seem to be well past retirement age. You rarely see an old Bobby in Britain, do you? In fact many might say you rarely encounter ANY age of Bobby there. Here however, there appears to be a surplus of the whiskery old gentlemen, given that the concept of early retirement is unheard of, although whether they are capable of actually apprehending any suspects I seriously doubt. We are about to find out, I imagine.

  Entering the house of polices-mans, there he is, the venerable old copper, propped up behind his desk, newspaper open to the sporting pages, half-eaten sandwich on one side, mug of coffee on the other, a crappy Spanish soap-opera playing on the flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. This could be a scene from a nursing-home, quite frankly. Is he actually still alive? If he is, he certainly won’t be chasing any villains this side of the grave. Rafi coughs theatrically. Not a flicker. She seems unsure what to do next, but I am not having it. What am I paying my rates for? Not that we’ve actually paid any rates yet, but it’s the principle, isn’t it? Lives could be at stake here. Mine, specifically, in the morning. ‘HOLA!’ I bellow. The effect is spectacular. Rafi and Chrissie burst out laughing, and Dixon of Dock Green’s grandfather snaps back his head, like he’s just seen a ghost, or St Peter. He seems to be unsure precisely where he is, perhaps he is expecting a nurse to pop in and change his bed-pan, or his medication. Slowly his rheumy eyes come into focus, and wiping a line of drool from his gums, he regards us for the first time. Clicking his false teeth into place, he utters a single word.

  ‘Que?’

  I turn away and stuff my knuckles in my mouth, shaking with subterranean mirth. ‘Fawlty Towers’, isn’t it? Manuel, the Spanish waiter. ‘SI? QUE? WHAT?’ Thankfully, Rafi seems unaware of any John Cleese sitcoms, and so launches into her speech. I’m not sure of the Spanish for ‘soup ladle’ but I do catch ‘butano’, so she is relating the tale of the gas bottle. Old Father Time seems resolutely unmoved however, his eyes repeatedly switch back to the TV, and all too soon, Rafi is directing us outside, without him having taken a single note. Maybe he has one of those sponge-like memories, able to absorb every minute detail of a conversation? Sponge-like brain, more like it.

  Outside in the street, our eyes adjusting to the blinding sunshine, Rafi relates the brief conversation. ‘Thee polices-mans he say me, ahh do not worry, thees man he only want hot house, he will not be problem for you.’

  A HOT HOUSE? Did he mistake Crazy Man for a tropical plant? Beyond belief, what an utter and complete waste of time. This is partly Rafi’s translation of course. What she clearly meant to tell us was that the vagrant was only looking for somewhere warm to stay, despite it still being over twenty degrees at night here. Poor chap must be freezing. Maybe the banging I could hear this morning was his teeth chattering, not the ladle clanging on the wrought iron?

  Shaking my head in disbelief, we thank Rafi for her help, she veers off into the street behind Miguel’s and home, and we head directly for our sunbeds under the fig tree. I am exhausted, in severe need of a lie-down. Easing backwards onto my pillow, I gaze across at my wife who is contentedly flicking through her Kindle. ‘If this was the first day of the rest of my life, can I change my mind? Can I get a refund? Is there a fourteen-day cooling-off period? Surely mixing cement for Del-Boy was easier than this? And we still have Babs and Andy coming back tonight to discover what four million pesetas is, and I need to phone Nigel about his wall.’

  Chrissie slams her device into her lap. ‘For pity’s sake will you stop moaning. You’ve only been back a day, just lie there and shut u….’

  Too late. I am already fast asleep.

  The following morning, after a restless, tortured night, featuring exploding gas bottles, soup ladles and chocolate-coloured Spanish snakes writhing away everywhere, I am somewhat bleary-eyed, to say the least. Still, all is calm. Loli’s medication is clearly kicking-in. And the sun is out. Hopefully, the second day of the rest of my life will be slightly more tranquil than the first. Fingers crossed. As I pour my second mug, I smile sweetly at my wife. ‘I have the bricks and mortar arriving at Miguel’s this morning. Would you fancy coming down and helping me unload? Please?’

  She regards me unenthusiastically. ‘Ooo, let me think. Can a girl resist the sight of Dirty Diego the Dumper Driver picking his nose, adjusting his crotch, clearing his throat and gobbing disgustingly across the pavement? Who could fail to be aroused as he grabs my breasts whilst handing me a sack of cement? You really shouldn’t put temptation on my way like this, there was me thinking I might have the boring task of tidying my rose garden this morning, and now you are enticing me with the manly charms of Dirty Die…..’

  ‘All right all right, I get the message! I take it that’s a no? I just thought you might like to share the delights of the rest of our lives? You know, what we agreed? On that beach in France? Remember?’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘No, that was the rest of your life you were talking about, the rest of my life is perfectly fine, thank you very much. The rest of my life needs no input from you. You go and get on with the rest of your life, and if that involves having your breasts caressed by a disgusting old Spaniard, remember it was your decision.’

  I am shaking with laughter. She can be extremely droll over the breakfast table, Chrissie. At least, I think it was humour…..

  Part of my nightmare-tinged sleep last night involved the soup ladle, and more specifically, the other utensils which formed part of the Prestige stainless-steel kitchen set which was extremely popular as a wedding present in the 1970’s. We were given one as I recall, the bracket on the wall, and five or six implements which hung from it. What were they? A slotted spoon? Give you a nasty slap, one of those. A fish slice, or ‘that thing for scraping up fried eggs’. Ditto. A potato-masher? A Painful whack on the back of the head. But the one giving me the biggest heebie-jeebies is that damn great fork, eighteen inches long, with two huge prongs. Easily penetrate my layer of fat, one of those. Still, maybe Miguel was not much of a cook. What was the fork used for anyway? Holding down the roast beef whilst carving? Dunno, a bit of stewing steak was all we could afford, back in the day. The fork certainly remained unused, in our house. And do Spaniards eat roast beef? Don’t think so. You never see signs outside pubs advertising ‘Roast beef and all the trimmings.’ So maybe the Spanish Prestige stainless-steel kitchen set didn’t actually feature the dirty great fork. Perhaps it only contained flippy, tapassy little implements. I hope so anyway, getting pronged by Crazy Man is not on my agenda this, or any, morning.

  Grabbing my phone, in case of emergencies, and Nigel’s keys, I make a huge play of leaving the house. ‘Right, just off to meet Diego, and run the gauntlet in Miguel’s garden. Wish me luck, will you, I am just going outside and may be some while!’

  My dearest barely raises her eyes. ‘Well you’re not off to the bloody Antarctic, are you? You’re only g
oing a hundred yards. Just get on with it and stop being such a drama queen!’ See what I mean? Extremely droll…

  There is no sign of life at Miguel’s as I approach, so I slip inside Nigel’s and close the door. I am hoping to perform my tasks as silently as possible, to avoid rousing Crazy Man, obviously, but also not alerting the neighbours, if that is possible in this country, as technically I will be trespassing, in Miguel’s garden. Mind you, the Ancient Bill were not concerned at blatant breaking and entering, but you never know. This is not my country, so I am keen to escape the attention of the local constabulary. I figure that the wall is jointly owned, and that as Miguel’s is unoccupied, I am simply carrying out running repairs, to avoid further damage. That will form the basis of my defence anyway, should I fall foul of any laws. I intend mixing the mortar in Nigel’s garden, steps up to the wall, down the other side, bed in two courses of rocks, back up over the wall and away.