Two Old Fools in Spain Again (4 page)
Experiencing sunshine for the first time
An hour later, the chickens had visibly relaxed. They still moved in a huddle, but they’d found the water and feeder and some were even scratching the ground a little and pecking the soil.
Regalo was beside herself with excitement. She ran at them, exerting her authority, trying to boss them about. But there were too many of them and the new girls were too confused to react, so she eventually gave up and simply accepted them.
Serena, Venus and Sick-Note
We called the two beautiful black ones Serena and Venus and the one with the cough, Sick-Note. Hens bought from the chicken shop often had coughs but we weren’t unduly worried as plenty of fresh air, good food and exercise usually cured them. Hopefully, Sick-Note would thrive in her new, healthy environment.
“What shall we call the others?” asked Joe.
The brown hens were identical, we couldn’t tell them apart.
“How about calling them One, Two and Three?”
“How do we know which is which?”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it? Perhaps when their characters develop a bit we’ll know which is which.”
“Okay and when Sick-Note loses her cough, she can be Four.”
That night, when the shadows grew longer and the sun sank out of sight behind the mountains, the newcomers piled on top of each other, pressed into one uncomfortable corner of the coop. Regalo peered down at them curiously from her high roosting perch, head on one side. I doubted that the new hens had the strength to climb up to join her.
As the summer days passed, the new girls gained in strength and confidence. First one hen, then another, followed Regalo’s bedtime routine, until finally even Sick-Note began to spend her nights on the roosting perch. There was a better roost undercover, but Regalo, being Top Hen, led by example and they all slept outside. Each night they would all busily check out alternate roosting places, but always ended up with Regalo, outside, under the stars.
The new girls were settling well and their vocal range expanded. Before, they were either completely silent, or fired off alarm calls at the slightest sound or sight, even at a sparrow perching on the wire, eyeing their feeder longingly. Now they chatted and clucked and I knew we’d soon hear the raucous Egg Song, the triumphant announcement to the world that an egg had been laid. Following Regalo’s example, they dust-bathed, purring with enjoyment as they flung dirt all over themselves, then stood and rattled their feathers clean.
No longer did they shriek in fright and run away when we fed them, but gradually learned to crowd around our feet, necks craning up to see what might be in the treat box. They even ignored Sylvia and Gravy, the two village cats that always hung around our garden. Sylvia and Gravy showed no interest in the chickens either.
One day, Gravy disappeared.
“What happened to your sister?” I asked Sylvia.
I never understood why village cats would sometimes vanish. Had they been poisoned? Shot? Or did they move to pastures new? Gravy was only three or four years old, so it wasn’t old age that claimed her. The ruling tomcat of the time, a huge, battle-scarred Siamese with a face as wide as his body and almost flat ears, disappeared at the same time. I suspect they were culled, but I prefer to think that they eloped.
It was the chickens who alerted me to the new arrivals. Already well-used to Sylvia and Gravy, they didn’t panic at the sight of them, but squawked alarm calls at the arrival of two new cats, jumping down from our wall into the garden.
I watched. They were just kittens and Sylvia was leading the way, encouraging them to sample the delights of our garden. We weren’t sure if Sylvia had produced a litter this year, although we’d guessed. When she snatched a scrap of meat and bolted away with it over the garden wall, I suspected she was taking it to a litter of kittens stashed away somewhere.
The two new kittens soon made themselves at home. One was a tabby, like his missing Aunt Gravy and the other was black and white, complete with white face and comical black Hitler moustache. The black and white one turned out to be female, so we named her Felicity. Her tabby brother we named Snitch.
As more animals roamed our garden, unfortunately, more creepy crawlies were invading our house. We needed to wage war on strange insects that we had never encountered before.
4. The Grand Opening
J
oe and I were looking forward to the opening of the new village bar, but a new problem was occupying our minds at the moment. Moths.
Little brown moths fluttered all over the house and settled quietly on every available surface. They billowed in clouds from folds in towels and from clothes hanging in our wardrobes. They crawled up wall tiles and flitted irritatingly in front of our faces.
We simply couldn’t understand where they were coming from. They weren’t difficult to catch or exterminate, but for every two or three we disposed of, five more would take their place. I thought most moths were nocturnal, but these individuals seemed as active during the day as they were by night. Bright lights didn’t particularly attract them, although they seemed drawn to the TV screen when it was switched on, crawling up slowly, obscuring our view.
The phone rang, taking our minds off moths momentarily. Joe, for some unknown reason, has an aversion to picking up the phone when it rings. He will find any excuse not to do so.
“I’m just going to fill the chicken feeder,” he said.
I nodded and lifted the receiver. I could hear loud barking and I didn’t need to guess who was on the other end.
“Good heavens, you wretched, flea-bitten critters! Dogs, be QUIET!”
“Judith, is that you?” I asked, smiling to myself.
Our English friend Judith still lived in the next village with her ancient mother and pack of rescue dogs. She was determined never to have more than nine. Having nine, she named the tenth, Half, so she could report having nine and a half when asked how many she had. When she adopted the eleventh dog, she called it Invisible.
“Bloody dogs! Pipe down! Yes, Vicky, it’s me, you must be psychic!”
I let that one go.
“How’s Mother?” I asked.
“Oh, you know, getting older but as badly behaved as ever, m’dear.”
“Oh, good. And the dogs?”
“Taken on another one, dear girl!”
“Really? Don’t tell me... You now have nine and a half and one that’s invisible. So what’s the new one called?”
Judith chuckled. “It’s a white one, dear thing. We’ve called him Ghost.”
“Well, that’s okay then, you still don’t have ten dogs.”
Judith chortled, breaking off to shout at the dogs again before resuming our conversation. Phone calls from Judith were always difficult with the hounds baying in the background.
“Just giving you a tinkle to find out if you’re going to the bar opening next weekend.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Jolly good! Haven’t seen each other for yonks! We’ll be able to do a spot of catching up!”
“That’ll be...”
“God’s teeth! Must go, dear,” she said, cutting me short. “Looks like Half has found Mother’s organic beef and mushroom pie...”
The phone was slammed down and the line went dead.
“Who was on the phone?” asked Joe, returning from outside.
“Oh, just Judith.”
But he wasn’t listening.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said, scratching himself down below. “I know where those blasted moths are coming from. Come with me.”
I followed him obediently into the workshop. We kept the chicken grain in a large plastic dustbin and Joe gingerly lifted the lid. A cloud of moths floated out.
“Look inside,” he said.
I hardly needed to but I did. The seed was alive with moths. They crawled in waves over each other and up the sides of the bin.
“So, this is where they’re hatching...” I said, nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Yep. What shall we do with it?”
“Well, chickens eat everything, insects, worms, I don’t think it’ll do them any harm. Probably add protein to their diet.”
“What, we empty the whole lot into their coop?”
I considered. Looking around the workshop, I could see moths everywhere. Cobwebs were bowed down with their weight and moths crawled on the workbench and up the walls.
“No, I think we need to get rid of it.”
Together, we heaved the dustbin onto the wheelbarrow. Joe wheeled it down the garden and out of the back gate, heading for a patch of waste ground beside the cemetery. Joe tipped it out and unsnapped the lid, allowing the seed to spill out into a big pile. Some moths took flight, whilst thousands of others began crawling away into the undergrowth.
Back in the garden, I hosed the dustbin out and sprayed the inside of the workshop liberally with pesticide. Sparrows were already flocking to the seed pile, chirruping with delight. I imagine the story of that free feast of moths and seed became a sparrow legend to be passed down to future generations. Within 24 hours, not a seed or moth remained.
Gradually, we stopped seeing moths in the house and hoped that was the end of the problem.
As the day of the Grand Opening drew near, the village prepared. Strings of coloured lights, normally reserved for the annual fiesta and Christmas, were looped round the square. Extra lights were hung in the trees and the old stage erected. Trestle tables were put up and some ancient benches were brought out, providing extra seating space.
On the day of the event, we wandered down to the square. It was a beautiful evening, warm and clear. Bats spiralled round the lampposts above the parked cars and the coloured lights glowed brightly against the darkening sky. People filled the square and crowded around the new bar, with its shiny tables and chairs set out for the first time. Adults sipped from plastic glasses of beer, while small children and dogs weaved through the forest of legs.
“I want to stay in the background,” I said to Joe. “You know how embarrassing the mayor can be, singling me out.”
Joe nodded.
“Let’s just stand at the back here and watch,” he said. “I’m surprised how many people there are. That stage is beginning to look a bit rickety though.”
I followed his gaze and could only agree. The legs supporting the stage were rusty and worn. Not only the stage, but the temporary seating looked antiquated too. Wooden planks had been provided for people to sit on and these were balanced on wobbly-looking trestle supports.
“I can’t see Judith and Mother yet,” I remarked.
“A drink for you,” said a village lady passing with a tray.
We thanked her and accepted the glasses. We didn’t sit, but stood under a tree, people-watching, listening to the hum of conversation and looking at the scene.
Our neighbours, Paco and Carmen, sat at one of the round bar tables with their daughter Sofía and her boyfriend, Alejandro Junior. Another couple sat at the same table and an elderly man completed the party.
“Who are those people sitting with Paco and Carmen?” I asked Joe, nodding in the direction of the bar.
“I’m guessing, but I reckon they’re Sofía’s boyfriend’s parents. I can see a family resemblance and I bet the old man is the boyfriend’s grandfather.”
I agreed with Joe and stared at them all with interest. So this was the millionaire family? They were nicely dressed, as was everyone at the gathering, but they didn’t look any different from anyone else. Paco, Alejandro and the old man were deep in conversation, while Alejandro’s wife chatted with Carmen. Alejandro Junior and Sofía had eyes only for each other.
The Spanish practice of keeping the same names in the family always confused me, so I mentally called them Alejandro Junior, Alejandro and Alejandro Senior.
The Ufarte family were seated at the next table. Mama Ufarte had her smallest son on her lap and was smiling, trying to stop his chubby little hands reaching for the glasses on the table.
Beside her sat Papa Ufarte, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched long under the table. Grey-haired Granny Ufarte dozed in the next chair, oblivious to her surroundings.
The twins, noisily sucking at the straws stuck in their Coca Cola bottles, shared a chair, their glossy black hair glinting orange from the artificial lights.
Lola Ufarte, dressed in a scanty top that accentuated all her curves, sat still, a little smile playing over her lips. When the crowd parted momentarily, I understood why she was smiling. Under the table, Papa Ufarte’s foot caressed hers.
I sighed, but a familiar, nasal voice broke into my thoughts.
“Ah, Beaky and Joe! What do you think of our grand opening?”
With the Andalucian accent that turned a ‘V’ into a ‘B’ and Pancho’s way of talking through his hooked nose, I would always be Beaky to him.
“Hello, Pancho,” said Joe and shook the mayor’s hand. “It’s a good turnout, isn’t it?”
“The new building looks very nice,” I said. I stepped back and stood very close to Joe, having had to escape the mayor’s attentions in the past. “I’m very pleased it could finally be finished, I know how Spain is struggling with money at the moment.”
“We were lucky,” Pancho explained. “We had help from some private sources. If it had not been for benefactors like
el Señor
Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez, I do not believe the building would be open today.”
“
El Señor
Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez?”
Pancho turned slightly, throwing his hooked nose into profile. He flapped his hand in the direction of the bar.
“The Rodríguez family is sitting at the table with your neighbours. The old man is very generous. He is nearly eighty years old, but he never forgets he grew up in El Hoyo.”
Ah, so I was right. The old man was Alejandro Junior’s grandfather, another Alejandro.
“There’s Judith and Mother,” Joe broke in. “I must go and help them, excuse me.”
He strode off, calling and waving to attract their attention, leaving me alone with the mayor.
How could you leave me on my own with Pancho?
“Beaky,” said Pancho in a low voice, his eyes boring into mine. “Beaky, if you ever want a, err ... private chat with me, I have a very nice room in the Town Hall.”
I stared back at him, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt.
“Thank you,” I said grimly, deliberately misunderstanding his words. “Joe and I don’t have any problems, but if we do, we’ll come and see you.”
By now, a group was gathering on the stage and people were drifting over, some sitting on the wobbly benches, others standing in clusters, waiting for the speech to begin.
“I will see you later, Beaky,” said Pancho. “Now I must make my speech, but perhaps we can arrange to meet? You could give me some lessons in English,
no
?”
No, I thought, but was saved from answering by a lucky incident. Two dogs hurtled past, followed by Paco’s young dog, Yukky, in panting hot pursuit, almost knocking the mayor off his feet. I managed to escape before he could collect himself.
“Has that dreadful old sleaze-bag been bothering you again?” boomed Judith, appearing at my side.
“Judith! Mother! How are you both?” I turned to greet them.
Mother looked amazing as usual. Few people would have guessed she was in her nineties. Needing very little support from Joe and Judith, she stood straight and tall, her white gloves resting lightly on their arms. Today she wore cornflower blue and her clutch bag and court shoes matched perfectly. Tiny blue enamel cornflowers decorated her ears and her silver hair was caught up into a sophisticated chignon.
“Mother, you look wonderful,” I said, kissing her papery cheek, sniffing the familiar smell of Chanel No.5.
“Thank you, dear,” she smiled.
“Mother, we’re going to find you a seat,” announced Judith, taking charge. “Let’s get you sat down before the wretched speeches start. Goodness knows how long they’ll be and I don’t want you standing.”
We walked to the front as a group, but only just in time. The makeshift benches were already mostly occupied by elderly villagers and finding a place for Mother to sit would be difficult.
“Excuse me,” said Judith, addressing a grey-haired gentleman in Spanish. “Is this place free? My mother needs to sit down.”
To my surprise, I recognised the elderly man. It was Alejandro Senior, the millionaire benefactor, Alejandro Junior’s grandfather. He glanced up, his eyes widening when he saw Mother.
“Of course,” he said, standing courteously, allowing Mother to settle herself. He bowed over her hand. “I am Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez and I am enchanted to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” purred Mother and I caught a wicked look in her eye.
“Now, tell me what you’ve been up to,” said Judith, turning back to Joe and me, satisfied that Mother was comfortable.
We chatted until the mayor addressed the crowd, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see Alejandro Senior and Mother. Judging by their body language, I could see they were enjoying each other’s company enormously.
All went well with the speeches and Pancho’s voice droned on. The adults listened but the kids continued to play and the dogs barked.
“...and without your very good friend and mine,” Pancho was saying, “without Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez, our wonderful new community building would not have been possible.” The mayor, scanned the crowd for Alejandro. “Alejandro? Where is Alejandro?”
Alejandro Senior had been so captivated by Mother, he hadn’t been paying attention. Mother’s gloved fingers tapped him lightly on the arm, indicating the stage. Alejandro tore his eyes from her to look at the mayor.
Realising he was being called, he raised an arm and rose to his feet to an explosion of applause from the villagers.
Unfortunately, the sudden noise had an unexpected effect.