Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  “Patience is a virtue,” said Joe.

  He could be infuriatingly smug at times.

  Spiced Chicken Kebabs

  Pinchitos morunos de pollo

  These are wonderful served with pitta bread and yoghurt sauce. Simply stir together a teaspoon of chopped mint, one small tub of natural yoghurt, and a squirt of lemon juice.

  Ingredients (serves 2)

  One large chicken breast, cleaned & cut into chunks

  2 tbsp pinchitos spice mix (see below)

  1 tbsp olive oil

  Spice Mix:

  1 tsp sea salt

  1 tsp ground fenugreek

  1 tsp ground cumin

  1 tsp cayenne pepper

  1 tsp ground coriander

  ¼ tsp cinnamon

  1 tsp sweet smoked paprika

  1 tsp ground black pepper

  1 tsp dried oregano

  1 bay leaf

  1 tsp garlic granules

  ½ tsp dried yellow mustard

  1 tsp turmeric powder

  A pinch of ground Spanish saffron

  1 tsp ground ginger

  Method

  Mix 2 tbs of the spice mixture with olive oil to achieve a paste.

  Add the chicken chunks, mix well to coat & set aside to marinade (preferably overnight).

  Thread pieces chicken onto skewers & grill over BBQ or griddle pan.

  25

  SPELLBINDING STORIES

  Yes, patience is a virtue, but I was rather short of it that day. I was determined to hear the end of those delicious stories. Who was the body in the trunk? And what was down that secret passage in the French château?

  I tried once more.

  “Just popping in to make sure everything is okay,” I said casually.

  “Tony and me are nearly done here,” said Craig. “Just packing up the last of the breakables. These are nice. Are they heirlooms?”

  They were carefully wrapping up Great Aunt Elsa’s little glass vanity boxes and their silver lids.

  “Hey, Craig,” said Tony, “do you remember that former Miss World we packed for last year? These little boxes remind me of her stuff.”

  “Ah yes,” said Craig. “She was going to emigrate to America, wasn’t she? But she never got there. Sad story, that was. We couldn’t quite believe it. And all because of those heirlooms.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “And what about the body in the trunk? And the secret passage?” I was trying hard not to sound like a petulant child but probably not succeeding.

  “Oh, they are all good stories,” said Craig, “but we can’t hang around. Tell you what, we’ve finished now, and we’ve just got to ferry the boxes to our truck. After that, I’ll do the paperwork with your husband, and Tony can tell you those stories.”

  I was delighted.

  Joe handed over the car keys. The men loaded our little car and set off on the first of three trips to the lorry.

  “There, you see!” said Joe. “I told you to be patient. All good things come to those who wait.”

  This comment should have infuriated me as Joe is the least patient person on earth, but I ignored him. Soon I would hear the end of the stories.

  At last the job was done. Craig, holding a sheaf of papers, followed Joe into the kitchen, leaving me with Tony.

  “I love a good story,” I said. “Do sit down and have a rest. I’ve been dying to hear what happened to the beauty queen! Do tell!”

  “Ah,” said Tony, warming up. “That was an amazing tale, that was.” He perched on the arm of the couch. “We didn’t hear the whole story until it hit the international news headlines, but what happened was…”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Somebody was knocking on our door. I couldn’t believe it.

  I was tempted not to answer it, but the caller knocked again, harder. I sighed. Tony raised his eyebrows.

  “Vicky!” shouted Joe from the kitchen. “Are you going to answer that?”

  “Excuse me, Tony,” I said, and quickly made my way to the front door.

  On the doorstep stood Geronimo.

  “I was wondering if you needed any help with taking your boxes to the lorry,” he asked.

  “Hello, Geronimo, thank you very much, but no. That’s really kind of you, but the men have just finished.”

  Geronimo nodded and turned away down the street. I hurried back to Tony.

  “I’m so sorry about that. You were saying?”

  Before Tony could utter another word, somebody else knocked on the door.

  “Vicky! Door!” yelled Joe from the kitchen.

  “I know!” I said crossly.

  This time the mayor was standing on the doorstep.

  “Pancho,” I said, my heart dropping.

  “Beaky, how are you?”

  “Good, thank you. Very busy, I’m afraid…”

  Like a true politician, Pancho possessed skin as thick as rhino hide. He stepped forward, preparing to enter, even though I hadn’t invited him in. I blocked the doorway, preparing to close the door, desperate to return to Tony and his story.

  “Ah! Beaky!” said Pancho, stopping short but by no means put off. “There is something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Pancho, not now. I must go.”

  “Beaky, there is always time for a chat with good friends. You are looking a little tired.”

  “No! I’m fine! I…”

  “Perhaps I could persuade Joe to let me whisk you away for a little while?”

  “I’m afraid we’re much too busy,” I said. “I’m sorry, Pancho, I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “I understand, I understand,” said the mayor, winking at me theatrically. “Perhaps we could arrange a time later? It is not too late for a final English lesson. I could collect you and take you somewhere quiet where nobody will disturb us...”

  “Pancho, I have to go,” I said hurriedly.

  I’m ashamed to admit that I shut the door in his face.

  Tony had been watching the interchange.

  “I don’t know about my stories, but I bet you have some to tell yourself, living here in this village,” he said, laughing.

  “Um, yes, you’re quite right. Honestly, if anybody else knocks on the door, I’m not answering it. Please tell me about the beauty queen.”

  To my utter despair, before he could begin again, Craig and Joe returned, shaking hands. I was beginning to believe it was already written in the stars that I was destined never to hear Tony’s stories.

  “Well, we’ll be on our way, then,” said Craig to me. “All the papers have been signed and the company will make contact at your address in Australia. Come on, Tony, Mr Twead has kindly offered to give us a lift back to the lorry. We need to head off right now if we’re going to reach Malaga today.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” I said quickly, sensing a final lifeline. “I mean ride to your lorry, of course, not Malaga! Then Tony can quickly finish telling me his story in the car.”

  They all nodded. Then, just as we were walking out of the house, the phone rang.

  “You’d better get that, Vicky,” said Joe. “It’s bound to be for you. I’ll take Craig and Tony to their lorry.”

  With a cheery wave, the removal men left, taking their juicy stories with them for ever.

  The telephone call was a wrong number.

  The holiday month of August was drawing to a close. In September, families would leave El Hoyo to return to the cities and the children would go back to school. But first, preparations were underway for the wedding of Sofía and Alejandro Junior. I needed a haircut and ventured down the mountain to Maria’s salon in the city. It would cross another thing off my To Do list.

  Maria had looked after my hair for years, and I was disappointed to discover that her salon was closed for the day.

  Where to go? I didn’t want to waste the trip and recalled another hair salon down a side street nearby. Sure enough, it was exactly where I remembered. The windows looked a lit
tle dirty, but when I tried the door, it opened. A distant bell clanged somewhere, deep from within.

  The place was deserted and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw the corpses of long-dead flies on the counter. There was dust on the black vinyl salon chairs and the posters on the wall were tattered and faded. I should have walked out right then, but I dithered.

  “Buenos días,” whispered a voice at my elbow, making me jump. “Can I help you?”

  The owner of the voice must have been ducked behind the counter which was why I hadn’t noticed her.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” I said, “You gave me a fright! I’d just like a shampoo and trim, please.”

  The lady was probably in her late sixties, and her own hair was not a good advertisement for the salon. It was much greyer than mine, shoulder-length and stringy. It wasn’t styled in any way, hanging limply, a slave to gravity. She was wearing a shapeless black shift and black lace-up shoes, which I didn’t find unusual. Ladies in Spain don black and wear it for evermore when a close member of their family passes away.

  “Please sit down,” she whispered, brushing off a dusty chair with her hand.

  I decided it wasn’t her fault that she was missing her front teeth.

  She took a towel from a shelf and wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “Excuse me, we have no water at present,” she said. “I will get some.”

  She disappeared through a door at the back of the salon.

  No water? A hair salon with no water? I had never heard of such a thing. But in rural areas of Spain it was common to lose electricity for days, so why not water? She returned with a two-litre bottle of water.

  “Lean back,” she breathed, and I rested obediently back on the sink, aware that my throat was very exposed. I tried not to think of the story of Sweeney Todd. I couldn’t help smiling at my own silly thoughts.

  Thank goodness it was summer, because the cool water was quite refreshing. The wash, rinse, and conditioning process took a long time because my elderly stylist frequently shuffled off to collect more water. Silently, she worked away. The head massage she gave me, digging her bony fingers into my skull, was surprisingly invigorating. I tried not to focus on the large cracks in the ceiling.

  At last it was over and she led me to another dusty chair. Next she rummaged in drawers for scissors.

  “I will follow the cut you already have,” she said.

  I nodded, but she had already started.

  The mirror was as dusty as the chairs but I watched her reflection as she worked. Beginning slowly, she appeared to gather in confidence and was soon snipping away quite merrily. Snippets of my hair drifted to the floor.

  Next came the hairdryer which blew out a puff of white dust when it was first switched on. My hair is very fine and dries extremely quickly, so it didn’t take long.

  “It is finished,” she said, standing back.

  I examined myself in the dusty mirror, turning my head from side to side. She held up another mirror so I could inspect the back.

  “It looks good,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  The lady beamed, revealing her gums.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Nada,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

  “What? But I must pay you!”

  “No, I do not want to be paid.”

  “But I’m very pleased with my hair.”

  “No. No money. Es un regalo.” It is a gift.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I argued but she was adamant; she would accept no money.

  “Well, I’ll just leave this on the counter,” I said, laying down some notes. “Please put it in a charity box if you don’t want it.”

  I stopped off for a quick chat with Carmen on the way home. Her little house was cool, a welcome retreat from the sun. She admired my hair.

  “Did you go to Maria, as usual?” she asked.

  “No, Maria’s shop was closed. I went to that other little salon nearby.”

  “What other little salon?”

  “It’s just down the next side street.”

  “Which street, Calle Jaén?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “You must be mistaken. There is only Studio A in that street, and the young lady who owns that shut the shop at least a year ago. She and her mother used to live in the apartment above the salon. I don’t know if they still do.”

  “That’s it! I remember now, it was Studio A.”

  “No, it can’t be. That shop was repossessed by the bank and put up for sale. It was a very sad story. The old lady had mental problems, I believe, and her daughter could not cope with caring for her and running the salon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I passed it only the other day and it was all shut up tight. It is empty, and definitely for sale.”

  This was impossible. And yet…

  I told her about the dusty shop, the lack of water, and how the old lady refused to be paid. She listened, spellbound.

  We stared at each other.

  “¡Madre mía!” Carmen said at last.

  “So who did my hair? It can’t have been the deranged mother, surely?”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  Joe and I drove down Calle Jaén soon after, just out of interest. The salon looked just as dusty as when I’d seen it before, but now it had a big Se Vende sign stuck on the window. I jumped out of the car and tried the door handle. The door was firmly locked.

  That week was a busy one. Workmen arrived in vans and started to transform the village into a venue fit for the wedding of a millionaire’s grandson.

  The fiesta stage was erected in the square, and the shade trees were decorated with thousands of tiny white fairy lights woven through the branches. Wide white ribbon and giant bows were draped around the trunks of the trees. Lanterns hung from cables strung between posts. El Hoyo was almost ready for the biggest village wedding in its history.

  Pork and Chickpea Soup

  Puchero

  Being stew, this recipe works well with any meat. Add paprika or a pinch of crushed chillies for extra heat.

  Ingredients (serves 4)

  A stew pack of veg, or 3 carrots, 1 suede or turnip, and large onion

  2 large potatoes

  Half a white cabbage - sliced thickly

  A good bunch of fresh, roughly chopped spinach

  One litre (2 pints) of your favourite stock

  500g (16oz) of chickpeas (from a jar is best)

  500g (16oz) of diced pork

  One large chicken breast, diced

  A good glug of olive oil (not extra virgin)

  3 or 4 peeled and crushed garlic cloves

  Method

  Peel and dice all vegetables, except the spinach. Dice the same size so they cook evenly.

  In a large saucepan, pour a good glug of olive oil and heat gently. Throw in the meat and cook slowly until it starts to brown.

  Remove from the pan with a slotted spoon and add more oil.

  Add all the vegetables except the spinach and cook gently for about 5 minutes.

  Return the meat and mix well.

  Add the garlic and mix well.

  Rinse and drain the chickpeas before adding.

  Add the stock and spinach.

  Boil for 5 mins, then cover and simmer until the meat is tender.

  Add salt and black pepper to taste.

  Serve hot with fresh bread.

  26

  TWO BECOME ONE

  On the morning of the wedding, activity in the village escalated. Workmen arrived and set up tables in the square. These were dressed with white tablecloths, carefully pinned to prevent them from being blown away by the wind. Then white chairs were arranged round each one. The stage was draped in white fabric, adorned with flounces and bows that swept the ground.

  A truck filled with flowers drew up. A crew of ladies placed giant silver vases in all corners and another crew filled these with white flowers before disappea
ring into the church with armfuls of the same.

  “¡Madre mía!” said Marcia, whose windows and shop door overlooked the square. “It looks like a fairy town!”

  But she didn’t mind, and I noticed she’d placed a big vase of white chrysanthemums on her windowsill and another on the shop counter.

  The older Ufarte boys arrived to play football in the square and turned away, disgusted. Their pitch had been commandeered by the wedding preparations. In contrast, their sisters, the twins, watched enraptured as the square was transformed into a frothy white wonderland.

  Joe and I watched from the roof terrace. Spanish weddings often take place in the evening, and during that afternoon, unfamiliar cars began to wend their way down into the valley. Sometimes the lowering sun caught the windscreen of a car as it descended, causing a bright flash of light.

  “So much to do, so much to do,” I heard Carmen exclaim above the babble of voices pouring out of our neighbour’s house.

  “Pah!” shouted Paco. “At last our daughter has found a husband! We will open my wine. It is the best in the village. No, it is the best in Andalucía, and today is a good day to drink it!”

  Much cheering and hilarity ensued. Paco and Carmen’s little house was bursting at the seams with friends and family and I could imagine the chaos within. It would be a miracle if they all made it to the ceremony on time.

  As the sun began to sink, cars squeezed into every available parking space around the square and in the village. I looked at my watch.

  “Joe, are you ready?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  It’s never easy to separate Joe from his beloved shorts, but today I had insisted. I thought he looked very dashing in the clothes I had laid out for him.