The Reluctant Expat: Part Four - Settling Down

by Alan Laycock

  “Weeds?”

  “Yes. As far as I know he just works on his computer and spends the rest of the time cycling. The last time I saw him he said he’d soon be going to Tenerife to do some altitude training, the daft sod.”

  “Each to his own.”

  “Yes, but I mean, if he was young enough to become a pro cyclist I could understand it, but he’s forty-odd. Seems like he’s obsessive about it to me.”

  “He’s that kind of person.”

  “Hmm, but while he’s away, we’ll see what his wife gets up to.”

  I just raised my brows, me not being a great gossip.

  “Has Inma not said anything about her?” he asked.

  “Only that she’s a great cook.”

  “Well, do you remember that supposed ex-military man she’d been getting friendly with?”

  “You mentioned him once.”

  “Well… oh, I can’t be bothered talking about that. Ask Inma sometime. Let’s go to my field.”

  “Where’s your tractor?”

  “Spartacus is there, eager for action. He’s not road legal, remember, so I don’t bring him here much, as the Guardia Civil sometimes drop in for coffee and I can’t be sure they’ll turn a blind eye.”

  “That’s a shame, because it was your dream to drive down on the tractor to hang out with the other farmers, wasn’t it?” I said, pointing to a big green tractor with number plates.

  “Oh, I soon got over that, and the field’s not really going to take up much of my time, not for a while, anyway. I still nip over to help Jesús now and then, but he doesn’t really need me anymore. Nice grub though.”

  “You’ll have time to sell that then,” I said, pointing to Inma’s dusty old car.

  “Yes, leave it there. I’ll soon get shut of it.”

  “What do you think of this little beauty?” I said as I opened the Ibiza’s passenger door and ushered him in.

  “It’s all right. You know that new cars do nothing for me.”

  “Well Inma and I are very pleased with it.”

  “How many kilometres?”

  I told him.

  “Like new then. How much?”

  I told him.

  “A good buy, despite not consulting me. Come on.”

  We drove the two hundred yards to his field, which was roughly equidistant between the bar and the house.

  “Wow, Spartacus is looking really good,” I said, stroking the gleaming red paintwork.

  “Yes, and wait till you hear him.” He started it up. “What do you think?” he bellowed over the din.

  “Er, I can’t really hear the difference,” I bellowed back.

  “No tapping anymore, and look at the exhaust.”

  I observed the light-grey smoke belching out. “Yes, much better.”

  He turned the key, thank goodness. “Yes, his engine’s had a complete overhaul and he sounds as good as new.”

  “Are many of your farmer friends hard of hearing?”

  “Some, yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.” I turned to the field, still a stony mass of weeds stretching away between two ploughed fields of almond trees. I clicked my tongue a few times.

  “I know. My mate with the big tractor’s a bit busy now, but he’ll soon get round to it.”

  “Right. Oh, haven’t you got your own plough yet?”

  “Nearly. I’ve offered four hundred for one and I’m not budging.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Come on, Cathy’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Hello, stranger,” she said, not for the first time.

  “Nice tights.”

  “I’ve been doing my yoga,” she said, pointing to a mat between the sofa and the stove, which was glowing softly, most the vents being shut.

  “Is the firewood lasting?” I asked them.

  “Is it heck,” said Bern. “We’ve just ordered another ton. It gets bloody cold here, especially when it’s windy. How is it at the cave?”

  I tried not to smile too smugly. “Oh, it’s not too bad. We use the stove, but it soon gets too hot.” I shrugged. “That’s caves for you.”

  “Cool in summer and warm in winter,” Cathy said before I had chance to. “I’ve been reading one of the books you gave me.”

  “Oh, which one?”

  “Jekyll and Hyde.”

  “How is it?”

  “Not too difficult if I keep glancing at the English text. I’ll read the one with short stories next.”

  “I’ll buy you a couple more, unless you feel ready to tackle a normal Spanish novel.”

  “No way. Far too hard.”

  “What about you, Bern?”

  “What about me?”

  “Don’t you fancy having a go at a Spanish book?”

  “Us farmers aren’t that literate. We’re tied to the land, you see.”

  “Yes. Oh, shall we do a bit on the allotment?”

  “It’s weed free. It’s winter, remember. What are you going to do with your land?”

  I pictured the petrified almond trees which punctuated the two strips of land that were every bit as rocky and weed-infested as Bernie’s new field. I sighed.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll have a bright idea one day, but for now I’ll just leave it. I think I’m going to be a busy man,” I said, before telling them about the patio project which Juan was going to assist me with, plus the trips we hoped to make up north.

  “Ah, the north. We’re driving up there when the weather gets better,” said Bernie. “Seeing as we missed out last summer and went to bloody England instead.”

  “Because all the nice hotels up north were full,” said Cathy.

  I whipped out my phone. “Look at this.”

  “That’s a fine old bus,” Bernie said appreciatively.

  “A fine new bus. It’s Malcolm and Angela’s new motorhome, presently in the south, but soon to be placed in my care.”

  “It’s very swish,” said Cathy.

  “I have permission to use it. Do you fancy heading off on a trip in March?”

  “Yes,” said Bernie.

  “We might scratch it,” said Cathy.

  Bernie snorted scornfully. “Rubbish, I’ve never scratched a vehicle in my life. Name the day and we’ll be ready.”

  I prodded my phone, as it also possessed a high-tech calendar. “How about… Saturday the 17th of March?” I said, as Easter fell at the end of the month and Inma would have to work in the bar. “We’d better not go for more than a week, as I don’t want to abuse their generosity.”

  “They might want to use it then,” said Cathy.

  “I’ll ask them, and I’ll ask Inma. Where shall we go?”

  “North,” said Bernie.

  “South,” said Cathy. “It’ll still be too cold up north.”

  “We’ll be used to it by then. It’s your shout, Alan.”

  “And Inma’s, but I think south is best in March, don’t you?”

  “Hmm, maybe.”

  “And as long as we don’t scratch it we’ll be able to go north another time,” I said, wondering when that would be and hoping that Inma was wrong about Malcolm’s possible motives for lending me the van, though I was a free agent and he couldn’t oblige me to do anything I didn’t want to do, I hoped.

  “South then,” said Bernie. “I shan’t be planting my olive trees until later in the spring, so I can fit a trip in.”

  After a leisurely lunch I drove back to the bar and found it almost empty. Inma was talking to an elderly couple, while Randi was seated at the innermost table with a tall, erect man with wavy grey hair and a trim little moustache.

  “Is he the one?” I murmured in English when she was pouring my coffee.

  She frowned. “He’s her friend, yes. Don’t stare.”

  While she continued to chat to the couple I was able to subtly observe the two alleged lovebirds over the old man’s shoulder. He seemed to be doing most of the talking, in a voice as clipped as his ta
sh, while Randi gazed into his eyes in a friendly but not especially besotted way. He gesticulated quite a lot, almost as if he were directing traffic, while her hands lay primly crossed on the table. I could hear little of what they said, but it didn’t seem like they were planning to elope any time soon. On standing to leave he patted her hand just the once, before almost catching me spying, so briskly did he turn around and march out, looking neither right nor left. I heard his car – presumably the black Mercedes coupé I’d parked next to – give a throaty roar and speed away, upon which Randi stood up, bid us a cheery farewell, and sauntered out.

  A minute or so later I decided I needed a breath of fresh air, so I strolled outside and, lo and behold, at the end of the street there was the Mercedes, with two human forms just visible through the small rear window. On heading back inside I crossed paths with the elderly couple and as I strolled insouciantly up to the bar I was met with a stern and slightly ironical look.

  “What?” I said.

  She slid a small notepad and a pen towards me.

  “What?”

  “Are you not going to jot down your findings?”

  “Oh…”

  She chuckled. “You’d never make a private detective.”

  “What’s going on with those two? You never tell me anything.”

  “Because I’m not a gossip.”

  “Nor am I, but… but I feel bad for Arvid.”

  “Rubbish, you don’t even like him.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “Er, I don’t know.”

  “We must live and let live, Alan,” she said, looking at her watch.

  “Is 5.25 still Juan Antonio’s time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve got five minutes to spill the beans.”

  “To spill what?”

  “Er… to tell me what they’re up to. I know you won’t tell me at home, so tell me now.”

  She sighed, but didn’t grasp my hand as I hoped she might. “It’s a free country, Alan, but if you must know, he often comes for coffee, pretends to leave alone, then they drive off somewhere, probably to his chalet, a couple of kilometres from here. That’s all there is to tell.”

  “Who is he?” I said, my eyes mere slits, as I wasn’t going to be fobbed off so easily.

  She sighed again. “He’s called Jaime. He was a captain in the army. He’s fifty-two, divorced, is renting a big chalet and has inherited quite a lot of money, or so Juan Antonio says, as he’s the only one who has dared to quiz him.”

  “Dared to quiz him?”

  “He’s quite aloof. He’s polite enough, but he rarely speaks to anyone except Randi. I think Juan Antonio got him talking about bullfighting and then began to pry.”

  “Arvid has guns, you know?”

  “He might have some too.”

  “Ha, then there’ll be a gunfight, probably here,” I said, before crouching and shooting at her over the bar with appropriate sound effects.

  “Been drinking, has he?” said Juan Antonio from the door as I fired my last bullet.

  “No, just being childish,” she said.

  I blew on the barrel and holstered my gun.

  “I’ve just seen his Mercedes on the road,” he said.

  “Ooh, where were–”

  “No! I won’t have stupid gossip in my bar,” Inma said so fiercely that only I knew, or hoped, that it was an act.

  We both mumbled apologies and, while she tidied up, spoke of trivial matters in hushed, chastised tones. When Rosa arrived we set off home.

  “Yes, I’m sure Rosa won’t mind me having that week off,” Inma said when I’d apprised her of our proposed trip to the south.

  I didn’t mention Randi to her again, and she won’t feature for a while, but I assure you there’s a reason why I’m keeping you in the loop, in case you think I’m just a chronic busybody.

  8

  Fearful of bogging myself down in a mire of building bulletins, I’m going to speed things along a bit and relate only briefly the events prior to the Hymer’s second journey to the south. After their enjoyable trip to the Malaga coast, Malcolm and Angela had yet to set foot in Spain again, taking a February holiday in Cuba instead, as variety is the spice of life, especially if you’ve got pots of money.

  When the Manchegos finished their gruelling six-week stint, the house was well on the way to becoming a hotel. After they’d gone – next stop Benidorm – the plumbers and electricians came in, and Cristóbal’s team continued to work eleven-hour shifts, five or six days a week. By the time we set off in the Hymer I was able to tell Malcolm that only an earthquake or the Black Death would prevent them from finishing on time.

  “Well make sure that neither of those things happen, Alan,” was his droll response.

  During a sunny week in late February Juan and I created the steps and patio. I began the job as a mere labourer, but by the end of it I liked to think of myself as a semi-skilled workman, as he’d allowed me to tile half of the patio and even a few steps, under his ever-watchful eye. The railings were easy enough to erect and Inma was delighted with our new rooftop haven which boasted much better views than the yard in front of the cave. As I didn’t consider us to be a charitable concern, I broached the subject of payment over a delicious seafood paella that Inma made after the last tile had been laid.

  “Pay me? For what? I was just helping out,” Juan said, waving a prawn in the air.

  “For a whole week. You must accept something,” said Inma.

  “I’ll accept your husband’s help next week then, as we’re driving to Vitoria and back.”

  “All right, but that’ll be a favour too,” I said, waving a mussel shell.

  “You’re on. I’ll pick you up on Monday at six.”

  “At six? It’s not so far, is it?”

  He smiled. “We’ll take our time. You want to see the north, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  On Monday we set of in the dark and by sunrise we’d passed Albacete and were eating up the miles towards Madrid.

  “When you get tired I’ll drive for a bit,” I said, but he pressed on for another hour before we stopped to refuel ourselves and the van. I then took the wheel and he navigated the tricky bit around the east of Madrid, after which I suggested a more leisurely break.

  “When we get to the north,” he said, so I drove on through mostly flat country until he allowed me to pull off the motorway at Aranda del Duero, in the province of Burgos and a little over five hundred kilometres from home.

  “It’s gone cloudy,” I said as I drove along a flat road lined with warehouses.

  “That’s because we’ve reached the north. Look how green it is. Aranda will give you a taste of what the north is like.”

  The blocks of flats on the outskirts were slightly more stylish than those in the south, but it wasn’t until we’d crossed the tree-lined River Duero and entered the casco viejo, or old town, that I got my first real taste of northern architecture.

  “This is the Plaza Mayor,” he said after guiding me along a strangely quiet street.

  “Wow, it’s beautiful,” I said, marvelling at the old two and three-storey buildings, many with pretty arches, around the large, traffic-free square.

  “Most towns and cities in the north have squares like this. You get used to them after a while. Now you’d better reverse, as we’re not supposed to be here.”

  I chose that opportune moment to relinquish the wheel, and before I knew it we were back in the modern suburbs.

  “Are we not stopping to look around?”

  “Not here. You can always come back another time.”

  “All right.”

  “Burgos is too big a place to stop for lunch,” he said a while later when the city came into view on the plain. “But if you like Aranda, you’ll love it. Great cathedral and… other things.”

  Conscious that I was on a work trip, I didn’t demur, but I did point out that I was rath
er hungry.

  “Me too.” He looked at his watch. “We can start to take it easy now. We’ll stop at another nice town, on a bigger river.”

  Thus it was that at three o’clock I found myself finally eating in a cheap restaurant near the fine Plaza de España in the town of Miranda del Ebro. Apart from speaking slightly more clearly, the people seemed much the same as down south. I mentioned this to Juan.

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve read that people are jolly and carefree in the south, and staid and sober in the north.”

  “Are people jolly and carefree in Vicente’s bar?”

  “Er, not really. I suppose the south really means Andalucía.”

  “Hmm, but don’t expect to see too many people like your friend Arturo down there either. Folk are much the same everywhere, I’ve found. It’s the greenery and the buildings that are so different in the north, and the weather.”

  “Yes,” I said, looking out at the ominously dark sky.

  “I’m surprised it hasn’t rained yet. It always rains when I come north, unless it snows, but it’s mild today.” He knocked back his coffee. “Come on, we’ll be in the Basque Country in no time.”

  No sooner had we crossed the border and reached hillier country than the heavens opened, so it wasn’t just the scenery that reminded me of England. I’d hoped to visit the city of Vitoria (Gasteiz to the Basques), but Juan said it was far too busy a place to bother with in the rain, and as his friend lived in a nearby village we’d be better off going straight there. Enrique, Juan’s pal, and his Basque wife, Aroa, were friendly and hospitable and she cooked us a tasty stew with broad beans, followed by lamb chops. I’d like to report a joyous evening of sparkling conversation, but Juan and I were tired out after our early start and hit the sack at about ten.

  We set off at half past six, in the rain, and loaded the van at a warehouse on the outskirts of Vitoria. The journey back was awful, not so much the dreary motorway trip past Zaragoza and Teruel, which was bad enough, but the endless trundling around the industrial estates of Valencia, Alicante and Murcia, where we dropped off Enrique’s goods, before arriving home completely shattered at ten in the evening.