by Alan Laycock
“Ah, Alan.”
“Inma wants to know if you’re absolutely sure that you want Zefe to come to stay with you. If you’re not sure, she suggests that you don’t allow him to stay for a single night,” I said, before closely observing his reaction as she’d instructed me to.
“Oh, in principle I’m happy for him to come here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then please show me the bedroom.”
He led me up the dusty stairs and into the dusty room which was full of old books, files, papers, miscellaneous plastic bags and, scarcely discernible, a few sticks of furniture.
“Is there another spare room?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see it.”
It was much the same.
“Right, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, before toddling home.
Inma’s plan was simple enough and I executed it with Álvaro’s help the following afternoon. Within two hours we’d moved all his stuff into the other spare bedroom – which now looked like a clinically certified hoarder’s pad – and thoroughly cleaned Zefe’s room, including the single bed, chair, small table and enormous wardrobe. As the mattress was a filthy, lumpy monstrosity we carried it to the rubbish bins, before fetching the spare one from the annex.
“This is identical to the one he’s been so happy sleeping on, so he should feel at home,” I said once we’d plonked it onto the stout bed frame.
“Yes.”
“But we’d like it back, eventually.”
“Of course.” He inhaled vigorously. “It’s amazing how different the room looks and smells. So large, so airy, so… different,” he said as he paced around.
“Most rooms look more like this one than your other rooms, Álvaro. You ought to think about having a really good clear out, you know.”
“Yes, I might.”
“So what’s the plan regarding Zefe then?”
“Well, rather than driving him up to the annex on Monday, I’ll surprise him by bringing him here and showing him the room. That’s the first step. I’ll have to see if he takes to it.”
“Like an old tiger in a new zoo,” I thought aloud.
“Ha, yes.”
I pictured Zefe prowling around, prodding the tiles with his paw, I mean stick. I shuffled around and found only one loose, right in the corner.
“And if he does take to it?” I said.
He shrugged and a smile played on his lips. “Then he can stay.”
“You ought to take him back to town after a few days though.”
He stroked his wispy grey beard. “We’ll see. Thank you, Alan, and please thank Inma for me, as you’ve been a great help in turning our idea into reality.”
“I’ll see you both next week then,” I said, and after shaking his hand I scuttled up to the annex, where I collected Zefe’s things and left them on the table. All being well, the annex will be ours once more, I hoped, tapping the door after I’d locked it.
It rained on Sunday night, and the next day when Bernie called to tell me that he was preparing his field for planting, I downed tools and drove over. The hotel was all but finished and Arturo and I had been cleaning up, so as I trundled along the lane with the smell of moist earth wafting in through the window, I decided to bill Cristóbal for my invaluable labours and leave the other bits and bats to the regular lads. Apart from a couple of relatively minor jobs, the grouchy builder had nothing lined up and had been pestering me to persuade Malcolm to build a house and/or find him some more rich foreigners. Angela now had a total of eight people for her inaugural course and doubted that many more would sign up, but Malcolm, with whom I’d played pitch and putt twice since our trip to the proper course, seemed serenely optimistic about the success of his wife’s debut as a patron of the arts, so I suspected he had something up his sleeve.
For some reason I’d expected Bernie’s field to be a hive of activity, but apart from the man himself, I saw only one of his pals from the bar. There was a curious trailer attached to Spartacus, who was positioned in the middle of the field. After jovial greetings Bernie explained that they were digging holes at seven-metre intervals – having measured each row and stuck in canes the previous day – and filling them with water from the tank in the trailer.
“I thought you might like to be present on this monumental occasion,” he said.
“Yes, where are the trees?”
“The Garden of Eden wasn’t planted in a day, Alan,” he said, before switching to Spanish. “Today the holes, tomorrow the trees I get cheap from garden centre.”
“This headstrong one should be planting almond trees,” said the dark, wiry, weathered but extremely fit man in his sixties who was digging holes very quickly, before bending from the waist to scoop out the loose bits of earth.
“In five years you and me talk, Félix,” said Bernie, before filling a bucket from the tank, emptying it into the hole and handing it to me.
So it was that the three of us prepared the field for the following day, when I drove over to help them plant fifty-six tiny olive trees – seven rows of eight – and water them again, after which his friend shook our hands and trundled off in his Berlingo van, which reminded me of Jesús, but first I asked Bernie if he’d paid his pal anything.
“What? Of course not. Us agricultores help each other out. We’re like a band of brothers. When he needs help I’ll be there like a shot.”
“Have you seen Jesús lately?”
“Not for a while, but I called him last week. He’s got the all clear from the doctors, but he’s convinced that the disease is still lurking.”
“I suppose it’s a good thing to be mentally prepared, in case it returns.”
“Hmm, a good thing for him perhaps, but not for others, as he still won’t drop the subject. He told me he was barred from the bar for three days. Vicente ordered him to go home and reflect on the error of his ways and only come back if he promised to stop prodding and worrying folk. That’s the gist of what he said, anyway. Have you not been to the bar then?”
“Not for a while. I never seem to find the time, although it’d be easy enough to pop in. I must call Juan though, as he’s my only real friend there, apart from Vicente himself, but he’s usually surrounded by cronies, so you can never have a proper conversation with him.” I sighed. “I’m not really a bar person.”
“I am, so let’s go to your missus’s place for a bite to eat.”
“Where’s Cathy?”
“There.” He pointed towards the track. “She’s coming to inspect her investment.”
I discerned a colourful, fast-moving figure. “What’s she wearing?”
“Lycra, I’m afraid. Her yoga’s led to a general fitness drive, and a diet, which is why we’re having lunch in the bar. I haven’t eaten meat for two days.”
My sister has always been quite large, but she was looking pretty firm under her skin-tight gear. We strolled over to meet her and I kissed her flushed cheek.
“Been jogging?” I asked.
“No, power walking. Well, the trees look very nice, though I thought they’d be bigger.”
“This place is a goldmine, love. Not for nothing do they call olive oil oro líquido here.”
“Liquid gold, yes, and it’s very healthy too.”
After enquiring after Inma she powered back towards the house to eat her hummus and salad. That afternoon she would see Doña Elena and then do her yoga, before going for a healthy drink with her classmates, Bernie told me as we walked to the bar.
“It sounds like you’re each doing your own thing a lot.” I chuckled. “You’re not growing apart, are you?”
“No, and it’s best not to be under each other’s feet all the time. There are a lot of hours in the day when you’re retired. It takes some getting used to at first, but we’re both pretty busy now. Oh, how’s your plot coming along?”
“Er, I dug it over and watered it,” I said, not having done anything since then.
“Thanks, I’ll plant them later.”
“I’ve plenty of seeds too.”
“I’ll plant some then.”
“Then give it all a thorough watering.”
“Yes.”
“Ha, I can tell you haven’t got the bug yet, but you will.”
“I hope so.”
Over lunch I told him about another bug that Malcolm hoped I’d catch.
“Golf, eh? I never took to it myself.”
“Malcolm says that all real men get hooked on golf once they’ve given it a go.”
“Well I didn’t. It seemed like a daft way to spend a morning to me, chasing a little ball around. All right for folk with nothing better to do, I suppose.”
“I just play the odd game of pitch and putt now, to keep Malcolm company, you know.”
“Yes, you should keep well in with that one. He really is a goldmine.”
On the subject of the hotel he concurred with the big man, saying that though it was a fine place, he doubted that many people would stay.
“Why go there when there are so many interesting and beautiful places to visit? No, those arty courses are their only hope, and I have my doubts about them too. What will your job be?”
“I’ve no idea. There’ll be so many members of staff that I don’t really see what I can do.”
Bernie gnawed at a pork chop, clearly deep in thought.
“Any suggestions?”
He smacked his lips and wiped them. “As things stand you’re in danger of becoming superfluous from the word go.”
“I know.”
“I can picture you standing there like a spare part, grinning inanely and fidgeting about.”
I told him I shared this vision.
“Carrying easels and paint pots and whatnot, and them thinking you’re some kind of poor relation drafted in to lend a hand.”
“Yes.”
“Standing behind them and complimenting their crappy paintings till they tell you to sod off.”
“Yes.”
“Beaming at them at lunch and wondering what to say.”
“Yes, all right, Bernie, I get the picture. What do you suggest?”
He nodded slowly. “I’ll just eat this last chop. Brain food, you see.”
While he savaged the chop I put my own thinking cap on and imagined how the course members would spend their days. Breakfast, class, practice, lunch, rest, class, practice, stroll, dinner, bed was all I came up with at first, but I swear I was beginning to think along the same lines as Bernie when he finally pushed away his plate.
“They’ll want to get out and about,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” I enthused. “They’ll want to go… somewhere, sometime.”
“Exactly, and that’s where you come in.”
“Yes, yes… er, how?”
“You take them.”
“Yes. Where?”
“Oh, up the Carche,” he said, referring to a highish mountain a few miles to the east. “Or even to the Sierra de la Pila,” he added, that being another mountainous area to the south of his house, the place, in fact, where I came a cropper on my mountain bike.
“In my Clio?”
“Course not, you chump. You’ll need a minibus… no, too rough for that… a 4×4 with plenty of seats.”
I pictured the depleted cornflakes box. “I can’t afford to buy one of those.”
“Sell some coins.”
I pictured my most precious coins and shook my head. “No, I’m not prepared to take such a risk, even assuming Angela agrees with the idea.”
“Wimp. If you set up on your own your golf partner would give you a contract, and others might too. You could take folk round the bodegas as well, and… on longer trips to... other pretty places.”
“You’re starting to sound doubtful, Bern.”
He scratched his head. “Well, there are tons more picturesque places in Spain, I suppose. You’d have to set up a business too, which is risky here, as if you don’t work you still have to cough up every month. No, you’ll have to go for Plan B, which is much simpler.”
“Yes. What is it?”
He sighed. “Can you not guess?”
“Er, for Malcolm and Angela to buy the vehicle,” I said, quick as a flash.
“That’s right.”
“I’ll drive over afterwards and put it to them.”
“No, put it to Malcolm when you’re playing golf, just after he’s done a good shot.”
“I will. Thanks, Bernie. If he agrees, I can be the official driver and take them up all those mountain tracks. They’ll like that and I won’t feel like a spare part.”
Just then Randi stepped behind the bar to ask Inma something, before waving and returning to the kitchen.
“Any more gossip on the Randi front?” I murmured.
“Not really. According to Juan Antonio she’s still dallying with the military man, but even when Arvid went to Tenerife to do his altitude training there was no change in their usual pattern.”
“Which is?”
“Coffee here, he leaves, she follows, they go off in his car, presumably to his house, then she walks home. The shit’ll hit the fan sooner or later though.”
“Or their affair might just fizzle out.”
“It might. Right, a quick coffee, then back to get your plants.”
The first thing I did on returning home with my instant allotment in the boot was to knock on the annex door. Receiving no reply, I unlocked it and saw that Zefe had taken his belongings, so all was going to plan, touch wood, and the old scallywag would soon inform me of his move. I then planted a row of tiny tomato plants, another of peppers, some spinach and melon seeds, and I also stuck in a few small onions that I found in the pantry. After thoroughly watering the whole plot with the hose, I went for a well-deserved shower, feeling a tiny bit more attached to the land.
18
On the second of May, the first being a holiday, the hotel was a veritable hive of activity, as all but one member of staff had been called in. They were sixteen strong in the end, Gerardo having decided that he could make do without an assistant manager for the time being, as he intended to turn up every day until things were running smoothly. Sara, the shy girl who Angela and I had interviewed, had great potential, he said, and would be his right-hand woman. He’d also made do with only two kitchen assistants because he insisted that the cooks oughtn’t to be above filling the odd dishwasher and suchlike, especially as there’d probably only be eight guests to cater for from the sixth.
“The cooks will be cooking as much for the staff as the guests,” Angela murmured glumly as we sat at the back of the neat little dining room where Gerardo was giving his first pep talk. He pranced around like a little Napoleon, telling them that the hotel would be the finest for kilometres around and exhorting them to excel themselves like never before.
“That’ll be easy enough with no guests,” one young waiter muttered to another, neither of them seeming too impressed by Gerardo’s dictatorial posturing, although by observing the body language of the others I perceived that they were listening attentively enough, some no doubt thanking their lucky stars for having landed the easiest jobs of their lives.
Gerardo then handed out their first rotas which included the dates for the various courses some of them were to attend in Elda – kitchen hygiene and suchlike – before sending them off to do their respective tasks with high-pitched words of encouragement.
“He seems to be very organised,” I said to Angela as we strolled round to the Hymer.
“He’s a real workhorse. Since he finished his last job he’s been here every day for God knows how many hours. Thank goodness we got him, or I don’t know what on earth we’d have done.”
“No, me neither. Where’s Arturo today?”
“Not in. He’s my employee, remember, and didn’t want to come today.”
“I thought he’d be keen to meet all the others.”
“He is, but I think he wants to set himself apart right from the start,” She chuckled. “He doesn’t like Gerardo, you see, and will only take orders from me. I expect he’ll be in tomorrow.”
“It’ll be strange not seeing Cristóbal and his lads anymore.”
“Yes, and they’ve done such a good job. Let’s see what Malcolm’s up to.”
Malcolm was up to nothing in the Hymer, as Angela remembered that he’d gone to play golf on the course near Monforte.
She clicked on the kettle. “He’ll be back soon, I expect.”
Over coffee she told me they were still mulling over the proposal I’d made to him two days earlier in Villena, just after he’d chipped out of a bunker to within three feet of the tee.
“It was clever of you to suggest the 4x4 when he was playing golf, Alan.” she said with a smile.
I shrugged. “It just came to me. I think the sight of the grass reminded me of… er, mountains.”
“Yes, well, we’ve discussed it, and while it’s a good idea in principle, I’ve suggested we wait until we see how the first course goes. By then I’ll also have an idea how many people will be coming to the second course.”
“Oh, what’s that one?”
“Creative writing.”
“Ah, sounds good. Who will you get to take it?”
“Either a novelist from Dorset or an experimental writer from Hebden Bridge. He tells me that he’ll deliver a traditional course, while she favours a more experimental one, pushing them to their limits, she says.”
Inevitably I pictured Miguel, Natalia’s ex, but shook his bearded image from my head.
“I see. Which is which?”
“The novelist’s a man in his fifties, and she’s… well, from the photos on her website she looks like some kind of New Age person.”
“A hippie?”
“I guess so. I believe there are a lot of folk like that in Hebden Bridge. She’s still in her twenties, but is making great waves in the modern writing scene, she says.”
Being a conservative soul at heart, I said I thought the novelist chap sounded like the safest bet.
