“Nuestros niños,” said Bethina, “these are our children.” Dimples appeared in her round cheeks. She was pointing to three framed photos on the wall. “This one is Diego, he is thirty-two. He grows tomatoes, the best in Andalucía! Diego’s tomatoes are sent all over the world, even England! These tomatoes we are eating now were grown by my son, Diego.”
“They’re very good,” I said.
Joe and Paco were talking about cars. I heard them discussing Range Rovers, both nodding and agreeing that Range Rovers were excellent cars.
“And this photo is Sofía,” continued Bethina. She paused and shook her head sadly. “Sofía is twenty-eight, and does not have a husband.”
Sofía’s face smiled down at us from the wall. She was very beautiful. High cheek bones, big expressive eyes and glossy dark hair.
“She’s not married?” I asked, surprised.
“Pah!” yelled Paco, thumping his fist on the table again. Range Rovers were forgotten as he fumed over his wayward daughter. “She should be married by now! But always there is something wrong with every boy she meets.”
“Claro,” nodded Bethina sadly, “that’s true.”
“The boy is too thin, or too fat, or wears the wrong clothes… No boy is good enough!” Paco clearly felt strongly about this subject. “Many times she meets a very nice boy, but never does she want him for a husband!”
Bethina inclined her head. “Claro,” she said.
“And the third photo?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “The little boy?”
“Ah,” said Bethina, softening. She stopped herself and giggled coyly, stealing a look at her husband. Paco’s black mood instantly fell away. He beamed proudly and puffed out his chest.
“Our little surprise, our gift from God,” he said. “That’s Little Paco, he’s only eight.”
On cue, Little Paco came hurtling into the house. Dark skinned, dark haired, he had the same mischievous eyes as his father. Scarcely noticing us, he excitedly plonked his latest treasure on the tablecloth.
“Mama! Papa! See what I caught!”
It was a large, juicy green cricket. For just a moment, everyone stopped and stared, including the cricket. Then the poor creature sensed freedom, gathered itself and hopped sideways onto a plate of sliced ham. Bethina squealed in fright and leaped to her feet, knocking her chair backwards. The cricket glared balefully at us and tensed for its next launch.
Paco moved like lightening, seizing the cricket in one capable hand and his son’s ear in the other.
“Pacito! What do you think you are doing? We have visitors!” Both cricket and small boy were evicted, protesting, from the house and into the street.
Bethina was not pleased with her son. She followed, standing in the doorway, blocking the light and scolding her son outside. Our grasp of the language was weak, but Bethina’s meaning was clear. No entry. Small boys with crickets not welcome.
We learned much that day. We learned that most of the houses were only occupied at weekends and in the heat of the summer. That Paco was a lorry driver and related to most of the villagers in some way. That there were only three telephones in the village - luckily we had one. That the village Fiesta every October was unmissable.
Another fact that became obvious was that Paco’s wine glasses possessed magical properties. As fast as we drank, they were mysteriously refilled. Never did the level drop more than a centimetre from the top. This may explain why I didn’t remember the drive back down the mountain. I did remember the hugs and Spanish kisses when we left. I vaguely remembered dumping the yellow sofa in the orchard as planned. But the journey back to the hotel remains a blur.
∞∞∞
And so back again to England for the very last time. Two frantic months of teaching, packing, arranging the removals, selling unwanted stuff on eBay. For me, it was rather like being pregnant. Outwardly you carry on with normal life, but inwardly you are secretly, deliciously obsessed with that new life inside. I could think of nothing but our new life in Spain.
Crispy Potatoes in Spicy Tomato Sauce
Patatas Bravas
Serves 4
1 kg (2 lb) potatoes, peeled, and cut into 2cm (1in) inch cubes
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
500g (1lb) tomatoes
3 teaspoons (paprika)
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/4 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme
1 teaspoon tomato puree
Olive oil, for frying
Chopped parsley to garnish
Par-boil the potatoes for 5 to 10 minutes. Drain the water. Let the steam evaporate for a minute or so and then give the pan a good shake. This roughs up the outsides nicely. Set aside.
Prepare the tomatoes by cutting a cross in the base and plunging them into boiling water for 10 to 15 seconds. Plunge into cold water and the skin should peel away easily. Chop the tomatoes.
Fry the onion until soft. Add the garlic, paprika, thyme and cayenne pepper, then cook for another couple of minutes.
Add the chopped tomato and puree and cook, uncovered, until the sauce thickens, about 20 minutes. During cooking, add the salt and pepper to taste. If the sauce seems too dry, add a little water.
Meanwhile, re-heat the frying oil and fry the potatoes until golden brown. This gives them a crisp coating and prevents the sauce from soaking in too much. They should be beautifully crisp outside and soft and fluffy inside.
To serve, place the potatoes in a serving bowl, then cover with the spicy sauce. Sprinkle with chopped parsley.
CHAPTER 5
THE DYNAMIC DUO
At last July came, and the end of the school summer term. The assembly hall was hot and airless. Flies buzzed and bumped angrily against the windows. Little boys picked at their scabby knees. Girls, lanky in their outgrown school uniform dresses, played with their hair or with the hair of the girl in front.
“And so I’d like to ask Mrs Twead to come up to the front. She’s been filling in as a supply teacher for a number of years now and is leaving us to live in Spain...” The Head Teacher finished and waited as I picked my way between the lines of cross-legged children.
This was a sad day. I was only a lowly supply teacher but most of my time had been spent in this school. I knew every child’s name and the staff were close friends.
I reached the front and cleared my throat. I fear public speaking along with hairy spiders and quadratic equations.
“Thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, and I will miss you all. This school is very special and I have really enjoyed working here and being part of it. Thank you for making me so welcome.” I meant it.
“However,” I added, pointing to my name badge pinned on my blouse above ‘Supply Teacher’ and the school crest, “I won’t throw this badge away just yet. You never know, I might be back and need it...” Below me, the sea of little upturned faces smiled back.
Silently I prayed to whoever was up on high that this would never be the case. I so wanted our Five Year Plan to be a huge success. I wanted Joe to love Spain as much as I did, to agree to live there even after our five years were completed.
That evening, relaxed with glass in hand at the end-of-term Staff Barbecue, I allowed my eyes to roam round the garden. I tried to freeze-frame the memory to be pulled out and cherished later, sometime in my new life. The young American teacher who deserved a Nobel Peace Prize for her ability to inspire seven year olds. The ‘in’ jokes and the teachers who’d made me laugh in the staff room until my ribs ached. The friends who’d joined me at belly dancing evening classes.... And not just the people; the very English flowers in the beds, the lush trees, the unmistakably English feel of it all...
I was exchanging all of it for strangers speaking a foreign language in a country whose customs I didn’t understand. Andalucían landscapes as different from West Sussex as hedgehogs are to bluebells. (Did they have hedgehogs
in Spain? Or bluebells?) I was swapping a comfortable house and well-paid job with a derelict cottage and hard manual labour.
You bet I was ready to swap, and I couldn’t wait! No more endless grey, no more early morning telephone calls from schools inviting me to replace a sick teacher, no more traffic fumes, no more queues in Tesco. Bring it on!
The Staff Barbecue was in full swing and I drifted between groups. Conversations that evening followed roughly the same script:
“Hello, Vicky, you lucky thing! You must be so excited! When do you leave?”
“Sunday.” The boxes were packed, the ferry booked.
“So, do you know lots of people out there already?”
“Well, no, not really.”
“Well, you’ll soon make friends. And is your house nice?”
“We love it."
True, but I didn’t add that it had no kitchen. The toilet didn’t work and the bath was only big enough for a gnome. The floors were cracked cement or earth. The walls were a metre thick, made of rubble and disintegrating. The roof beams had woodworm. The electrics were disastrous and the plumbing a joke. Just to name a few little drawbacks.
A pause. “So you speak Spanish?”
“A bit. We’ve been going to Spanish classes. Enough to get by, and I’m sure we’ll pick it up.”
“Gosh, good luck to you, Vicky, I think you are very brave.” Privately, I agreed.
A shout came from somewhere in the garden behind me. One of my closest friends, Juliet, gin and tonic welded to her hand, yelled, “We’ll come and visit you, won’t we, Sue?”
Juliet and Sue, the Gin Twins I called them. I was going to miss them.
“Of course we’ll visit!” Sue was slurring just a little. “Get on the Internet tomorrow, Jules. Book a flight for October, half-term.”
I smiled to myself. They were more than welcome but had they forgotten our new house had no kitchen or working bathroom? I assumed it was the gin talking and forgot all about it. I was wrong.
Later that night I was presented with armfuls of leaving gifts. I unwrapped drawing pads, charcoal, pastels, tubes of paint, everything required for a hobby artist with plenty of leisure time. My lovely friends had obviously pictured me seated quietly on the mountainside, sombrero shading my eyes, painting Andalucían landscapes. I knew better. It would take years of intensive labour and stretching of our DIY skills to merely make our house habitable. I was far more likely to be mixing cement than delicately daubing paint on canvas. However, I promised myself that one day, when it was all done, I would indeed sit and paint the mountain scenery.
Meanwhile, one thousand five hundred miles away, in a tiny village in the Alpujarra mountains, a crumbling cottage waited for us, empty and decaying.
∞∞∞
They say that moving house is equally as stressful as divorce and only marginally less traumatic than bereavement. With this in mind, I can give you some advice; never hire a Man with a Van. No, splash out - have it all done professionally. Choose a reputable company, sit back and let them get on with it. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
It started off well enough. I got removal quotes from three separate companies, then suffered an attack of the vapours when I read the figures on the bottom line.
“Have you thought about asking Matthew's father, Dick Smithers?” asked someone in the staff-room. I wish I could remember who first made that suggestion so that I could stick pins in her effigy.
“Dick Smithers! That’s a good idea,” said someone else. “He’s driven lorries taking charity stuff to the Eastern Block loads of times. You know, humanitarian supplies for orphanages. Why don’t you ask him? I bet he’d do the move for you.”
“I know Dick,” I said. “He comes into school sometimes to help out, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s him. I don’t think he’s got his own lorry, but you could hire one.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll ask him if he’s interested.”
So I asked him the very next time I saw him. He seemed ideal, and he was enthusiastic.
“No problem at all,” Dick said. “You hire the truck, and put me down as ‘main driver’. I’ve got a mate who’ll come along to help.”
“That sounds brilliant!” I was delighted.
“You pack everything up in boxes in advance, we’ll load up, and Bob’s your uncle!” he said cheerfully.
“Right!”
“Then me and my mate’ll go in the truck, and you can follow behind in your car. No problem.”
“Excellent! That sounds perfect!” I couldn’t wait to tell Joe. We settled on a price; a huge saving compared with the professional quotes.
Joe was based at an Army barracks in the north of England and only came home at weekends leaving me with most of the packing. I didn’t mind, I was very organised. I made lists to my heart’s content. Gradually, all our possessions were packed. Boxes containing breakables were labelled ‘FRAGILE’ in huge red letters.
Of course, on moving day it poured with rain. Dick turned up but his mate did not. We let Dick take charge, assuming that his experience in packing lorries was far superior to ours. I suppose that’s when the warning lights should have started flashing.
Dick’s modus operandi was to load boxes and furniture as swiftly as possible, regardless of shape or size. Very soon, the lorry was in danger of being full and Dick was using my washing line to tie things down. To cram more in, we had to scramble like monkeys over chests of drawers and chairs to fill spaces towards the back. The load was precarious and frequently shifted, reminding me of Steptoe and Son’s cart. For me, as self-proclaimed Queen of lists and organisation, it was purgatory.
Then Dick’s mate turned up. Dressed in a fetching yellow tracksuit, Dale was an out-of-work actor from Brighton. An actor he may have been, a manual labourer he was not. While Joe and Dick strained, muscles knotted in effort, Dale skipped from box to box, always picking the lightest to carry. His half-hearted efforts were accompanied by “Oops-a-daisy!” or little girlish squeals until I could sense Joe’s blood pressure and temper rising at equal rates. Mercifully, Dale had to leave early to do his pizza delivery shift. He was not missed.
Dick chose that time to make a public announcement. “Can’t hang about in Spain,” he said. “Got another job. Gotta be back in the UK by Tuesday.”
Joe stared at him. “What do you mean? Are you seriously expecting to drive all the way across France and Spain, unload the lorry, drive back again, all by Tuesday?”
“Yeah, should be able to do it if we don't hang around.” Dick was defensive.
“That's ridiculous!”
“Nah, we just do it in one hit, no overnight stops.”
“You must be joking!” Joe was nearly speechless.
I agreed. Both Joe and I drive like geriatric tortoises. We are every young person’s nightmare; we never exceed the speed limit and stay glued to the slow lane on motorways. Our vision of tootling slowly across the Continent with the roof down on the jeep vapourised instantly. Gone was the plan to enjoy the scenery. No pausing awhile to take in the views. No leisurely meals in some French or Spanish bar. No nights spent in quirky hotels. Now we were destined to hare across France and Spain in the wake of the rattling, overstuffed lorry with a demented Michael Schumacher wannabe at the wheel.
“Right,” said Dick, impervious to Joe’s wrath. “I’m off then. I’ll pick Dale up in the morning, and we’ll see you on the ferry.”
That night Joe’s temper continued simmering just below boiling point. Our nerves were frayed and we turned on each other like cornered animals. We slept on an inflatable mattress (the bed was packed) in the living room, scarcely speaking. In the morning we locked up, packed the last of our possessions, and headed towards Portsmouth. I checked my list for the last time. All present and correct. Until the last item…
“Oh, no!” I wailed. “We’ve forgotten Great Aunt Elsa!”
Spanish Spinach
500g (18 oz) fresh spinach leaves
4 cloves garlic
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt
Trim the stems of the spinach and then wash the leaves by rinsing under running water to remove any dirt. Drain the spinach and pat the leaves dry with kitchen paper.
Peel and slice the garlic and then heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the sliced garlic and sauté for a few minutes until it begins to brown.
Add the spinach to the pan, pressing down with your hand to get it all in, then turn the spinach a few times to coat it all with garlic and olive oil.
Cover and reduce the heat and cook for a minute or so.
Turn the spinach over and cook for another minute until the spinach is nicely wilted.
Drain any excess liquid and serve immediately with an extra drizzle of olive oil and a little salt to season.
CHAPTER 6
BEWARE THE MAN WITH THE VAN
Forgotten Great Aunt Elsa? Joe’s forehead creased. We were a couple of miles into our journey and this was not good news.
“We’ll have to go back and get her,” I said. “We can’t leave her in England.”
Joe knew better than to argue. Great Aunt Elsa had been with me since I was a child. Not Great Aunt Elsa herself, of course, but the oil painting of her. Painted in 1897, she had stood the test of time. Still in her original frame, she smiled serenely down at me from every wall I hung her on over the years. She’d watched me grow, marry, raise children. She was part of my life. If I was leaving the country, so was she. And not in the removal lorry, either. She was coming with us, where I could keep an eye on her.
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools Page 4
