Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  Joe led them upstairs and onto the roof, ruefully explaining the unfortunate calamity that the dish had suffered earlier. Father and son exchanged looks. There was a simultaneous sharp intake of breath. Both heads shook in unison.

  “Gawd! There's no way that dish will pick up anything,” declared the father.

  “Not a chance,” said the son. “Not with a dent like that.”

  “Can't we just try?” begged Joe. “The Olympics are on…”

  Father and son shook their heads grimly like doctors pronouncing death at a hospital bedside, but took pity on Joe.

  “Aye, we'll give it a go, but that dish is ruined, you mark my words,” said the father.

  Twenty minutes later, the dish was erected and orientated and the son was fiddling half-heartedly with our television controls. Suddenly, his eyes blazed and his whole demeanour exuded intense excitement. Scientists discovering the cure for the common cold could not have been more enthralled or jubilant.

  “Dad! DAD! Where are you? Here, quick! Come and have a look at this! You are never going to believe this!”

  The father joined his son at the television. “Well, I'm blowed!” he breathed, naked wonder on his face.

  We had a perfect picture. And we could scroll through all the channels without a hitch. Father and son stood shoulder to shoulder, mouths hanging open, hypnotised by the screen.

  “Look at that! They can even get Channel 4!” gasped the son at last, eyes bulging. “We can't even get Channel 4 ourselves - back home at our house!”

  “Well, bless me, I've never seen anything like it!” The father slapped his thigh gleefully. “I thought that dish had had it! That dish had a whopping great dent in it! Just wait 'til we get home and tell everybody! We're gonna dine out on this story for years!”

  We thanked and paid the elated pair who left, almost skipping, ecstatically reliving the extraordinary moment when a picture had appeared on our TV. Everybody was happy. Joe was thrilled that he could watch the Olympics. Me? I was just glad I’d never have to attend one of their dinner parties.

  ∞∞∞

  Two other events stick in my mind about that first August, each equally delightful, unsophisticated and charming.

  One hot night we heard unfamiliar noises coming from the square, cheering and clapping. We strolled down to investigate. At one end of the square a huge screen had been erected and Geronimo had taken the role of projectionist. Laid on by the town council, a Walt Disney type film was being shown. Untidy rows of small children sat cross-legged on the ground, spellbound. Mothers sat on benches, chatting quietly and jiggling pushchairs containing sleeping infants. Gangly teenagers lounged about, coiled round lamp-posts, poking and teasing each other, pretending to have no interest in the film. The elderly had brought knitting and their own seats, a colourful assortment of dining room and kitchen chairs grouped in clusters. A skops owl hooted in the distance somewhere, answered by another, then a third on the other side of the valley.

  It was a perfect village scene. I wished I was a talented artist and could capture that moment in time on canvas forever.

  On yet another sultry evening, Paco pounded on our front door in his usual deafening fashion.

  “English! Come out and join the party!”

  To our surprise, the street was full of people. A long table laden down with food had been set up outside our front door, stretching down past Paco's. In the centre was a cake with candles. The table occupied the whole space of the narrow street. Any vehicle rounding the corner would have to stop, reverse and find another way. People could barely squeeze past.

  “It's Little Paco's birthday, no?” said Paco and thrust glasses of wine into our hands.

  Of course it made perfect sense; there wasn’t space inside Paco’s house. They didn’t have a garden, so the street was the obvious place for a party. Bethina made heroic attempts to keep order as kids scrambled into their places, noise level rising to a crescendo. Little Paco grinned broadly. Nine years old and the centre of attention.

  “But we’re filthy! We’ve been cementing.”

  “Pah!” said Paco, thumping the door frame with his fist. “No importa. It doesn’t matter! Have a drink and forget work for today.”

  Nobody cared that Joe and I were covered in dust and grit from working on the house, we were welcome anyway. We stood with the other adults watching the kids having a great time. Having eaten enough, they left the table to romp and run wild through the village as Spanish children can safely do. The abandoned table looked as though a plague of soldier ants had marched through. Bethina, best apron flapping, assisted by Sofía and various female relations, cleared it all up, then dumped more plates of food on the table.

  It was the adults’ turn. Three hours later we were still sitting in the street, under the stars, drink in hand, work forgotten. Just enjoying the moment - thoroughly content with our new life. I so hoped that these special moments would outweigh the hard labour and difficulties that living in Spain threw at us. I hoped Joe would forget chimneys, sewage and dented satellite dishes and grow to love Spain as much as I already did.

  ∞∞∞

  Too soon, August softened into September. The fierce sun had become a little more friendly. The grapes on our vine blushed purple. Swallows perched chattering in long lines on the telephone wires, probably discussing the long journey ahead. The Spanish school term started again and families holidaying in the village went back to their city jobs below.

  “You must not worry! We will take care of her!” bellowed Paco, clapping Joe on the back with such force that he choked.

  “Thank you,” said Joe, “and I’ll see you in December.”

  It was hard saying good-bye to Joe at the airport. However, I reminded myself that I had plenty to occupy myself with, and the time would soon pass. I was intending to keep busy by whitewashing walls and laying floor tiles in our bedroom. But it was not to be. Thanks to Paco and some lively visitors, I would have very little time to myself.

  Paco’s Sangria

  Serves 4 - 6

  1 bottle of medium to good quality red wine - chilled

  Half teacup sugar

  1 can of fizzy lemon drink

  1 can of fizzy orange drink

  Fruit cut in wedges, not peeled - choose from apples, kiwis, oranges, melon or peaches

  Ice cubes

  Pour the wine into a large jug.

  Stir in the sugar with a wooden spoon.

  Add the fizzy drinks, fruit and ice cubes. Stir well and serve.

  Note: Sangria is enjoyed all year round, but is particularly pleasant in the hot summer months. Also, there are many fruits in season to choose from. There are hundreds of different sangria recipes in existence, including ones using white wine instead of red. The one rule seems to be; the better the wine, the better the sangria.

  In Paco’s opinion, the name ‘sangria’ derives from ‘sangre’ meaning ‘blood’. Paco explained that blood is red and thick, essential for life. Sangria, he argued, is equally precious and resembles blood.

  CHAPTER 9

  GRAPES AND DOCTORS

  Although I badly missed Joe, I settled into life without him surprisingly easily. There were so many jobs I wanted to carry out in the house. My intention was to do as much as possible before his return in December.

  Paco, Bethina and the family arrived next door, without fail, every Friday night amid much hooting and cheering, tumbling chaotically out of their Range Rover like a litter of exuberant puppies. So that was the weekends taken care of. I was given no choice. I was hauled out of my house, fed and entertained until, exhausted but honoured to be so accepted, I waved them good-bye every Sunday night.

  I began to understand much more about their way of life. During the week they lived in their beautiful big house down in the city. Paco worked long hours lorry driving and Little Paco went to school. Big brother Diego ran his greenhouse empire growing tomatoes and big sister Sofía worked in a shop in the mall. And Bethina looked after the
m all.

  Until Friday. Then they would pack up the Range Rover with supplies and charge up the mountain to their beloved village house. Over the weekend, they would catch up with all their friends and relations. Every evening, at five o’clock, all the villagers would take a constitutional up the steep mountain road. Even the most ancient folk walked up the hill daily. This was another chance to greet acquaintances, admire new babies and generally exchange news.

  Later, the men watched football or argued politics over copious amounts of beer and home-made wine, always separate from the women.

  “Can I help wash up?” Joe had asked once, weeks ago. His question was met with utter disbelief and horror by the women, and derision by the men.

  “That’s women’s work!” said Paco. “Men do not help in the house. Do you ever help in the house, Fausto?”

  “¡Madre mia! Never!” said his brother-in-law. “And we have been married 25 years. What about you, Gabriel? Pedro? Miguel?”

  “No, never!” All the men were in agreement.

  “Do men do women’s work in England?” Paco asked.

  “Of course, all the time. Most husbands help their wives.” The men shook their heads, fascinated, digesting this extraordinary piece of information. The women were equally fascinated. They were open-mouthed, clearly shocked at the very idea.

  “Veeky, is that true? English men do housework?”

  “Yes, and cooking. And helping with the children.”

  “¡Madre mia!” said Bethina at last. “Can you imagine that? Men washing the dishes? England must be a very strange country.”

  All the women were nodding in agreement. In rural Spain, men worked and played hard while the women’s role was to look after their men; they rarely strayed from the kitchen. It was like going back fifty years in time. In the evenings, the women stayed together in the kitchen, joking and hooting with laughter. They played cards gambling with dried beans, roasted nuts on the fire and waited on the men. The men ate, drank and exchanged views in the next room. Meanwhile, regardless of the dark or time, the children ran free, shouting, yelling, darting from house to house, playing ball in the streets or hide-and-seek in the square.

  In addition to the town house and village house, Paco had a cortijo or smallholding, high in the mountain overlooking the village. Here he grew olives, grapes, almonds, potatoes, garlic and other vegetables, as well as raising quails and chickens.

  One Saturday morning in September, there was much activity outside, then the familiar pounding of Paco’s fist on my door. I opened up to see a convoy. At the head of the procession was Paco’s old van, engine running, trailer in tow. The trailer was crammed with family members, boxes and bags. The cars lined up behind were equally stuffed with friends, relations and provisions.

  “Veeky! Come on!” yelled Paco. “We’re off to the cortijo!”

  “But I’ve got work to do…”

  “Pah!” said Paco, giving Bethina’s ample rump a hefty slap as she passed by, laden with bags. “Forget working in the house today. Come on, you don’t need to bring anything. Work? We’ll show you work! Today we are pressing grapes.”

  A space in the van opened up for me, and we set off up the mountain. The road soon became a dirt track and I stopped enjoying the views when I saw the perilous drops. The van barely clung to the track and I thought we would surely go over the edge, especially at the speed Paco was driving. I was sweating, partly from terror, and partly because I was wedged in so tightly between Bethina and Uncle Felix, with Little Paco on my lap.

  Several times Paco jumped out to push gates open. These gates were artful affairs constructed from bedsprings, not pretty, but very serviceable. At some points the track had eroded away completely or was obstructed by rock slides. Then all the passengers were disgorged until the cars had negotiated the assault course safely, whereupon we all climbed in again and continued up.

  At long last, we were at the top of the mountain. We all piled out beside Paco’s cortijo.

  “It’s beautiful up here!” I said. It was a magnificent spot.

  “This land has been in our family for generations,” said Paco. “Look down there.”

  Looking down, our village looked like a toy town nestling snugly in the valley. The mountains stretched in every direction and the sea beyond shimmered deep blue, the horizon straight as a ruler.

  Paco's cortijo was about the size of a double garage, but it was not the cortijo that drew my eye. It was the pyramids of purple grapes, stacked in crates, tall as a man, piled up all around. Each bunch of grapes, plump and perfect, waiting. I’d never seen so many grapes in one place and was blissfully unaware that, by the end of the day, I’d be sick of the sight of them.

  The grapes were ignored and everyone burst into the cool and dark of the cortijo. A wonderful aroma pervaded from the bunches of herbs strung from the ceiling. Paco gave me a guided tour which didn’t take long. The room was dominated by a huge fireplace, complete with neatly stacked logs. In the centre stood a long table with mismatched chairs placed around. In one corner was a sink, supplied by water from a rainwater tank, a couple of kitchen wall cupboards and a gas burner. Evidently there was no electricity or mains water. I wondered how and where anyone answered the call of nature.

  In another corner near the entrance was a built-in Heath Robinson affair which I couldn’t identify. It consisted of a large vat with reservoir below, and weights standing by. Another gadget stood nearby. It was a kind of metal barrel on its side, on wheels. It had a huge handle that turned a horizontal corkscrew.

  All was to be revealed later, but for now the women were on autopilot and a delicious meal of patatas a lo pobre (poor man’s potatoes) was conjured up and set on the table. The meal was not rushed, but eventually the women cleared away, while the men wheeled out the barrel contraption and set it up with buckets placed under. Next, the first crates of grapes were hauled in. Time to begin work.

  “Veeky, watch me,” said Bethina. All the women were crowded round the barrel and I carefully copied Bethina’s actions. She grabbed a bunch of grapes, checked them over, then stripped the grapes in fistfuls, throwing them into the barrel. The big stems were discarded. That’s not too hard, I thought, and imitated her movements.

  Juice ran down my arms, dripped off my elbows. Grape skins wedged under my fingernails. Half an hour later I felt like a zombie, sticky, hands already stained black, fingers aching, back sore from stooping. My movements became mechanical - grab, strip, chuck, drip. It was relentless, hour after hour, the heaps of waiting grapes diminishing oh, so slowly. The flies tormented, never ceasing. The women laughed and chattered without pause and I became too tired to try to work out what they were talking about. I felt deeply ashamed for being such a namby-pamby weakling while these strong women just took the task in their stride.

  Every now and then someone would seize the handle and turn the corkscrew device that crushed the grapes and separated more sticks from the pulp. The juicy pulp splattered into the bucket below, splashing our legs and soaking our feet with syrupy goo.

  When the bucket filled, the men lugged it away and emptied it into the vat. Sinews straining, they heaved the massive weights on top, then turned a wheel to lower them and crush the pulp. A steady stream of pure clear grape juice poured from the reservoir into plastic buckets, which was transferred to barrels. Paco filled a cup for me to sample. It was like a taste of heaven.

  At one point, Bethina stopped. She dipped her hands into a bucket of water to rinse them, then beckoned.

  “Veeky, follow me.” Off she trotted, into the bright sunshine outside, to the back of the quail pens, with me two steps behind. The children were giving the chickens a hard time, chasing them through the olive trees. First chickens, then children galloped past in clouds of dust, too immersed in their own pursuits to notice us.

  “Veeky, this is the place.” She pointed down at the spot of ground we were standing on.

  “Here?”

  “Claro.” She was nodd
ing furiously and looking at me expectantly.

  I had absolutely no idea what Bethina was trying to show me. I bent down low, examining the soil closely. Was she trying to show me a seedling? Or was the earth special here in some way? I looked up at her blankly. She sighed, exasperated, then flipped up her apron, hauled down her voluminous white bloomers, squatted, and relieved herself on the dusty ground. Now I got it. I averted my eyes and thanked her, assuring her I didn’t need to do likewise just now.

  Back to work. More grapes, more flies, more purple sludge. It all ended at eight o’clock when it grew too dark to see what we were doing. I was numb with tiredness. Every bone ached and I felt as dirty and sticky as though I'd been dipped in honey and rolled in grit.

  My shower at home that night was blissful and the water ran pink with juice, grape skins clogging the drain hole. Gradually, my back stopped aching and I could flex my fingers without discomfort.

  Carmen-Bethina’s Poor Man’s Potatoes

  Patatas a lo Pobre

  Serves 4

  15 tbsp olive oil

  1 kg (2lb) potatoes - peeled, cut into chunks

  3 large onions

  3 green peppers - seeded and roughly chopped

  Large handful mushrooms - wiped, roughly chopped

  5 cloves garlic - roughly chopped