Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  Paco’s brother-in-law, Fausto, was a wealthy property developer, the owner of several apartment blocks on the coast and some resort hotels. He came to have a look, accompanied by Marisa, his five year old daughter, to help interpret. Little Marisa was exquisite. Perfect olive skin, rosebud lips and dark velvet eyes with sweeping lashes; she took our breath away. She was attending a school in Almería that concentrated on learning English early and her command of the language was already remarkable. We walked around the house and pointed out what we wanted.

  “We’d like to make this window into a door, and build a terrace on that roof,” Joe explained.

  Fausto scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then he shook his head with regret, and delivered his verdict. His voice was very nasal and he scarcely moved his lips when he spoke which made understanding him very difficult. We looked at him blankly. Fausto repeated it, a little slower and a lot louder, but to no avail. Still looking at us, he nudged his daughter.

  “My father, he say not possible,” piped up Marisa, hopping from one foot to the other. “My father, he say all the house not strong. My father, he say better make house flat. Then make new one.”

  “Knock the house down and start again?” I echoed.

  Little Marisa had found a hole in the wall and was poking at it, picking out little bits of masonry that tumbled to the floor. “Yes, my father he say house is rubbish.”

  Joe and I exchanged horrified glances. Nevertheless, we thanked Fausto for his advice and I fetched a juice for Marisa. But all was not lost. After encouragement from her proud father, Marisa made the visit worthwhile by launching into a rendition of ‘Wheels on the Bus’, all eleven verses of it, including actions. At the end of each verse she sucked noisily on her straw until her father prodded her, urging her to continue the song.

  When they left, hand in hand, I phoned Judith.

  “Builders?” she asked. “Are you sure? Bloody builders, more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Do you know any you could recommend?” I asked, ignoring the pessimism.

  “Hang on, I’ll ask Mother. Mother? MOTHER! Oh, there you are. Joe and Vicky want to know if we know of any good builders.” The receiver was dropped, and I could hear their voices arguing in the distance, interspersed with the barking of dogs. I waited patiently.

  “Vicky? Mother suggested Luis from the village. She’s known him since he was in nappies, dear. Bloody good builder, Luis is. Just a tad unlucky, that’s all.”

  “Unlucky? What do you mean, unlucky?”

  “Well, dear, he was working on a house in the village here, and he didn’t get the calculations quite right.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, he was knocking some walls down. Unfortunately it affected the house next door. Luis went home thinking everything was ticketty-boo. When he came back next morning to start work again, the bloody house next door had collapsed. Damned bad luck, don’t you know. Could have happened to anyone.”

  I agreed it was very bad luck and mentally struck Luis off our list.

  We were given two more names by other people. One builder was so tattooed and pierced I was concerned he might spring a leak at any moment. The other was elderly and seemed far too frail to undertake anything much more than a little light decorating. Both took notes and promised to get back to us with prices. We never saw either again.

  When we next visited Almería, we picked up ‘The Messenger’, an excellent free English newspaper. It was full of local news and events, but at the back were classified advertisements. We scoured the columns looking for a potential builder. There were two possible candidates under the heading ‘Building Services’. The first was in the shape of a cartoon cement mixer bearing the legend ‘NO BODGE JOBS!’ with a name and telephone number. The second was reassuringly ordinary. ‘Reliable and professional building work undertaken. Call Colin for a free quotation.’ We agreed to ignore the first and contact Colin.

  Colin sounded fine on the phone and promised to come out the next week. He arrived, only six hours late, in a huge utility vehicle that absolutely suited his personality. With the physique of an American wrestler, he looked capable of completing the job single-handed. He was cheerful, enthusiastic, listened carefully to our requests and offered suggestions. We liked him immediately. He didn’t think the terraces would be a problem, and we didn’t tell him that Fausto thought the house ought to be demolished.

  Colin said he thought our house had huge potential. “Why don’t we build a metal staircase outside, from the garden up to the first terrace?” he said, flinging out an arm to demonstrate and knocking over a pot of geraniums. Colin was endearingly clumsy, like a boisterous bear cub.

  “And this door,” said Joe, pointing at the ancient, rotting back door, “needs changing. It’s got a huge gap underneath. We get all sorts of insects marching in. And when the wind blows, all the leaves and dirt pile up inside.”

  Colin’s huge fist closed around the door handle. He gave it a sharp wrench and the handle broke off in his hand. The door stayed where it was.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “This door needs replacing.” He kicked the door open but it never closed properly again.

  Not only did he trip over his own feet and Thief Cat’s bowl, but his words tended to trip him up, too. They would tumble out of his mouth just slightly wrong.

  “I’ve got an excellent team of Equators,” he said. Equators? I assumed it was a technical term and didn’t ask.

  He admired the chickens, and told us about his own at home. Like us, he loved chickens … definitely a point in his favour. “Why don’t we do your garden at the same time?” he suggested. “We could build you a brilliant chicken coot.”

  “And an outside kitchen, and barbecue, and woodshed? And all paved?” My mouth was watering.

  “Anything you want, just draw us a design.”

  We sat down in our overgrown garden to discuss the plans. Colin lowered his muscular bulk into a plastic garden chair. I couldn’t help fretting that the chair might not take his weight, but my fears were unfounded, even when he leaned back to slip a flashy mobile phone out of his pocket.

  “I’ll just call the orifice and get some figures,” he said.

  “I’m afraid we don’t get a mobile signal here…” I said, just as the mobile in Colin’s hand burst into an Abba ring tone, making me out to be a total liar. Colin flicked his eyebrows questioningly and took the call.

  “Well, we’ve never had a signal before,” I muttered, and caught Joe sniggering.

  Colin stayed another hour until the church-bells chimed fourteen, and by that time we had agreed a price. We wrote a deposit cheque and shook hands on the deal. We’d only planned to have the roof terraces done, but the wish list had grown. Roof terraces, new front and back doors, the entire garden done...

  At first we were euphoric. We had finally found a builder we liked and who understood our needs. Then doubts crept in. Joe voiced them first.

  “Do you realise we’ve just handed over one thousand euros to a complete stranger?” he said, anxiously scratching his groin.

  “Yes, but we have a receipt,” I said, waving the scrap of paper Colin had signed and dated. We both knew, deep down, that the receipt meant absolutely nothing and that Colin could be anybody. It was extremely worrying.

  A month later, we were even more worried. Colin and his ‘Equators’ should have started on the first of April but no-one appeared. We tried phoning. No reply. We regretted not taking down his number plate but it hadn’t occurred to us at the time.

  However, on the 12th of April Colin’s big utility vehicle drew up, followed by a truck full of building materials, and a car resembling a scrapmetal version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Four lithe Ecuadorians got out and stood in a row, flashing white teeth and bling.

  Each man was dressed identically in black tracksuit bottoms and orange T-shirts emblazoned with ‘Colin’s Careful Construction’ across the chest. I was reminded of 1960’s pop groups like The Drifte
rs, who all dressed alike and moved in synch. The Equators looked ready to break into song.

  Colin introduced them: William, Eduardo, Fernando, and Jesus.

  “This is William,” said Colin. “He’s the chef.” We shook hands.

  “Sí, I am chief,” said William, obviously used to his boss’s malapropisms.

  “ Eduardo is the best tiler I’ve ever employed,” said Colin, and a gold tooth glinted as Eduardo grinned. “He’s a mestickulous worker, really autistic.” Joe and I absorbed this information in silence.

  “And this is Fernando, he’s an excellent Jake-of-all-trades. I give him cart blank to get on with things.” Fernando stepped forward and shook hands, his gold signet rings leaving impressions on our palms.

  “And finally, this is Jesus. Jesus is Fernando’s brother. He’s just arrived in Spain and he’s learning the trade. He’s already a good welder.” Jesus was about seventeen and clearly shy. He had trouble making eye contact and shuffled his work boots uncomfortably.

  We left the Equators to unload the truck and begin work. Colin departed after briefing William, by which time it was two o’clock, lunchtime. They had brought a little camping stove with them and began to cook a meal with ingredients packed in plastic boxes. Eduardo, the perfectionist, carefully emptied each box into the saucepan while Fernando stirred with a wooden spoon.

  Eduardo peeled off the lid of the last plastic box. The contents appeared to be chopped vegetables, but he squawked in surprise and dropped the box as though it was red hot. Startled, Fernando stopped stirring and checked the box which had landed at his feet. A huge (plastic) spider sat there, its many legs partly buried in diced onions and peppers.

  “That damn Jesus!” he growled, looking around for his young relative. Jesus was wisely out of their sight. I could see him crouched behind the car, his shoulders shaking in mirth. It became clear that Jesus, in spite of his shyness, was the practical joker.

  William was a fine foreman, and the work progressed pretty smoothly. The team always brought their ghetto blaster which roared out popular Ecuadorian music while they worked. Unfortunately, the radio didn’t work so they listened to CDs. Even more unfortunately, they only possessed three CDs in total, so the same songs were pumped out, day after day. It nearly drove us to distraction.

  However, we loved watching them work. To watch professionals laying a brick wall is fascinating; I defy anyone to say otherwise. As for me, I had the added bonus of watching Eduardo who possessed buttocks like two golf balls in a sock. Joe cottoned on to what I was transfixed by and got very huffy with me, despite my insistence that I was just watching the work in progress.

  Soon after catching me gazing at Eduardo, I noticed Joe was suddenly keen to show his strength. He began to help the men by carrying blocks, but this backfired as the Equators could carry six at a time while poor Joe huffed and puffed with just two.

  Before long, the roof was prepared and ready to take the beam supports. The truck arrived delivering the concrete beams, each five metres in length, twenty beams in total. The weight of each was enormous and the Equators struggled and strained. Joe ran to help them and shouldered the beams, ignoring the fact that the Equators were half his age and possessed double his strength. The result? Joe’s back seized and he was forced to rest in bed for several days. I consoled myself by watching Eduardo from behind, uninterrupted.

  Beef in Fruit Sauce

  (Ecuadorian Recipe)

  Carne con Salsa de Frutas

  Serves 6

  3lbs (1.3 kilo) beef, cubed

  1 large onion (chopped finely)

  6 tablespoons vegetable oil

  16 tablespoons beef stock

  16 tablespoons dry white wine

  16 tablespoons cream

  2 peaches (peeled and chopped)

  2 apples (peeled and chopped)

  2 pears (peeled and chopped)

  2 large tomatoes (peeled and chopped)

  Salt, freshly ground pepper

  Sugar to taste

  Heat 4 tablespoons of oil in a frying pan and saute onion. Transfer onion (use slotted spoon) to a casserole dish, and seal beef cubes quickly in remaining hot oil.

  Add to the casserole with the stock and wine.

  Season with salt and pepper.

  Cover, bring to the boil. Simmer on a low heat for approximately 2 hours, until meat is tender.

  Transfer beef (use slotted spoon) to a serving dish. (Keep warm.) Put stock aside.

  In a saucepan, heat remaining 2 tablespoons of oil. Add fruit, tomatoes and sugar. Cook for a few minutes, stirring continuously.

  Add enough of stock to just cover and simmer, stirring frequently.

  Allow to cool a little then blend, liquidise or sieve to a puree.

  Return the fruit puree to the saucepan. Add the cream and heat through. Do not allow to boil.

  Pour hot sauce over meat and serve with rice.

  Jesus, as the apprentice, was given all the worst jobs. He fetched and carried for everybody. One day they ran out of sand for cement. Only a grotty mound of gritty sand remained, a relic from one of Alonso’s projects many years ago. It was filthy and lumpy, unusable in its present state. William ordered Jesus to sieve it all, separating out stones and cat poo until it was fine enough to use.

  But Jesus was incorrigible. You could see the cogs turning in his head as he plotted his next practical joke. I saw him furtively puncture tiny holes in Fernando’s bottle of water. He used a small sharp nail, piercing the neck of the bottle, just below the top. Fernando suspected nothing, and was baffled by the fact that he dribbled water down his chin and T-shirt every time he drank. Jesus laughed so much he cried.

  The roof terraces were finished and we were mightily pleased with them. They gave us a 360 degree view: the rolling mountains, the orchard, the sea in the distance over the village rooftops. The Equators cemented in a clothes drier and hanging out the washing became a pleasure for the first time in my life. What a treat to be encircled by such views and let the soft Mediterranean breezes blow the washing dry. We bought another table and chairs set, and at night, we sipped Paco’s wine under the vast star-speckled sky.

  It would have all gone smoothly, except for Colin. He proved to be the only fly in the ointment, although it was always unintentional.

  Colin’s Spanish Omelette recipe as dictated over the phone

  - hence the occasional surprising word…

  Tortilla de Patatas

  8 or 9 eggs

  About half a kilo of spuds, peeled and sliced thinly

  A generous pinch of salt

  50% olive, 50% vegetable oil

  possibly some lemon juice

  a proper non-stick 20 cm frying pan

  a circular dinner plate

  45 - 60 minutes

  And here's what you do:

  Half fill the pan with the oil. Heat it gently. Put the spuds in the oil, and stir to make sure they are all coated. The idea is to soften the spuds without browning them. It’ll take about half an hour, and you need to give them a stir every now and again. When the potatoes are cooked, remove them from the oil. If you don't expect to eat the tortilla all in one go, you can sprinkle lemon juice on them - this’ll stop them from going grey over the next few days (nothing wrong with the spuds in your tortilla going grey - it just doesn't look very appetising).

  Break your eggs into a bowl, throw in the salt, and beat with a frisk or fork until the egg whites and yolks are thoroughly mixed. Add the spuds and stir.

  Drain most of the oil from the pan, leaving a thin coating. Turn up the heat a little (about 60% of full), and pour the egg and potato mixture in. When the mixture has begun to set, pull the edges away from the pan with a splatula - you're trying to get a rounded shape to the edge of the tortilla.

  Now comes the tricky bit - turning it over which can be pretty clumbersome. The Spanish do it by holding an oiled dinner plate against the top of the pan, and flopping them over. In Spain, you can buy a thing called a vuelca de tort
illa, basically a plastic lid with a knob on one side for holding it.

  Once you have the tortilla on the plate, slide it back into the pan and carry on cooking and shaping the edge. Turn it two more times, so each side gets cooked twice, and when you have a nice golden colour on both sides, you're done.

  It's important not to overcook the tortilla. I prefer ones that still have a little bit of runniness in the centre, but more sensitive souls prefer them to be cooked solid. Let it cool for a bit, and then cut yourself a wodge and serve with a hank of crunchy baguette and a cafe con leche. Perfect!

  CHAPTER 18

  COLIN HELPS OUT

  I painstakingly drew a detailed, to scale, plan of the garden and proposed chicken coop. However, every time I handed it to Colin, he lost it. Four times I reproduced that plan until finally I had the sense to hand it straight to William.

  Colin meant well, but when he arrived to ‘help’, things invariably went wrong. He carefully took the measurements for our new front, kitchen and terrace doors to give to the joiner in town. Two weeks later he collected the doors and delivered them to us, leaving them with William. William checked them over. The kitchen door was fine, a good solid wood door that fitted well. Sadly, not so with the other two.

  Both doors were typically Andalucían in design. Wood panelled, with windows and shutters set in, Joe and I were initially very pleased with them. William looked grave, he had already spotted the problem.

  “¡Problema!” he said, shaking his head and reaching for the tape measure to check. “These doors do not look right.” Unfortunately the tape measure didn’t budge and William’s fingers fumbled as he tried to grasp it. It was glued it to the workbench.