Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  I sacrificed an iceberg lettuce from the fridge to the cause. I figured that should lure them in the right direction.

  “Right,” Joe said. “I’ll get behind them and drive them out into the street. You show them the lettuce and they should follow you.”

  “Like the Pied Piper?”

  “Yes, like the Pied Piper.”

  It started well. Joe herded them out of the gate, and I began walking backwards, waving the lettuce enticingly. Ginger and Attila the Hen led the way, the rest of the flock following. Bugger and Fuck tried to turn right instead of left, but Joe quickly cut them off. I kept walking backwards, rewarding them with a few lettuce shreds to keep them focused. I was concentrating so hard, I was unaware of what was happening behind me.

  Geronimo and his three dogs had rounded the corner.

  A fairly orderly, organised scene suddenly became a cacophony of confusion. Excited barks rent the air. Twelve canine feet galloped past me, intent on chicken chasing. Joe shouted. Geronimo shouted. Chaos reigned.

  Fourteen chickens scattered in all directions, squawking in panic. Some shot back into the orchard. Bugger and Fuck dived between Joe’s legs and careered up the street. Ginger and a few others flapped onto a sagging telephone cable. Fraidy cowered, terrified, in the middle of the road. I spun round.

  “Lo siento, señora,” said Geronimo, shrugging, palms upward. “I’m sorry.”

  Fraidy collected herself, and flapped up intending to join Ginger on the telephone wire. Geronimo, beer bottle still in hand, leaped. Like the goal keeper of his beloved Real Madrid, he caught Fraidy in mid air. He handed her to Joe.

  “Well saved,” muttered Joe in English, “that’s one. Only thirteen to go.”

  Geronimo snapped his fingers, and his three moth-eaten dogs slunk back to his heels. A crestfallen Geronimo took a swig of beer to compose himself.

  “I’ll shut the dogs in mi casa,” he said. “Then I’ll come back and help you catch the hens, no?”

  It took another two hours to find and herd the missing chickens. Bugger and Fuck were the hardest to locate, but we eventually found them in the cemetery, pecking happily between the headstones.

  “Would you like a drink?” I asked Geronimo when the last chicken had been put into the new coop. “A coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?”

  “Café solo,” said Geronimo. “Just black coffee. It is still early.”

  I put a full bottle of brandy on the table as well as the coffee. I knew Geronimo well.

  “Perhaps just a little drop, señora,” said Geronimo, and sloshed a generous measure of brandy into his coffee.

  We talked about the village, the chickens, the new houses, but mostly we talked about Real Madrid. Geronimo stayed until only two fingers of brandy remained in the bottle and his speech was too slurred to comprehend. As he staggered away, the phone rang.

  “This is Kurt.”

  “Oh, hello, Kurt.”

  “The workmen vill come tomorrow morning. Now you haf more time to remove the hens.”

  “But we’ve moved them already! They’re in our garden now, in their new…”

  But Kurt had already replaced the receiver.

  By now it was early evening. Joe and I stood on our roof terrace saying a last goodbye to the orchard opposite. It was strange to see no chickens scratching. And after tomorrow, the orchard would never look the same again; it would become a building site.

  A familiar sound caught our attention. ‘Tap, tap, paaaarp! Tap, tap, paaaarp!’ Old Sancho was taking his evening stroll, the black cat at his heels. We watched as he neared the orchard fence, his usual smile replaced by a look of bewilderment. He’d got accustomed to Cocky’s absence a while ago. But no chickens? For a long moment he peered into the orchard. Then he shook his head, called his cat and shuffled away. I felt very sad, it was the end of an era.

  ∞∞∞

  The team of workmen arrived next morning. Their first job was to rip out all the fencing, then dig out the remaining trees. Heavy machinery was brought in and the old ruin was flattened. Huge clouds of dust billowed into the air. We watched the progress in fascination, as did the villagers. At the weekends, dozens of villagers paraded past to see how things were going. Only Old Sancho avoided the scene.

  When we first bought the plot, Alonso showed us how he irrigated the orchard. He had built an enormous underground tank, the size of a swimming pool. It was made from concrete and filled by a combination of rain and mains water. Kurt explained that every village house was charged each quarter for a certain amount of water, whether they used it or not. Alonso regularly read the meter and kept meticulous records of his household’s consumption. Then, at the end of each quarter, he filled the reservoir with any leftover water from his quota. We knew that just below ground level, there was an awesome amount of water.

  The builders carried on gouging and levelling. They were aware of Alonso’s reservoir, expecting to break through it at any moment. We stood watching from our roof terrace, holding our breath. And then they hit it.

  The JCB’s bucket smashed into the structure. Whooosh! A huge plume of water shot into the air like a geyser, spurting countless gallons into the sky.

  “How big was that reservoir?” marvelled Joe, as the water fountained. “Big,” I said. “Massive. That’s a lot of water.”

  The driver of the JCB wisely backed off. The other workmen scattered to higher ground and leaned on their pick axes, watching the water-show in wonder. The geyser died down, but water continued to gush from the smashed side of the reservoir. It swamped the orchard, and searched out the quickest path downhill. It surged, gathering momentum, then started to gush down the street.

  Joe looked worried and scratched his groin, eyes fixed on the torrent.

  “Oh my God!” I said. “It’s going to flood the cemetery!”

  Creamy Pork and Paprika

  This Spanish Pork recipe is great for an easy dinner or supper. The smoked paprika adds a lovely hint of Andalucían flavour. Serve with fluffy white rice for a satisfying, rich meal.

  450g (1lb) boneless pork cut into strips

  1 onion, finely chopped

  3 cloves garlic, crushed

  150g (5oz) mushrooms, sliced

  1 medium green pepper, sliced

  Olive oil

  1tsp smoked sweet paprika

  200ml (7 fl oz) single cream

  Small glass of brandy

  Bunch fresh parsley, chopped

  Salt and pepper

  Season the pork strips with salt, pepper and paprika and set aside on a plate.

  Heat a little olive oil in a deep frying pan and add the onion, cooking until soft.

  Add the mushrooms, pepper and garlic and cook for a few more minutes until the mushrooms are soft. Place the vegetables onto a plate and keep warm.

  Add the pork to the pan and cook on high for a few minutes until browned all over then return the vegetables to the pan. Lower the heat and cook for 15 minutes or so until the pork is cooked through.

  Turn up the heat and add the brandy, cooking on high until almost all has been reduced, then add the cream.

  Lower the heat again and simmer gently for 5 minutes or so until the sauce has thickened.

  Serve with the parsley garnish and an extra sprinkle of paprika.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE NEW HOUSES

  The water flowed unchecked. I pictured wreaths floating in water, graves submerged. But we were lucky. There was just enough camber in the road to direct the flow past the cemetery gates. Geronimo, however, was not so lucky. He’d been standing in the street, watching, when he suddenly realised that the water was gathering momentum and heading straight for him. His dogs yelped and bolted, leaving their master to face the deluge alone.

  Holding tight to his beer bottle, Geronimo hopped onto a milestone. He sat there with his feet tucked up, perched like a pixie on a toadstool. I’d never understood the point of that particular milestone. On it was engraved the legend:

&
nbsp; EL HOYO

  0 KM

  But it rescued Geronimo that day. The torrent poured past him, ever downward. It flowed down the street to the next corner, then carried straight on to collect in the olive grove below. The baked soil drank it greedily.

  That Saturday, I saw the weekend farmer surveying his olive trees and scratching his head. We hadn’t had a drop of rain for weeks, but his trees were well watered, the earth still moist. On either side, his neighbours’ land was dry and thirsty. Only his plot was wet.

  “Un milagro,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “A miracle.”

  We didn’t enlighten him.

  Over the next months, work in the orchard progressed quite well. We kept a low profile, leaving Kurt and Marco to direct proceedings. Sometimes the builders didn’t turn up for a couple of weeks, then they’d appear again and carry on as though they’d never been away. In our experience, this was a mysterious trait common to builders all over the world, so we didn’t worry.

  When the foundations were laid, Paco paced the plot with us.

  “Pah!” he said, his boot kicking at the idle cement mixer. “Fatal, fatal!”

  It seemed he objected to the mix of the cement used, the less than perfect straight lines and the depths dug. Whether it be football or building, it’s strange how every amateur has opinions on how a job should be done. We mentioned Paco’s concerns to Kurt.

  “The job is good,” he said. “Your neighbour got out of the bed with the wrong leg today.”

  Kurt may have been right. As the houses grew, Paco admitted that they were excellent, his earlier condemnation forgotten.

  The two houses were taking shape when the Gin Twins came for another visit. Because the orchard was at a higher level than our house, the growing buildings were soon the same height as our roof terrace, although on the other side of the street.

  Juliet and Sue nursed their gin and tonics and watched the men at work.

  “Ah, this is the life,” said Juliet, sipping from her glass.

  “All we need is music,” said Sue. “Then it would be perfect.”

  Juliet jumped up and came back carrying our portable stereo and a stack of CDs. A flick of a switch and loud music blared around the valley. Of course, just listening to the music was not enough. Before long, gin-fuelled, Juliet and Sue started to dance. The workmen smiled, and called out encouragement. Then they put down their tools and were dancing, too. Not much work was done the rest of that day, but it didn’t matter.

  The second time work stopped I was more concerned. Our daughter was visiting and desperate to take a tan back to England. The builders had stopped for lunch, and would not start work again until three o’clock. Karly snatched at the opportunity to sunbathe nude. With her iPod plugged into her ears, she lost track of time and dozed off.

  I looked at the clock at three thirty and wondered why the cement mixer hadn’t restarted. Idly, I stepped onto the roof terrace and looked over to the building site. Seven builders, leaning on a half finished wall, were enjoying the view. Some smoked, some had opened bottles of beer. All eyes were trained on Karly spread-eagled on the sun-bed.

  “Karly!” I hissed.

  Karly woke, sat up, rubbed her eyes and saw her appreciative audience.

  “Oh my God!” she squeaked, grabbed her towel and fled inside.

  The builders went back to work, grumbling.

  And sometimes things went wrong. Like the day the builders severed the cable that supplied electricity to the entire village. In our kitchen, the washing machine stopped, alerting us to the power cut.

  “I’ll check the fuse box,” said Joe, and did so. “No, everything’s okay here. It’s not only our house.”

  We stepped outside. The builders’ cement mixer had stopped and they were standing around. We walked down to the square. Marcia stood with her hands on her hips on the doorstep of her shop.

  “¡Madre mia! No electricity again!” she said, shaking her head, hairpins glinting in the sun. “Come with me and look.”

  She beckoned us to follow her inside. We walked through the shop and into the kitchen beyond. On a chair in the middle of the room sat Old Sancho. He was staring straight ahead, hands on his knees. His black cat dozed on another chair, one yellow eye slightly open to watch our entrance.

  Slowly Old Sancho turned his head to regard us. And it was then that we noticed. On one side of his skull little tufts of snowy hair sprouted. On the other side, the hair had been clipped neatly, the shorn clumps lying on the floor. Old Sancho smiled in his childlike way, unaware how odd he looked.

  “Today is the first time I have used them,” said Marcia, waving a shiny new pair of electric hair clippers at us. “I thought it was a good idea. I thought it would save our sons trouble. They usually take their father down to the barber in the city.”

  I couldn’t help it, I started giggling. Joe tried to control himself but failed, and started laughing too. The black cat opened both yellow eyes wide with surprise. Old Sancho beamed, sharing the humour even though he had no idea why we were laughing. Marcia shook her head and frowned, lips pressed together, but not for long. Then her ancient face crumpled too, and her laughter joined ours. A couple of hairpins tinkled to the floor.

  The black cat had had enough. It jumped off the chair and stalked out of the room, head held high, tail waving disdainfully.

  “¡Madre Mia!” said Marcia again, as the clippers in her hand buzzed back into life. We left them to it, and returned home.

  The builders had patched the cable, a temporary measure until the Electricity Board arrived to make a proper repair. Our washing machine was churning again, and we assumed Marcia was putting the final touches to Old Sancho’s haircut.

  ∞∞∞

  Kurt had told us that the build would take approximately eight months to complete. It didn’t. It was nearly a year and a half before the two houses were ready to move into.

  Everyone in the village admired them. Everyone said they would sell quickly. Everyone wanted a guided tour. The ship’s bell by our garden gate rang constantly at the weekends. We had no choice, we were forced to become estate agents. Again and again we showed people around the new houses, reciting our sales pitch.

  ‘¡Precioso!’ they all said. “Beautiful!”

  And the houses were a credit to Kurt, Marco, the architect and the builders. The first one sold speedily to a member of Paco’s extended family. The second one remained vacant for longer.

  One weekday, someone clanged the ship’s bell.

  “You get it,” said Joe. “I’m fed up showing people round that house. I’m going out to chop firewood. Winter will be here again before we know it.”

  I opened the garden gate to a smart, smiling young man.

  “Buenos dias. Can I view the house?” he asked. “I saw it advertised on the Internet.”

  So yet again I traipsed round the house, pointing out the stunning views, showing off the sparkling new bathrooms, the security system and discussing the fact that the garden was big enough for a pool. Perhaps I overstepped the mark when I drew attention to the fact that the neighbours below were very quiet - this house overlooked the cemetery. He had the good grace to smile.

  I wasn’t hopeful. This young man seemed too young, and more of a city type than someone who would enjoy living in a village house.

  “Will you take an offer?” he said, when the tour was complete.

  I was surprised. Perhaps he was a genuine buyer.

  “Of course,” I said and invited him into our house.

  We spent a happy half hour bargaining and getting to know each other. Roberto spoke a little English, and I could get by in Spanish. With the help of a calculator we finally agreed on a price. It was the same as the first house had sold for, so I was delighted. We shook hands.

  “Are you married?” I asked, curious about our new neighbour.

  “No, I do not have a wife,” he said, amused. He left, promising to contact Kurt to sort out the details.

/>   Joe came in from chopping wood.

  “Any news?” he asked.

  “Only that I think I’ve sold the house,” I said. “But I suppose we should wait until Kurt confirms it before we celebrate.”

  True to his word, Roberto contacted Kurt and paid a deposit on the house. Now we could celebrate. If we could have seen into the future, we would have celebrated even harder. We didn’t know that house prices were about to plummet and banks collapse as the world was gripped in the ‘Credit Crunch’. We had sold the house just in time.

  And I was hatching a plan. Young, single, good looking; surely Roberto would make a perfect partner for Sofía? I couldn’t wait to tell our neighbours.

  “He’s very nice,” I told them. “I think Sofía would really like him.” Sofía was trying not to look interested, but I could tell she was listening intently.

  “Pah!” roared Paco, thumping his knee with his fist. “There will be something wrong with him! Too fat, too thin … supports the wrong football team. Sofía will find something wrong with him.”

  “What does he look like?” asked Sofía, too casually.

  “He’s quite handsome. And he must be doing well to be able to afford the house.”

  “We’ll see,” said Carmen-Bethina. “Time will tell.”

  Kurt popped in some time later that month to get our signatures.

  “Roberto is coming now here to sign papers,” he said. “And he is bringing his vife.”