“He says today he saw a chicken walking up the street,” she said.
Geronimo then looked up and set his beer bottle down on the bench thoughtfully.
“Was it a brown one?” he asked. “I saw a brown chicken today. It was going in that direction.” He waved his Real Madrid scarf in the general direction of our house.
Clearly we were getting nowhere. Everyone had noticed Regalo walking the village streets, but nobody seemed to have lost her. And nobody had seen who threw her over our wall. We thanked them all for their help and returned home to see how Regalo was faring. Not very well, as it turned out. Attila the Hen was determined not to allow her down from the top level. Whenever Regalo ventured back down the ramps, Attila and her henchhens launched at her, sending her in a flurry back to the top mezzanine.
And there Regalo stayed for six weeks. She became a familiar figure, claws gripping the edge of the platform, head craned down to watch the activity below, body rocking slightly in an effort not to fall over the edge. I put food and water for her on her solitary platform or she may have starved. Even at night she slept up there, whatever the weather. When I went to feed the chickens in the evening, she would wait for the coop gate to open, then hurl herself through the gap. I got used to opening the door and standing back as she flapped into the garden.
Regalo was the only chicken allowed to walk free in the garden, simply because she did not behave like a chicken. She never gobbled my carefully tended flowers and she was never difficult to catch. Instead, she just wanted to be wherever we were. If I was watering the garden, she was at my feet every step of the way. If we sat at the table, she sat beside us, either under the table or on a chair, as though she wanted to join our conversation.
Back in the 19th century, an amateur biologist named Douglas Spalding reported that domestic chickens would ‘imprint on’ the first suitable moving stimuli they saw thirty-six hours after hatching. The chicks would follow the stimuli (usually a human) imagining it to be their mother. We were convinced that explained Regalo’s behaviour. She was imprinted on and considered herself human. Part chicken, part human, she entertained us hugely.
After about six weeks, Attila, Ginger and the others became bored with bullying her. They allowed her down into the coop for short intervals, then for longer periods until she finally integrated into the flock. She still wanted to join us in the garden but she had settled in at last.
∞∞∞
To understand how we fell foul of another gift, I must provide a snippet of background history.
In 1868, the archeologist Antonio Gongorra Martinez made an important discovery. In the north of the province of Almería, he came upon some ancient caves. Remarkable bronze and stone age artefacts were unearthed.
One cave was decorated with archaic symbols, figures of archers, mountain goats and deer. But the most common and recurring theme was that of a man holding a rainbow. It is thought that the ‘Indalo’ or ‘Rainbow Man’ most likely represented a Shaman or God figure.
In the 1870’s, local villagers took to daubing the symbol on their houses as a good luck charm, hoping to ward off evil.
After an earthquake had destroyed the villages of Mojácar and Vera, the surviving inhabitants were understandably nervous. They took to imitating their northern Almerían neighbours whose villages had escaped lightly, believing the Indalo must have protected them. They copied the practice and made sure the remaining and rebuilt houses of Mojácar and Vera displayed Rainbow Men, too.
And so the Rainbow Men marched across Almería. The prehistoric symbol was adopted as the logo for Almería, and a bringer of good luck. Today you will see the Indalo on car bumpers, statues, T-shirts, key-rings, shop fronts, everywhere.
However, the good luck is conditional. The superstition decrees that the charm will only work if you are given the Indalo as a gift. It’s simple - if you are presented with an Indalo, you will enjoy good luck. But beware - an Indalo purchased and carried by yourself will only bring bad luck.
The Rainbow Man figure is curiously attractive. We had several around the house and garden, presented to us at various times.
We were shopping one day when a little Indalo caught my eye. It was about the size of the palm of my hand and cast in some heavy kind of metal. It had sharp, angular lines apart from the lovely sweep of the rainbow. We were leaving the shop but I was strangely drawn back to the little figure.
“Buy it, if you want,” said Joe. “You don’t believe that superstitious rubbish, do you?”
“Of course not,” I said, and purchased the little Indalo. I slipped it into my jacket pocket with my purse. The weight of it was comforting as it bumped against me as I walked.
We were in the Post Office when I unzipped my pocket and felt for my purse.
“My purse! It’s gone!” I said, desperately checking and rechecking the pocket. The Indalo was still there, but the purse had vanished. Close scrutiny revealed that the sharp angles of the Indalo had torn the pocket lining as I walked, allowing the purse to fall out. The Indalo had caught on the frayed fabric and was safe.
“What a bloody nuisance,” said Joe, as we retraced our steps looking for the purse.
“Not a nuisance,” I said. “That was the curse of the Indalo! It’s because we bought it for ourselves. I don’t want it any more. I’m going to throw it away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Joe. “Here, give it to me.”
I handed it over and he put it in the back pocket of his shorts. We didn’t find the purse but it hadn’t contained much, so its loss wasn’t disastrous, just annoying.
We walked back to the car park, heavily laden with shopping. Suddenly, without warning, a car reversed out of its parking space causing Joe to jump back. He stumbled and landed heavily on his backside. The Spanish driver didn’t even notice and drove away without a backward glance.
Joe’s face was a grimace of pain as I helped him back on his feet. “Did you hurt your back again?” I asked, concerned.
“No, I sat on that bloody Indalo! It really hurt!”
It had to go. We gave the little Indalo to a puzzled passing shopper who thought it was part of a promotion.
“Regalo, regalo (a gift),” we insisted, pressing it into her hand. She was bemused, but quite pleased with the present.
Back at home, Joe was still rubbing his backside ruefully. He pulled his shorts aside and we both jumped at the sight. Emblazoned on his left buttock was the perfect imprint of a Rainbow Man, branded in fiery red.
And we were to discover that the Indalo would bide its time - it hadn’t finished its mischief yet.
Spinach and Mackerel Toasts
Great for an aperitif, buffet, tapas party dish . . .
2 small tins mackerel fillets in olive oil
1 french style baguette cut into rounds (make the cut diagonally to get bigger rounds)
Bunch fresh spinach 2 cloves garlic
Wash and drain the spinach, peel and finely chop the garlic.
Drain the mackerel of the oil, place onto a plate and roughly break up the fillets with a fork.
Heat a little olive oil in a pan and gently cook the garlic until it begins to soften. Add the spinach and cook covered for a minute or so. Turn the spinach over to get a good coating of oil, put the lid back on and cook for a further minute. Remove from the pan and drain away any excess liquid.
Toast the bread lightly on each side and arrange onto a large plate.
Place a small amount of spinach onto each piece of toast and then top with the mackerel.
Makes about 10
CHAPTER 28
THE JEEP
When we bought the jeep in England, we were very proud of it. We kept it in our garage and always made sure it was clean and shiny. It had hardly any miles on the clock and was like a new car when we started our life in Spain.
Within a few weeks, things changed. Even though we kept it under cover, the all-pervading Spanish dust swept from the Sahara and into every crevice, in
side and out. The paintwork no longer gleamed. The zips on the soft top became temperamental. The upholstery was gritty, and the windscreen was permanently coated beige.
The years in Spain hadn’t been kind to the jeep. And it didn’t help that we used it to transport bags of cement, firewood, sacks of chicken grain and giant satellite dishes. Gradually it became scratched and dented, well used. The suspension suffered carrying heavy wood-burning stoves and an oil leak appeared. It was our work-horse, no longer pretty but essential.
“I think we ought to get the car serviced,” said Joe. “Imagine trying to live up here without a car. It’d be impossible. We really don’t want to risk it breaking down.”
“What a thought! You’re right.”
“And we really don’t want to be forced to buy a Spanish car, do we? When the five years is up, we’d be stuck with a Spanish car to take back to England.” Had more than three years already passed in our Five Year Plan? It was hard to believe.
“Okay, I’ll book it in at a garage down below.” I searched the Yellow Pages and phoned a garage to make an appointment.
“They want to keep the car for the whole day,” I told Joe. “What are we going to do while they work on it?”
“Dunno, take books to read? Or take our swimming stuff and find a public pool?”
“Good idea. Okay, we’ll do that. The appointment is for Thursday.”
We found the garage without too many problems and left the jeep. The swimming pool was within walking distance and we spent a leisurely day there.
“It’s a nice pool, isn’t it?” said Joe, climbing out. “And those statues over there are really realistic.”
“What statues?”
“There … on the other side of the fence.”
Without my glasses I couldn’t see clearly, so I walked over to take a closer look.
“Joe! They’re not statues, they’re real!”
Over the fence in the park were two ostriches, very much alive. The outsize birds seemed perfectly at home and stood watching the swimmers impassively. The swimmers barely glanced at the ostriches which were evidently a permanent fixture. Time passed quickly as we swam, read our books and watched the ostriches. At six o’clock we walked back to the garage.
“Lo siento,” said the mechanic, “I’m sorry, but your car is not ready. We need to keep it for another day.”
“But how do we get home? What’s wrong with the car? Can’t we take it anyway and bring it back tomorrow?” Joe was very annoyed.
“Lo siento,” said the mechanic again. “I am sorry but the car is in pieces. You cannot drive it today. I will call you a taxi, no?”
We had no choice. Joe grumbled and growled until the taxi drew up and we got in. The driver spoke no English and it took a while for him to understand our destination. The village of El Hoyo was very small and remote. The driver set off, hunched over the wheel, occasionally popping peppermints into his mouth. He turned the radio up high and sang tunelessly to the music.
All went well until we left the city and started climbing the mountain roads. Perhaps the driver was on a promise from his wife. Or perhaps he had played too many arcade games. He took the bends at such speed that we were thrown from one side of the taxi to the other. I gripped onto the hanging strap desperately and tried not to look down the sheer drops.
“Tell him to slow down,” I muttered.
Joe leaned forward. “Driver, would you mind slowing down a little, please?”
“¿Qué?”
“Could you please slow down?”
“¿Qué?”
“It’s no good, Vicky, he doesn’t understand my Spanish. Or he can’t hear me over the music.”
“Try again.”
“Driver! ¡Mas lentemente!”
The driver reached forward and picked up the peppermints. Smiling, he offered the bag to us behind, now steering with one hand, fingertips drumming the wheel in time to the music. He hardly watched the road. I shuddered and closed my eyes, convinced we were about to sail off the road to a chasm below. Joe tried one last tactic. Tapping the driver on the shoulder, he spoke in English, a forced smile stretched over clenched teeth.
“Driver, if you don’t slow down I may have to kill you.”
The driver looked most alarmed at Joe’s manic expression and speeded up. I didn’t open my eyes for the rest of the journey.
The garage receptionist phoned the next day. They were sorry, but the jeep needed new parts which they would have to order. We couldn’t collect the car for another week.
“What are we going to do?” Joe asked. “No car for a week? We need a car! We can’t manage without one.”
“I suppose we could hire a car? Let’s ask Paco to give us a lift down, then hire a car for a week.”
“That’ll be expensive.”
“Well, why don’t we take some time off from working on the house, go and explore the countryside a bit? We could do with an Away-Day, and a rest might cure that cough of yours.”
Paco dropped us off at the car hire place, and we chose a Ford Ka. The assistant waved us good-bye, and we set off with our newly purchased map. We headed off up into the mountains for a day of sight-seeing. On the way home, we drove into the town of Almerimar. Neither of us liked the look of it much, too many hotels and high rises. However, as we were exploring, it seemed churlish not at least to take a peek at the beach.
In spite of his military background, Joe has a healthy disregard of rules, almost an allergy. If Joe were to see a red button marked ‘Do Not Press Under Any Circumstances’, he’d press it before I could even squeak. I am the complete opposite. I need to read the instructions, ponder, research it, think some more, make a list, and even then I wouldn’t press the button. So, of course Joe ignored the large signs that ordered us in Spanish, English, French, German, Mongolian, etc. not to drive on the beach. Instead, he revved up the engine.
“I hope you’re not going to drive on the beach,” I said. “Look at all those warning signs.
“Hey! Tyre tracks,” he said. “People obviously drive on the beach all the time.”
“Those aren’t car tracks, they’re tractor tyre marks,” I pointed out, but too late.
The little Ford Ka had the heart of a powerful 4-wheel drive, but unfortunately only the build and engine size of a … well ... Ford Ka. It was willing, even enthusiastic, but as we drove towards the gloriously setting sun, it struggled, sank, then shuddered to a halt.
“We’re stuck!” I hissed, furious.
“No problem, I’ll sort it,” said Joe, trying to open the car door. The Ka, in its eagerness to please had buried itself neatly and solidly in the soft sand. So deep were we that even opening the doors was impossible.
“Now what?” I asked.
Joe ignored me. Military responses had presumably kicked in. He squirmed out of the open window and landed headfirst in an undignified heap beside the car, spitting sand and swearing.
“Have we got a shovel?” he asked. That didn’t deserve a reply. Who takes a shovel with them when they’re going for a drive?
“Okay, Plan B,” he muttered and began to dig away at the sand with the Andalucían roadmap until he opened the door enough for me to get out, too. We both worked feverishly at clearing sand away from the wheels, but we were going nowhere.
The beach was almost deserted. A lone horseman cantered away in the distance silhouetted against the setting sun. Waves lapped gently. The half-buried car waited patiently. As the sun dipped and the beach grew dark, we waited. And waited.
A figure materialised out of the twilight, walking in our direction ... salvation! Not exactly a knight in shining armour, but a smart, elderly Spaniard taking a constitutional and walking his dog. Judging by his clothes, he was dressed for a night out. Joe galloped wildly across the sand to intercept him, gesturing and gibbering like a lunatic.
“Excuse me, can you help us, please?”
“¿Qué pasa?”
“Over there…” Joe pointed at our stran
ded car then dissolved in a coughing fit.
One glance was enough for the man to sum up the situation. “¡Madre mia!” He generously only pointed out the warning sign briefly then shrugged. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he carefully removed and folded his smart jacket. Then he joined Joe at the back of the car. Such a nice man.
“Vicky! Accelerate now!”
I pressed my foot down on the pedal as they pushed. In the wing mirror I could see the man straining until the veins stood out on his temples.
“Faster! Accelerate harder!”
The little car lurched forward bravely but its wheels spun and a great arc of sand plumed out. The poor man was covered from coiffured hair to polished shoes. It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of sand over him. There was sand in his pockets, sand in his trouser turn-ups, probably sand in places he wouldn’t discover for days. Even his dog looked sympathetic.
Our new best friend snorted in disgust. Picking up his folded jacket, he stomped away into the gloom, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “gente Inglesa idiota” (stupid English people). His dog followed without a backward glance. Perhaps we would still be there if it hadn’t been for an English couple taking a late walk. They went home, collected their monster 4-wheel drive and kindly pulled us out. Joe and I drove back home barely speaking. Only Joe’s coughs punctured the silence.
The answer-phone’s red light was flashing when we got back. I lifted the receiver, hoping it was good news from the garage. Instead it was Judith.
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools Page 22
