Even more unfortunately, Joe’s outburst also drenched Great Aunt Elsa.
Mercifully, the lorry was finally empty. Manoeuvering it into the village had been no picnic, hence the lamp-post casualty, but getting it out was going to be worse. The streets were narrow, barely the width of the lorry. The corners were right angles, and at three in the morning, it was pitch dark. Paco took charge, and waved and signalled as Dick reversed. Apart from giving the poor suffering lamp-post another swipe, all went well until they reached the square.
Paco was doing a sterling job of directing but something important was lost in translation. With a sickening crunch, Dick backed the lorry into the village fountain. We could only gaze dumbly as the previously proud little spout of water wilted and became a trickle that puddled inkily at our feet.
Paco seemed unconcerned and went off to bed. Dick and Dale drove away and out of our lives for ever. I gently sponged Great Aunt Elsa, restoring her to her former glory.
Joe and I spent the first night of our new life on the inflatable mattress on the dirt floor of the cave bedroom, watched over by towers of swaying boxes.
I awoke that first morning and lay still for a few minutes. Utter silence, apart from Joe’s rhythmic breathing beside me. No traffic noise, not even birdsong. I cracked my eyelids open but could see nothing. I sat up and looked around the room, but it was absolute blackness. Never in my life had I experienced such complete enveloping blackness. In England, even at midnight, there were always streetlights, and dim light showing the rectangle of the window, even with curtains drawn. But here, in our cave bedroom, I felt as though my eyes were still closed.
Such a feeling of exhilaration washed over me that I had to catch my breath. We’d done it! We were in our new home, in an obscure tiny village in Spain! I left Joe sleeping and, arms outstretched like a blind woman, felt for the doorway.
Fumbling for unfamiliar light switches, I made my way between boxes to the back door. I pushed it open and stepped into the garden.
It was a brand new day. The sun still hung low over the mountain tops, but was climbing slowly, heavily. Shadows were long and deep, throwing the gullies and crags into sharp relief. The olive groves were bathed in golden light. A hairdryer breeze ruffled the leaves of our vine. A cock crowed, answered by another on the other side of the valley.
I inhaled deeply, savouring the pure mountain air. I was filled with such happiness and excitement that I found my fists were clenched.
“A brand new day, and a brand new life,” said Joe who had materialised beside me. He voiced my thoughts exactly.
We ate our breakfast alfresco. It was a poor affair of leftover motorway services sandwiches, but eaten alfresco it was ambrosia, food of the gods. Eventually the heat and our need to get sorted drove us back inside, but we never forgot that first breakfast.
We put aside the problem of the damaged lamp-post and destroyed fountain. We’d ask Kurt what to do about that. And we hoped that the insurance would cover the damage to the truck. For now, one of our first jobs was to set up a kitchen of sorts.
Bizarrely, at the foot of the stairs there was a sink with running water. We brought in a cupboard for crockery, a kettle and the microwave, and so a temporary kitchen was created. The microwave functioned perfectly, but the novelty of Spanish electricity proved too much for it. Mysteriously, the numbers vanished from the digital display, never to be seen again. We could cook but had to count the number of times we pressed the button to set the minutes required. A minor inconvenience we soon accepted.
Provisions arrived daily in small white vans which wended their way down into the valley. They announced their arrival to the villagers by hooting furiously during their entire descent into the valley, ceasing only when they reached the square. Bethina, starched apron crackling, marched me along to introduce me to the delights of buying from the back of these vans. Bread, fish, vegetables and fruit, all fresh, all local. On Sundays, delicious cakes came with the bread.
One afternoon we were taking a siesta when we were woken by urgent loudspeaker announcements. Joe leaped out of bed in terror.
“It’s an earthquake warning!” he gasped. “Quick, get the valuables, we may have to move fast!”
7 August
Summer Pork with Sherry
An earthquake? I sat up in alarm as he pulled on his shorts (inside out) and raced towards the square and the source of the commotion.
Valuables? What valuables? Fuzzy from sleep, I couldn’t think clearly. What did one do in an earthquake? Drive away from it? Head for high ground? I didn’t know. I dressed quickly, grabbed Great Aunt Elsa, and was heading for the front door when Joe returned. He was looking rueful and carrying a crate.
“What was it?” I asked, still clutching Great Aunt Elsa.
“A van. Selling peaches.”
“Not an earthquake warning?”
“No.”
“Oh. What’s in the crate?”
“Peaches.”
“Peaches? A whole crate? How ever many did you get?”
“Four euros’ worth. That’s all I had in my shorts pocket.”
“But there must be 40 peaches in there! How are we going to eat so many peaches?”
“Don’t know. But when I ran into the square, everybody thought I was desperate for peaches. They all stood aside in the queue and let me go first. So I had to buy some.”
“But why buy a whole crate?”
“I showed him my four euros, and that’s what he gave me.”
We feasted on peaches for days, but couldn’t finish them. The fruit flies soon attacked, and we had to throw the rest away.
El Hoyo boasted one shop, or perhaps that was too optimistic a term to describe it. Years ago it was not only a shop, but a thriving restaurant. In those days, the village was home to lead miners and their families, but the mine now stood idle and the workers had departed. The shop remained but now stocked very little. The owners, Marcia and Old Sancho, were in their eighties and too old to be bothered much with it.
Marcia was a tiny sprightly lady, dressed in black and with eyes as sharp as a little bird’s. She smelt faintly of almonds and her white hair was scraped back into a bun held in place by countless silver hairpins. These hairpins frequently slid out when she shook her head, which she did often.
Old Sancho was much more relaxed. Most days he sat outside the shop grinning vacantly to anyone who spoke to him. His mind was obviously deteriorating, but his kind, simple eyes hinted of great wisdom in the past. Each evening he strolled around the village with his black cat. It was a familiar sight, the old man in his slippers and walking stick, the black cat scampering at his heels. We grew to recognise the sound of the tapping stick and Old Sancho’s ever-present flatulence as he passed our house. ‘Tap, tap, paaaarp! Tap, tap, paaarp!’
Buying food was no problem, but there is a limit to what one can microwave or barbecue. Paco and Bethina treated us like impoverished relatives and we often ate in their house, squeezed round their table alongside cousins, in-laws, friends and relations. Wine flowed freely. The food was always fresh, heavily laced with garlic but very strange to our British palates. Once we were served little roast birds not much bigger than sparrows. They lay upside down on our plates with their tiny feet in the air.
One Spanish delicacy we dreaded was pigs’ trotters. The Spanish don’t object if their food is cold, so by the time we were served, a trotter complete with knuckle sat on our plates in a pool of congealed fat and gravy.
“Thank you so much,” I said, “but I’m full already. I don’t think I could manage that.”
Bethina looked disappointed but took my trotter was away. The spotlight was on Joe and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Bethina stood poised, smoothing her apron, waiting expectantly. Paco refilled our wine glasses. Silence fell as the cousins and relations stopped everything to watch him taste.
Joe was brave. He seized the trotter as he had seen Paco do, and pulled off a piece of cold fat with his teeth. He chewed cou
rageously and smiled at Bethina who beamed with pleasure and turned back to her cooking. Paco clapped Joe on the back and refilled everyone’s glasses again. The cousins cheered in approval and all started talking at once. Joe masticated valiantly, using the wine to wash down the rubbery lumps of fat. At last the plate was clear and Joe leaned back in relief.
Bethina appeared again with saucepan and ladle. “¿Te gustó? Did you like it?” she asked.
I couldn’t resist. “He loved it!” I piped up. “He said he’d like some more.” There was murder in Joe’s eyes as yet again the ladle descended to his plate.
With Kurt’s help, we wrote a letter of apology to the Mayor. We offered to pay for the repair of the lamp-post and fountain. We never received a reply.
It was the end of July and the clock was ticking. In four weeks’ time Joe would fly back to England to complete his time in the army. August was going to be a frantic month of preparation before he left me, all on my own in Spain.
And August was an awesome month. The blue sky stretched to eternity punctuated only by swallows cavorting like Spitfires. Each morning the sun rose and bathed our world in warmth and the extraordinary light unique to Spain. Minute by minute the sun grew fiercer, forcing folk to take cover in the coolness of their houses. Until evening, the streets stayed deserted and silent except for the panting of dogs under cars. The mountain ranges, once so lush, now reclined, hot, dry and yellow, like lions resting in the midday sun. The olive trees stood bowed, silvery leaves shimmering listlessly in the heat haze.
“I know we hate talking about it,” said Joe, one day, “but at the end of August, I’ll be gone. There’s no way round it. I have to finish my last four months in the Army.”
“I know.”
“Well, you don’t have to stay here on your own. You could come back with me, and stay with someone in England until Christmas. Perhaps Juliet? Or you could stay with your sister, or Grace and Paul on their boat? Then we’ll come back to Spain together.”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely sure you’ll be okay on your own?”
“I’ll be fine. I want to stay here. I can get lots of stuff done on the house in four months.”
“But you’ll be all on your own.”
“I don’t mind.”
“But you’ve got no kitchen, or proper bathroom yet.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll manage.”
“Paco said it’s going to get much colder.”
“We’re in southern Spain! It’s not going to get as cold as Britain, is it?”
“Paco said they have frost sometimes.”
“Well, we’ll have to get that wood-burning stove we saw. If we put that in, I’ll be absolutely fine.”
Joe gave up. He had one month’s leave left, so we would have to use that time as profitably as possible. In the searing heat of August we had to prepare for winter. The clock kept ticking.
Top priority was acquiring the wood-burning stove. We chose a big black monster which the shop kindly loaded onto our long-suffering jeep with a fork lift truck. The poor little jeep sank visibly under the massive weight and we set off gingerly up the mountain road, back to the village. Shifting it up the garden path to its final destination in the living room took a whole day. Inch by inch we heaved the colossal lump of cast iron. The length of our small garden seemed to have grown to several kilometres. And connecting the metal tubes and pushing them up the chimney proved testing. The only way to do it was for Joe to climb up into the chimney to make the adjustments.
“We’re about a bloody metre short,” echoed his disembodied voice down the chimney. He clambered out, like a creature from a horror film, spitting soot and swearing. Fifty years of soot and grease plastered his profusely sweating body. Only his eyes were distinguishable, red rimmed and shiny.
“I’ll have to drive back down the mountain and pick up another length of tube.” Joe was not happy.
“Do you have to?”
“No choice. Only way to finish the job. Hell, why do the shops have to be so far away?” Living half an hour away from a big town was sometimes a distinct disadvantage. “Wouldn’t have to do this if we lived in Britain.” He grabbed the car keys.
“You can’t go like that!” I protested. “You’ll frighten small children.”
“Just watch me. It’s not worth washing or getting changed because I’ve got to go up that bloody chimney again.” He had a point. I helped him throw some covers over the car seats and he departed, growling.
I kept checking my watch, and the church-bells marked every hour, reminding me how long he was gone. I knew the journey down took about half an hour, allow fifteen minutes for buying the tube in the shop, half an hour back. So why wasn’t he home after three hours? At long last he returned, tube in hand.
“What happened? What took you so long? I was getting worried…”
“Huh! I was halfway down the mountain when I got a puncture.”
“Oh, no! What did you do?”
“Pulled over, of course, and started changing it. Then this posh car came along. You know the sort - flashy sports car type of thing. There was this young bloke in it. Anyway, he got out of his car and came over.”
“Did he offer to help?”
“Yes, that’s the funny thing. He was dressed in a smart business suit … and you can see what I looked like.” Joe pointed at his black face and sooty clothes.
“How d’you mean, ‘funny thing’? D’you mean because he was dressed in a business suit?”
“Well, yes, but I mean - would you offer to help someone looking like me?”
I shook my head. He was right.
“I was really taken aback. I know how I must have looked, and I was sweating and swearing…”
I thought about it. How kind of this young man to offer help, regardless of soiling his smart expensive clothes. Of course Joe refused, but we never forgot the generosity extended, just one example of many we were to experience.
Armed with the final length of tube, the wood-burning stove was at last installed to Joe’s satisfaction. Only one chore left to do … test it. Even though the temperature was already in the 40’s, we lit the fire and the room became an inferno of heat. The villagers looked at the smoke pouring from our chimney with bemused expressions. Crazy English!
Another important job was renovating the bathroom, but this was doomed to failure. It was possible take a shower standing in the midget bath, so that was okay. The chipped old sink was fine for the moment, so long as you didn’t lean on it. But the toilet cistern leaked so badly the floor was perpetually wet. We blocked off the water flow feeding the cistern and resorted to flushing the toilet with a bucket of water. Completely renovating the bathroom would take time and planning. We didn’t have the time as the end of August was looming, and we couldn’t plan because we didn’t know where the soil pipe was leading. To plan and relocate a new toilet and bathroom suite, we would need to know exactly where our cesspit was.
Sewage is a subject I had never troubled myself with before, but living in a Spanish village, sewage (euphemistically called ‘aguas negras’ - black water) was something Joe and I discussed daily. When we bought the house, it never occurred to us that we were not on mains drainage. So where was our cesspit located?
“We’ll have to search every inch of the ground floor. It must be somewhere…” I started pacing, eyes downcast, searching for a clue.
“Stamp your feet, see if it sounds hollow anywhere.”
“All sounds solid to me. Where can it be?”
“Dunno. But if it’s not in the house, it must be in the garden.” We continued our stamping dance outside.
Paco saw us, removed his hat and scratched his head, bemused.
“What are you doing, English?”
“Trying to find our cesspit. Do you know where it is?”
Paco screwed up his face in thought. “No, I don’t know where it is. Every house is different, no?” He shook his head and began walking away. Then he stopp
ed and called over his shoulder, “If it smells, you must throw a dead chicken down the toilet.”
“Oh, right. Why?”
“That will start the bacteria working again.”
Helpful advice, but we still hadn’t located the wretched cesspit.
“Let’s ask Marcia at the shop,” I suggested. “She might know, and if she doesn’t know, Geronimo might be there. We could ask him, too.” So we strolled down to the shop.
Marcia knew everybody and everything about the village, she was the obvious person to ask.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. A hairpin escaped and bounced on the counter. “I don’t know where it is. Ask Geronimo. He might know.”
We’d met Geronimo many times and liked him very much. In his forties, periwinkle blue eyes, long curly hair flowing past his shoulders like an ageing rock star, Geronimo was probably Marcia’s best customer. Several times a day he would pop into the shop, and despite Marcia’s reluctance and severe scolding, would exit bearing bottles of beer. He worked for the council and resurfaced streets, cleared roads, whatever was needed to keep the village running smoothly. He was always accompanied by his three dogs and plenty of liquid refreshment. In his spare time, he helped fellow villagers, particularly the elderly. Nothing was too much trouble for him. He would fix roofs, chop firewood, whitewash houses, anything. He flatly refused payment, unless of course it came in a bottle.
Geronimo was always easy to find. If he wasn’t working round the village, he would be sitting companionably with Marcia’s husband, Old Sancho, and his black cat outside the shop. Old Sancho would doze and smile while Geronimo, bottle in hand and dogs at his feet, extolled the virtues of his beloved football team, Real Madrid.
Yes, Geronimo was the one to consult. We found him halfway up a ladder outside the church.
“Buenos dias, Geronimo,” we said. “How are you?”
“Mal,” he said as usual. “Bad.” He reversed down the ladder, his three dogs watching with interest.
“Geronimo, do you know where Alonso’s cesspit is? We can’t find it.”
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