Geronimo stood with his head on one side, deep in thought, then took a swig from his beer.
“Follow me,” he said after another swig.
8 Satellites and Parties
Paco’s Sangria
The three dogs, Joe and I trailed after Geronimo back to our house. In the street outside our garden gate, he stopped.
“I don’t know where your cesspit is,” he said, shaking his long hair from side to side. “But this is yours.” His toe was tapping the manhole in the road. Setting his bottle down, he knelt and lifted the cover. In a circle, we all peered solemnly down into the darkness: Geronimo, Joe, myself and the three dogs.
“It’s brand new,” observed Joe, his voice echoing down the hole. “It’s never been used.”
“Sí, señor,” agreed Geronimo. “It is new.” With much arm-waving and body language, he explained that the sewage system was all in place for the village, but not yet connected.
“When will it be connected?” I asked.
Geronimo shrugged, palms upward. “Pronto, soon. When the Mayor is ready.”
“Why is there no pipe running from our house to the manhole?” asked Joe.
“You must do that,” said Geronimo, pointing at us. “You must put a pipe in and join it here, at the manhole.”
“What, everybody has to put in their own tubes?”
“Sí.”
“But we don’t know where our cesspit is…” We were back to square one.
Geronimo shrugged some more, and took another thoughtful pull from his bottle.
“Thank you for showing us the manhole, Geronimo,” I said. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“A drink?” Geronimo looked shocked. “This early? ¡Madre Mia! I couldn’t possibly! Well, perhaps a small drink, but nothing alcoholic, you understand.”
“That’s fine. A coffee, maybe? Or a Coke? Or juice?”
“Well, perhaps one small brandy…”
So we sat in our overgrown garden watching the level on the brandy bottle descend. I noticed that Geronimo’s power of speech declined in exact proportion with the amount of brandy left in the bottle.
“Real Madrid…never has a team played with such skill, such beauty…” His eyes were moist with passion.
Then later: “… every kick … poetry … just poetry …” Another swallow. “Such grace, such…” He sighed deeply, then shook his head, hair flailing. Fat tears squeezed from his eyes. “Ah, Real Madrid…” he whispered, overcome. He drained his glass, words having now entirely deserted him. Dumbly, he waved his arms, tears running down his cheeks as he tried to convey to us the magic that was Real Madrid.
The brandy bottle stood empty, so he left us, shoulders still shaking with emotion. The three dogs loped behind, heads hung low in sympathy.
We were grateful to Geronimo but still did not have an answer to our question. So, as a last resort, we phoned Kurt. Kurt contacted Alonso, the previous owner, telling him we had some questions about the house.
Two days later, Alonso appeared on our doorstep and we invited him in. He was exactly as I remembered; weather-beaten and gnarled. Twisting his cloth cap in his hands, he was clearly ill at ease. We were very pleased to see him, but his Andalucían dialect was so strong that we had more problems than usual communicating. Our questions baffled him and he didn’t understand what we wanted to know. At a loss, I phoned Judith.
“Judith?”
“Yes, m’dear? How can I help?”
“Judith, we’ve got Alonso with us. We’re still trying to find our cesspit. We’ve looked everywhere and we can’t find it. Alonso can’t understand us, and we can’t understand him. Can you talk to him, please?”
“Bloody Spanish drains!” Judith shouted. “Don’t you fret, dear. Pass the receiver over to Alonso, I’ll soon find out what is bloody what!”
Alonso took the proffered receiver and held it to his ear, then jerked it away again as though it had stung him. Judith was in full flow and although we couldn’t make out the words, we could appreciate the volume. Alonso listened quietly, receiver now held several safe inches from his ear, merely interrupting Judith’s tirade with the occasional, “Tranquilo, tranquilo.”
Phone call completed, Alonso beckoned us and trotted off to the workshop. In one corner, he exaggeratedly mimed pulling his trousers down and squatting. “¡Caca!” he explained, pointing to the ground beneath his feet.
Great! So now we knew where the cesspit was. But there was no point in creating a luxury bathroom if at some later date we would have to dig it all up again to connect to mains drainage. Reluctantly, we let well alone and left the bathroom as it was, bucket of water, midget bath, cesspit and all.
The next job Joe wanted to tackle was satellite television. Judith suggested an excellent hardware shop that supplied dishes, so off we went to buy one. The dish seemed enormous, but we assembled and fixed it. Printed instructions are things to be ignored, according to Joe, so it wasn’t until we’d wasted a day on it that we realised we needed an even bigger dish. This one was too small.
Back to the hardware shop. Luckily they took it back and ordered us the bigger dish. This one was a colossus. We could barely wedge it into the back of the jeep and we felt like a ship in full sail as we drove home back up the mountain.
Paco helped Joe fix it to the roof, but however hard we tried, we couldn’t get a picture. Joe was not pleased; he was desperate to watch the Olympics.
“Ask Judith if she knows any satellite companies,” he called down. “I give up with this thing.” In a fit of pique, he took the dish down again and laid it on the roof.
I did as asked and called Judith. She recommended Satellite Installers Inc. who kindly agreed to come that same afternoon. Joe paced the floor impatiently waiting for them to arrive.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a freak gust of wind blasted through the valley, causing our shutters and doors to bang. Something crashed outside and the look of horror on Joe’s face must have mirrored my own. We knew exactly what had happened.
We charged outside but it was too late. The wind had caught the giant satellite dish and dashed it to the road below. To our dismay, the dish now sported a sizeable dent. Alas, its former perfect symmetry was damaged beyond repair.
Satellite Installers Inc. arrived. They turned out to be a British father and son team, very earnest and utterly dedicated to the fascinating art of satellite installation. They had driven a long way so I plied them with cold drinks and tried unsuccessfully to engage them in small talk. Only when satellite dishes were mentioned did they become animated, their eyes brightening as they warmed to their favourite subject.
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, hypn
otised 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.
9 Grapes and Doctors
Carmen-Bethina’s Poor Man’s Potatoes
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 them 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.
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