Our neighbours, Paco and Carmen, sat at one of the round bar tables with their daughter Sofía and her boyfriend, Alejandro Junior. Another couple sat at the same table and an elderly man completed the party.
“Who are those people sitting with Paco and Carmen?” I asked Joe, nodding in the direction of the bar.
“I’m guessing, but I reckon they’re Sofía’s boyfriend’s parents. I can see a family resemblance and I bet the old man is the boyfriend’s grandfather.”
I agreed with Joe and stared at them all with interest. So this was the millionaire family? They were nicely dressed, as was everyone at the gathering, but they didn’t look any different from anyone else. Paco, Alejandro and the old man were deep in conversation, while Alejandro’s wife chatted with Carmen. Alejandro Junior and Sofía had eyes only for each other.
The Spanish practice of keeping the same names in the family always confused me, so I mentally called them Alejandro Junior, Alejandro and Alejandro Senior.
The Ufarte family were seated at the next table. Mama Ufarte had her smallest son on her lap and was smiling, trying to stop his chubby little hands reaching for the glasses on the table.
Beside her sat Papa Ufarte, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched long under the table. Grey-haired Granny Ufarte dozed in the next chair, oblivious to her surroundings.
The twins, noisily sucking at the straws stuck in their Coca Cola bottles, shared a chair, their glossy black hair glinting orange from the artificial lights.
Lola Ufarte, dressed in a scanty top that accentuated all her curves, sat still, a little smile playing over her lips. When the crowd parted momentarily, I understood why she was smiling. Under the table, Papa Ufarte’s foot caressed hers.
I sighed, but a familiar, nasal voice broke into my thoughts.
“Ah, Beaky and Joe! What do you think of our grand opening?”
With the Andalucian accent that turned a ‘V’ into a ‘B’ and Pancho’s way of talking through his hooked nose, I would always be Beaky to him.
“Hello, Pancho,” said Joe and shook the mayor’s hand. “It’s a good turnout, isn’t it?”
“The new building looks very nice,” I said. I stepped back and stood very close to Joe, having had to escape the mayor’s attentions in the past. “I’m very pleased it could finally be finished, I know how Spain is struggling with money at the moment.”
“We were lucky,” Pancho explained. “We had help from some private sources. If it had not been for benefactors like el Señor Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez, I do not believe the building would be open today.”
“El Señor Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez?”
Pancho turned slightly, throwing his hooked nose into profile. He flapped his hand in the direction of the bar.
“The Rodríguez family is sitting at the table with your neighbours. The old man is very generous. He is nearly eighty years old, but he never forgets he grew up in El Hoyo.”
Ah, so I was right. The old man was Alejandro Junior’s grandfather, another Alejandro.
“There’s Judith and Mother,” Joe broke in. “I must go and help them, excuse me.”
He strode off, calling and waving to attract their attention, leaving me alone with the mayor. How could you leave me on my own with Pancho?
“Beaky,” said Pancho in a low voice, his eyes boring into mine. “Beaky, if you ever want a, err ... private chat with me, I have a very nice room in the Town Hall.”
I stared back at him, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt.
“Thank you,” I said grimly, deliberately misunderstanding his words. “Joe and I don’t have any problems, but if we do, we’ll come and see you.”
By now, a group was gathering on the stage and people were drifting over, some sitting on the wobbly benches, others standing in clusters, waiting for the speech to begin.
“I will see you later, Beaky,” said Pancho. “Now I must make my speech, but perhaps we can arrange to meet? You could give me some lessons in English, no?”
No, I thought, but was saved from answering by a lucky incident. Two dogs hurtled past, followed by Paco’s young dog, Yukky, in panting hot pursuit, almost knocking the mayor off his feet. I managed to escape before he could collect himself.
“Has that dreadful old sleaze-bag been bothering you again?” boomed Judith, appearing at my side.
“Judith! Mother! How are you both?” I turned to greet them.
Mother looked amazing as usual. Few people would have guessed she was in her nineties. Needing very little support from Joe and Judith, she stood straight and tall, her white gloves resting lightly on their arms. Today she wore cornflower blue and her clutch bag and court shoes matched perfectly. Tiny blue enamel cornflowers decorated her ears and her silver hair was caught up into a sophisticated chignon.
“Mother, you look wonderful,” I said, kissing her papery cheek, sniffing the familiar smell of Chanel No.5.
“Thank you, dear,” she smiled.
“Mother, we’re going to find you a seat,” announced Judith, taking charge. “Let’s get you sat down before the wretched speeches start. Goodness knows how long they’ll be and I don’t want you standing.”
We walked to the front as a group, but only just in time. The makeshift benches were already mostly occupied by elderly villagers and finding a place for Mother to sit would be difficult.
“Excuse me,” said Judith, addressing a grey-haired gentleman in Spanish. “Is this place free? My mother needs to sit down.”
To my surprise, I recognised the elderly man. It was Alejandro Senior, the millionaire benefactor, Alejandro Junior’s grandfather. He glanced up, his eyes widening when he saw Mother.
“Of course,” he said, standing courteously, allowing Mother to settle herself. He bowed over her hand. “I am Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez and I am enchanted to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” purred Mother and I caught a wicked look in her eye.
“Now, tell me what you’ve been up to,” said Judith, turning back to Joe and me, satisfied that Mother was comfortable.
We chatted until the mayor addressed the crowd, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see Alejandro Senior and Mother. Judging by their body language, I could see they were enjoying each other’s company enormously.
All went well with the speeches and Pancho’s voice droned on. The adults listened but the kids continued to play and the dogs barked.
“...and without your very good friend and mine,” Pancho was saying, “without Alejandro Fernández Rodríguez, our wonderful new community building would not have been possible.” The mayor, scanned the crowd for Alejandro. “Alejandro? Where is Alejandro?”
Alejandro Senior had been so captivated by Mother, he hadn’t been paying attention. Mother’s gloved fingers tapped him lightly on the arm, indicating the stage. Alejandro tore his eyes from her to look at the mayor.
Realising he was being called, he raised an arm and rose to his feet to an explosion of applause from the villagers.
Unfortunately, the sudden noise had an unexpected effect.
5. Moths and Yeso
Roasted Mushrooms with Onions and Herbs
The spontaneous burst of hand-clapping and cheers as Alejandro Senior rose to his feet set off the village dogs. They began barking excitedly then galloped as a pack into the throng, which parted to let them through.
“Madre mía!” shouted Paco and Carmen from somewhere. “Bianca! Yukky! Come here!”
“Copito, Canelo!” shouted the Boys.
“Fifi!” shouted the Ufartes.
But there was no stopping the dogs. None of them ever obeyed any commands anyway, even when not excited. Today, the pack was large, comprising weekenders’ dogs, Geronimo’s three and some strays we’d seen occasionally.
“Poor things. Those stray dogs should be caught and cared for,” I once said to Geronimo.
“There are too many of them,” he said, “but they are useful. Dogs keep foxes away from our
chickens.”
The Grand Opening and the possibility of scrounging tit-bits had attracted them all. And for some unknown reason, the applause had sent the pack off in a frenzy.
The panting, baying mob of canines ran alongside the front of the stage, past Joe, Judith and me and almost bowled over the now standing Alejandro Senior. He stumbled backward and sat down heavily on the wobbly bench. The sudden weight proved too much and it tipped over, throwing Mother and Alejandro Senior together in a jumble of arms and legs.
Hands shot forward to help the elderly pair back to their feet.
“Madre mía!” everybody said, concerned.
“Mother! Are you all right?” asked Judith.
“I am so sorry,” said Alejandro Senior, gripping Mother’s arm.
“Please don’t worry,” said Mother, a little shaken but as serene as ever. “I’m absolutely fine.”
As Alejandro Senior brushed himself off, I stole a glance at Mother’s face. She was smiling, a naughty gleam in her eye. Our eyes met, her lips twitched and one eyelid dropped in a tiny wink. She’d enjoyed it!
Order was restored and the speeches continued until the building was declared open. We mingled a little and Judith hailed friends and caught up with their news. Food was uncovered and the dogs now snuffled the ground, looking for dropped morsels.
I kept an eye on Alejandro Senior and Mother, but they never stirred from their seat on the bench. They sat close together, deep in conversation, oblivious to the party around them.
We left the festivities earlier than most. In our experience, Spanish parties could continue well into the night.
“I think it went well, don’t you?” said Joe.
“Apart from Pancho asking me for private English lessons. How could you leave me on my own with him?
“You didn’t agree, did you?”
“No, of course not. I hope he forgets all about it.”
“Interesting meeting Alejandro Senior, wasn’t it?” said Joe, unlocking our front door.
“Yep and if I’m not much mistaken, Mother has got herself a toy boy.”
Joe paused. “You’re joking, of course...”
“I’m not,” I said. And I wasn’t.
As I took a last look round the kitchen, I noticed a couple of moths crawling up a cabinet.
Oh no... Let’s hope it’s just a couple of stray ones, I thought, then yawned and went to bed.
The next morning, I nibbled my toast as Joe tucked into his customary muesli.
“I think they’ve changed the recipe for this,” said Joe, speaking with his mouth full. He took a swig of coffee. “It tastes okay, but it’s kind of lumpy.”
“We’ll try another brand next time,” I said, absently staring out of the window at the beautiful day. The blue sky was almost too bright for my eyes. One of our chickens launched into the Egg Song and a cock crowed somewhere in the village. The telephone rang and Joe disappeared before the second ring.
“Vicky?” Dogs barked in the background.
“Morning, Judith.”
“Have you got Mother with you? She didn’t come home last night. I just took the old gal a cup of tea and her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“What? No, she’s not with us! What time did you leave the party?”
“Oh, about half past two, I think. Mother said she wasn’t ready to go and said she’d get a lift home later.”
“Really? Gosh, I hope she’s okay...”
“Oh, cancel that, dear! A car’s just drawn up outside. Good lord, you should see it! I think it’s a Mercedes, a flashy, black one. One of those posh cabriolet jobs. The roof’s folded back and yes, Alejandro is driving it. He’s getting out now and opening the door for Mother. Must go! Speak to you later.” The receiver was hurriedly replaced and the line cut.
“I was right,” I said to Joe, chuckling. “Mother has got herself a toy boy.”
We chortled over that for a while, until Joe noticed another couple of those pesky moths crawling along the counter.
The next day, to our horror, there were many more of them in the kitchen. As I began to prepare breakfast, they were crawling up the window, the walls and every work surface.
“Finish making the breakfast,” I said. “I’m going to look them up on the Internet. This is getting ridiculous.”
I typed ‘moths in the kitchen’ and literally thousands of references jumped up. I picked one at random. Yes, that photograph was most definitely our moth. I read further.
‘Food moths, or pantry moths, are generally pale in colour and about 1 centimetre long. At first you may see only one or two individuals, but before long, they will multiply quickly. They can often be found in bags of bird seed or dried goods.’
Yes, we’d discovered that to our cost. But we’d dealt with that, the chicken grain had been disposed of. I read on.
‘Food moths lay their eggs, which hatch into larvae and will then continue their life-cycle by weaving cocoons in any crevice they can find before emerging to start the cycle again.’
Did we have food moths breeding somewhere in our kitchen? It seemed very likely. After all, we’d had a plague of them and a few could easily have sneaked into the house and started breeding. I wondered where they were hatching and read a little more.
‘You may notice tiny grubs swinging from thin threads from cupboard doors. You may see empty cocoons on the folds of paper bags and the corners of food packets or boxes. It is advisable to check your flour and cereal for clumps. Close examination will show that the clumps seem to be held together with little strands, like spiders’ webs...’
My hand flew to my mouth in horror, just as an anguished howl rent the air. I abandoned the computer and ran to the kitchen, already pretty sure what I might find.
“My muesli! They’ve been hatching in my muesli!”
“The moths?”
“Yes, of course, the blasted moths!” he shouted, his face a picture of disgust. “I’ve eaten two-thirds of that packet of muesli! I told you it was lumpy! Look at it, it’s crawling with the things!”
I took the cereal bowl over to the light and examined it closely. Yes, there were the sticky clumps I’d just read about. And there were the tiny grubs, wriggling happily amongst the nuts and oats.
All other plans were put aside that day as we systematically went through the cupboards throwing out all the boxes of cereal, bags of flour and packs of rice. Not until we’d washed down every shelf and vacuumed every crevice were we satisfied.
Touch wood, the pantry moths haven’t returned.
In the heart of summer, any casual visitor might be forgiven for imagining El Hoyo was a ghost town. The searing heat chased everybody inside, or under cover. Dogs were too hot to bark and lolled listlessly in the shade and cats hid in crumbling, disused buildings.
Only when the sun had safely set did people venture outside again. At twilight, they promenaded up the hill. Cats mysteriously reappeared and the dogs barked at the cats. The old folk sat in the square and watched the children play while motorbikes buzzed up and down the streets.
In our street, Papa Ufarte sat on his doorstep, quietly strumming his guitar, head bent low as he watched his fingers move over the strings. Granny Ufarte sat in her armchair in the street, dozing. The Ufarte children ran in and out of the house, squeezing past Papa Ufarte and his guitar.
Gradually the music became louder and more insistent. Maribel, Lola and any visiting friends and relations emerged with chatter and chairs. Sometimes one or two of the guests brought guitars and the sound of flamenco and applause soon filled the street.
The ladies chatted, called to each other and laughed. Inevitably toes and feet tapped, then hands were clapped, all in time to the rhythm. One by one, the ladies rose and so began the ancient Andalucian gypsy dance. With heads held proudly and arms high, they stamped and whirled with defiant, explosive steps. Joe and I often stole up to our roof terrace to admire the scene down below.
All too soon, the sultry summer days began to
shorten and it was September. Our boxes from Bahrain finally arrived, although by then, they were almost more well-travelled than we were.
They left Bahrain but first holidayed for a while in neighbouring Doha. Then they returned to Bahrain. After that they spent a few weeks in a warehouse in Germany. From Germany they flew to northern Spain. Foolishly, we believed we’d soon be welcoming them home but, instead, they set off back to Germany.
After a long weekend in Germany, they decided to visit Belgium. Obviously Belgium wasn’t to their liking, because, yet again, they returned for another week’s holiday in the warehouse in Germany.
Every few days I typed in our tracking number, which by then I knew by heart: 1Z97840-V6-87906. I learned that our boxes had, at last, returned to Spain, this time Madrid. They obviously enjoyed the city, because they seemed rather reluctant to move from there.
I wrote to the company, asking for news. Back came the reply, in English.
‘Please don’t worry Mrs Twead. The shipment is under my personal control. Now, we are showing the documentation to Customs Authorities. We think they will like your documentation and you will meet your boxes soon.’
Finally, our boxes made their slow way down to us in the south. To be exact, they were delivered to a friend in the next village, as we didn’t trust the parcel company to be able to locate El Hoyo.
It was a bit of an anticlimax when they finally arrived. We had to pay another 20 euros for ‘country tax’ or something and the boxes themselves were battered and had clearly been broken into.
By now we could hardly remember what we’d packed and when we tore the boxes open, most of the stuff was of very little use. All those long trousers, shirts and ties for Joe, the long skirts and long-sleeved tops for me, when would we ever wear them again? They were essential for our teaching career in the Middle East, but here in Spain? I packed them all up again and instructed Joe to store them in the garage, where they remain, gathering dust.
However, packing the stuff away gave me a good feeling of closure. That chapter in our lives, that year in Bahrain as the Arab revolution raged around us, was over, shelved out of sight but not quite out of mind. It had been a stressful experience, one that cannot easily be forgotten.
Two Old Fools in Spain Again Page 4
