Two Old Fools in Spain Again

by Victoria Twead

  Obediently, I took a healthy slurp.

  “Mmm... Very nice,” I said.

  “But what about the taste?” Alejandro wanted to know.

  “Err...” I sipped again and tried to remember a few things Alejandro had said. “Unpretentious. Maybe a trace of almonds?”

  I struck lucky.

  “Excellent!” exclaimed our host. “That is precisely what I would have said. Joe, what do you think?”

  I passed the glass to Joe and he sampled it as Alejandro’s eyes bored into him.

  “Oh, I agree with Vicky.”

  “Good, finish that off and we’ll discuss the next.” Alejandro was already pushing another glass towards me.

  I swigged and racked my writer’s brain for some suitable comment to bestow upon this one. “A sunny little wine,” I tried. “A fresh, open-air taste.”

  Alejandro nodded. “Indeed, a very good description,” he said.

  I passed the glass to Joe, who was gaping at me. He raised it to his lips.

  “Well? Your opinion, Joe?”

  “Oh, I agree with Vicky.”

  Satisfied, Alejandro handed me the next and the next. Each time I had to come up with a new description and as the wine took its inevitable hold, my verdicts became more flowery. It was beyond the limits of my Spanish vocabulary, but Alejandro Junior’s English was excellent and he interpreted for his father.

  “Ah, a playful wine!” I said. “I sense a hint of irony with just a twist of summer twilight in the mountains.” I was talking complete rubbish, but Alejandro Junior dutifully translated and his father seemed impressed. Alejandro glanced at Joe, eyebrows raised in question.

  “Oh, I agree with Vicky,” said Joe hurriedly.

  “And this one?”

  Sip, sip, pause. I was getting into my swing now. “Um, a melodious blend with hidden depths, rather a witty little wine with a riddle in the aftertaste. This wine has a passion and a personality all of its own.”

  Judging by the narrowing of Joe’s eyes, perhaps I was going a bit too far. Alejandro Junior translated.

  “Good! Good!” nodded Alejandro. “Joe? I take it you agree with Vicky.”

  “Oh, definitely,” said Joe. “What she said.”

  At last the glasses were empty and Joe and I staggered out of Alejandro’s bodega. We’d spent half an hour tasting wine and I don’t believe Alejandro, Alejandro Junior or Paco had touched a single drop. Back in the kitchen, Alejandro Senior rose to meet us.

  “Do you want to see the animals?” he asked.

  “Yesh please,” we said.

  Alejandro Senior led us past the three snarling monsters and through another gate to a field. Vegetables grew in neat rows and a worker was hoeing the soil. I had my camera with me and snapped it all. We skirted the cultivated land, heading for the barn at the end. Tethered to a fence was a young horse, pawing the ground with one front hoof.

  “He’s not broken in yet,” said Alejandro Senior approaching him confidently.

  The colt’s nostrils flared and his eyes rolled in warning, showing their whites. Alejandro Senior patted his neck and the horse stood still, accepting the attention but not enjoying it, still fearful. I fumbled with the camera, snapping pictures.

  Just then, Joe sneezed. The young horse, startled, swung round and aimed a kick at Alejandro Senior. Alejandro Senior skipped back and aimed a kick at the front end of the horse.

  Very rarely, one takes a photo that one knows is extraordinary and I knew I had just accomplished that by accident. The old man and the young horse formed a perfect circle, each aiming a kick at the other. The backdrop of rolling mountains, the field and the blue sky, contributed to what I was convinced would be an exceptional photo.

  “Wait until you see this photo,” I said to Joe. “I think it’s a bit special.”

  I didn’t enjoy the animal tour, although I tried hard to hide it. All the animals were provided with food and water but I silently deplored their living conditions. In one shed white rabbits were being reared for the pot. There was a huge white buck in one tiny cage and mothers with their babies in other equally small cages. I don’t think eating rabbit meat is wrong, but I do believe that every animal deserves a decent quality of life.

  The chicken shed was no better. The hens were housed in small cages and had no opportunity to stretch their wings or scratch the ground. The shed was artificially lit and Alejandro Senior explained that the lights were left on to fool the chickens into thinking it was still daylight so they would lay more eggs.

  After seeing terrified quails scattering in the last shed, I was ready to go home. We thanked our hosts and left soon after, heads still befuddled by the wine-tasting session.

  “You certainly waxed lyrical in the bodega,” Joe said.

  “Well, you weren’t much help with your ‘I agree with Vicky.’ Couldn’t you come up with anything better?”

  “You seemed to be doing fine all by yourself.”

  Halfway home, I remembered the photo I’d taken. I stopped and scrolled through the day’s photos, searching for it. And it was superb, even on the camera’s little digital display. I couldn’t wait to see it full-size.

  “Here, let’s have a look,” said Joe grabbing the camera. “Where is it?”

  “Click the button on the left and scroll through. It’s quite near the end.”

  “I can’t see any photos.”

  “Which button did you press?”

  “This one.”

  I craned forward to see which button he was indicating. It was clearly marked, although the print was tiny. ‘Eliminar todas’.

  “You’re joking?”

  “No, why?”

  “You’ve just deleted all the photos I took today.”

  “Oh.”

  I had lost my masterpiece and all the photos stored in the camera. We would have to rely on our wine-blurred memories to recapture that remarkable day.

  One evening in October, much to my surprise, Joe answered the phone when it rang. He didn’t call me, so I didn’t bother to listen. He came back into the kitchen scratching himself furiously.

  “That was Judith. She really should lock those dogs of hers away when she’s making a phone call, I could hardly hear a word she said.”

  “How is she? How’s Mother? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, they’re all fine. She rang to ask us a favour. She’s invited some friends of hers from the UK to come and stay for a weekend. They’ve booked their flights and now she’s discovered that the wife is allergic to pet hair.”

  “Don’t tell me she wants us to take all the dogs and cats!”

  “No, but it’s nearly as bad...”

  “What then?”

  “She wants us to put her visitors up here.”

  “What? Who are these people?”

  “They’re the vicar and his wife from the village she used to live in.”

  “You’re joking! I hope you made some excuse!”

  “I couldn’t think quickly enough. I said it would be okay.”

  “Joe! You didn’t!”

  “I didn’t know what to say!”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

  Well, it was too late to invent an excuse now. We’d just have to make the best of it. Perhaps I was being uncharitable, but I really wasn’t looking forward to having strangers sharing our house, particularly a man of the cloth and his spouse.

  9. The Vicar and His Wife

  Roasted Peaches

  As the days went by, I became more and more anxious about the impending visit by the vicar and his wife. I worried about our house. Would our guests be comfortable? Would they remember to duck their heads through some of the smaller doorways? Would they mind the electricity switching off without warning? And would they notice Joe’s scratching?

  As luck would have it, our guests’ visit would coincide with El Hoyo’s annual fiesta, which was another source of worry for me. Would they be able to stand the thump of music all night? What about the constant
fireworks?

  As the village prepared for the fiesta, I prepared the house, cleaning every nook and cranny. Judith had promised to whisk the vicar and his wife away every morning, so they would only be with us late evenings and at breakfast time, but I wanted everything in order.

  On the Friday, Geronimo fired rockets into the sky at midday, heralding the opening of the fiesta and start of the festivities. As the day wore on, more people descended into the valley. The village was packed with local families and their friends and relations, the cars jamming the narrow streets and parking in every available space.

  At around nine in the evening, our guests arrived, shepherded by Judith. She introduced us to the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery and his wife, Mavis. To my relief, I liked the vicar instantly. He had a kindly face with a smile that never seemed to leave his lips. His shock of white hair nearly matched his dog collar and his eyes were good-natured and friendly. I wish I could have said the same for his wife, Mavis.

  “We’re very pleased to meet you,” Joe said, shaking hands and I followed suit.

  The vicar’s handshake was warm and reassuring, but shaking hands with Mavis was like clutching a bunch of dead twigs.

  In contrast with her husband, Mavis was bony and angular with elbows that jutted out sharply and gimlet eyes that stared out from behind a pair of spectacles hanging from a gold chain about her scrawny neck. Her eyebrows were pencilled in and gave her an air of permanent surprise, while her lips were pale and pressed together.

  “It’s very kind of you to take us in,” said the vicar, smiling. “We’re so sorry if we’ve put you out at all.”

  “Not at all!” I said, lying through my teeth. “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Very smooth and pleasant...” the vicar began, but his wife cut across him.

  “The poor vicar found the flight terribly cramped,” she said, “and the food was appalling. I had to send it back and ask for something else. My husband wouldn’t dream of complaining, of course, but I knew it would upset his sensitive stomach.”

  “It wasn’t that bad, Mavis, dear.”

  Mavis pursed her lips, which was to become a familiar mannerism to us in the next couple of days. Joe said her mouth looked like ‘a pussycat’s bottom’ and he wasn’t far wrong. She also had a habit of jerking her head from side to side as though checking to see if somebody was creeping up on her. Her hair had been set into orderly rows of sausage curls, but sprayed so heavily they never moved.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, m’dears!” said Judith. “Toodle-pip and I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that she was gone.

  “Er, what should we call you?” I asked the vicar as Joe portered their cases upstairs.

  “Oh, just...” he smiled, but Mavis was already chiming in.

  “My husband is accustomed to being addressed as ‘Reverend’”, she said, “but ‘Vicar’ will do as we’re on holiday.”

  “Okay. Well, let me show you around,” I said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here with us.”

  The vicar chatted amiably as we toured, but Mavis stayed silent, her head flicking from left to right, as though searching for places I’d forgotten to dust.

  “Would you like to see outside?” I asked when we were in the kitchen. My hand rested on the handle of the back door, ready to open it. “It’s dark, but we have outside lights in the garden. I’ll show you the chickens, although they’ll be asleep now.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mavis, pursing her lips. “We wouldn’t want the vicar to catch a chill.”

  “A snack, perhaps?” I asked, as Joe joined us. “Or something to drink?”

  “I think the vicar would like a nice warm milk, if you have it,” said Mavis. “We’ll take it up to bed. Nothing to eat, thank you, the vicar never goes to bed on a full stomach. It’s been a very tiring day for my husband and he needs his full nine hours of sleep every night.”

  Joe had been heading for the drinks cupboard but changed direction and pulled a saucepan from the rack instead.

  “I hope you’ll sleep okay,” I said. “I’m afraid the dancing in the square is going to start soon. I hope it doesn’t keep you awake.”

  “I have terrible trouble sleeping,” said Mavis. “I shall take one of my sleeping pills.”

  “Oh, the noise and music won’t worry me,” said the vicar and gave me a tiny wink that I couldn’t quite interpret.

  Our house had a quirky layout. It had a bathroom and cave bedroom downstairs, while upstairs there were another two bedrooms, a bathroom and a little kitchenette. Unless we had visitors, we rarely used the upstairs rooms and could shut the door at the top of the stairs. When the vicar and his wife climbed the stairs to bed, they shut the door behind them and Joe and I looked at each other.

  “Well!” I said.

  “Isn’t that Mavis awful!” groaned Joe. “Thank goodness they’ve gone to bed. I don’t think I could stand being around her for long. Shall we have a drink?”

  We hadn’t eaten yet, but a drink was very welcome. Joe poured us a couple of glasses and we sank onto the kitchen chairs. Relaxing, we discussed our visitors further.

  “He’s nice,” I said, “but she’s...”

  “She’s dreadful! A dragon! How does he put up with her?”

  “Does she ever let him speak?”

  “I bet she does the sermons in church!”

  We drank and giggled over the She-Vicar for a good half hour until I suddenly heard a familiar noise.

  “Ssssh! That’s the door at the top of the stairs opening! They’re coming back down!”

  We both sat up straight and waited. Quiet, slippered footsteps came down the stairs, through the dining room and into the kitchen. It was the vicar. Resplendent in a dressing-gown with JM embroidered in gold on the breast pocket, he stood there, grinning broadly at us.

  “She’s asleep,” he said. “She won’t wake until the morning. Is that offer of a drink still there?”

  Of course it was! Joe pulled out a chair and I poured him a stiff brandy.

  “Please call me James,” he said. “I sometimes forget I have a name, I’m so used to being called ‘Reverend’ or ‘Vicar’. Actually, my middle name is Andrew, but Mavis objected to having JAM embroidered on my towels and dressing-gown pockets.”

  Within ten minutes, we were the best of friends, laughing, joking and swapping stories. James was hilarious and if his sermons were as good as his stories, I was sure the pews in his church were packed full every Sunday.

  “Can we go outside?” he asked. “I’d love to see the garden and your chickens.”

  It was a wonderful, warm balmy night. We switched on the garden lights and took our drinks with us. James was fascinated by the sleeping chickens, roosting on their outside perch. Each hen sat so close to her sister that they looked like one continuous chicken with seven sets of claws locked onto the roosting rail.

  “I never knew chickens snored!” he said.

  “Oh, they always do,” we assured him.

  “Silly birds are still sleeping outside,” Joe added. “When winter sets in, they are going to get cold. We’ll have to train them to sleep inside somehow.”

  Even in the middle of October, winter seemed a long way off. The air was heavily scented from our jasmine bush and the sky was black velvet spangled with a million blinking stars. The band in the square began to play and the villagers clapped and cheered. Behind our walls, nobody could see us, but we heard children scamper past up the street, dogs barking, men discussing politics and ladies chattering, all heading for the square. The village was waking up for the fiesta.

  One drink followed another until my stomach growled.

  “We haven’t eaten yet,” I said. “We’ve got a big, hot curry to reheat, would you like some, James?” Joe and I love spicy food.

  “Curry? I’d love some!”

  “It’s hot...”

  “Perfect, the hotter and spicier, the better!”

  We sat outside until the earl
y hours, eating, drinking and listening to the fiesta. Sylvia and her almost-grown kittens, Felicity and Snitch, appeared from nowhere. When the kittens saw we had nothing to offer them, they chased each other and romped behind the flowerpots.

  “This is a marvellous place to live,” said James. “I can understand why you’re so happy here. I love our village in England, but this life-style takes some beating.”

  “I know,” said Joe. “We’re very lucky.”

  “Do you wear your dog collar every day?” I asked curiously.

  “Vicky!” Joe said, scolding me. “It’s called a clerical collar!”

  “That’s okay, Joe. I call it a dog collar too. Yes, I tend to wear it every day. Mavis prefers me wearing it and I don’t really mind.”

  When the church bell chimed four times, we knew it was two o’clock. I yawned.

  “It’s late,” I said. “The church clock always repeats itself. I think I’m ready for bed.”

  “Me too,” said Joe.

  The Reverend James Andrew Montgomery stood up and stretched.

  “Yep, bed for me too,” he said. “It’s been a wonderful evening, thank you both. I’ll see you in the morning and please,” he tapped his nose conspiratorially, “not a word to Mavis.”

  Joe and I watched him depart and lingered in the garden for a few moments more.

  “Who would have thought it...” I said.

  “I don’t think this visit is going to be so bad after all,” said Joe.

  We cleared the table as the band thumped out its music. It would carry on for many hours yet and tomorrow night would be an even bigger occasion. The chickens, undisturbed, snored on, although Sick-Note coughed occasionally.

  The next morning the vicar and his wife appeared at 8 o’clock, dressed and ready for the day. Mavis’s curls were all in place and James looked bright and refreshed.

  “Did you sleep well?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, thank you,” answered Mavis. “I was worried that the fiesta might keep the vicar awake, but he says it didn’t bother him at all.”

  “That’s good,” I said and caught one of James’s tiny winks. This time I understood it.