The chickens were laying well and I’d cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast. Joe poured the tea and I served the toast and eggs.
“That looks delicious,” said the vicar. “Thank you!”
“Just a slice of dry toast for me, please,” said Mavis primly.
“Salt? Pepper?” I asked James.
“Oh no,” Mavis broke in. “The vicar never touches spicy food of any kind. He’s a martyr to his delicate stomach.”
I managed to keep a straight face and not think of the large plate of curry the vicar had devoured late last night. I would keep his secret. Joe was already lifting the first forkful of scrambled egg to his mouth when Mavis threw both hands up to her face in horror.
“Wait!” she cried.
Joe froze, eyes bulging, mouth still open, loaded fork hovering.
“The vicar hasn’t said Grace yet!” said Mavis in hushed tones, then pressed her thin lips together, closed her eyes and bowed her sausage curls, waiting.
“I’m sure the Good Lord would forgive us if we missed it just once, my dear. We’re on holiday after all,” said the vicar mildly. When the sausage curls bowed even lower he sighed and mumbled a quick blessing.
Thankfully, Judith arrived soon after and spirited our guests away for the day. But not before I had the chance to say a line I’d always wanted to say...
“More tea, vicar?”
El Hoyo at fiesta time is madness. Marching bands come out of the hills. Processions form. Contests take place and clowns perform. Flamenco dancers writhe and stamp. Fireworks shoot into the sky, day and night. One year, the village square was filled with foam to play in, another year, coloured plastic balls. We loved it all. If we didn’t join in, we would stand on our roof terrace looking down at all the activity.
Late that evening, the vicar and his wife returned, having spent a pleasant day with Judith sightseeing. They’d toured Almería and its castle and driven into the mountains to eat in a whitewashed village restaurant.
“Judith had to drop us miles away tonight,” complained Mavis. “We couldn’t drive into El Hoyo at all because the road is blocked with all the parked cars. I was very worried about the vicar’s hip. He’s not supposed to exert himself too much.”
“I was fine, dear,” reproached the vicar. “Good exercise and I enjoyed the walk. There certainly are a lot of people in the village at the moment.”
“It’s like this every year,” I said. “Saturday is the main day of the fiesta. The dancing will go on until four or five in the morning. The band just carries on playing until the last people leave.”
“Good heavens!” said Mavis, tossing her perfectly cylindrical iron curls at the thought. “Well, the vicar and I shall be in bed. Could I trouble you for some warm milk to take up with us? I know my husband must be exhausted after our busy day today.”
“No trouble at all,” I said and heated the milk.
Off they went upstairs, Mavis firmly leading the way. Did I see James give me a tiny wink? I thought so. The door at the top of the stairs closed behind them.
“I’m willing to bet that’s not the last we’ve seen of the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery tonight,” said Joe.
I agreed with him.
10. The Fiesta and Cold Water
Frisco Omelette
Just before midnight the door at the top of the stairs opened again and Joe and I smiled at each other. We heard the now familiar footsteps coming down the stairs.
“It’s only me,” grinned the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery. “Mavis is out like a light, she took a double dose of sleeping pills. The band is even louder tonight.”
Far from complaining, his foot was tapping in time to the beat that permeated even the thick walls of our house. I noticed he was fully dressed this time and the dog collar had gone.
“Shall we take a drink outside?” suggested Joe.
The vicar raised his white eyebrows. “I rather thought we’d go and join the fun in the square,” he said. “But yes, I wouldn’t mind another glass of that marvellous wine of yours!”
It was another balmy night and we enjoyed a leisurely drink outside in the garden. We told James about the fiesta goings-on that day and he described their sightseeing visit to Almería. He was impressed by the castle. Although some of it is in ruins, there is still much to see. Built high on a hill by the Moors a thousand years ago, the encircling fortifications protected 20,000 people in the town. To this day, gypsies still live in the caves at its foot.
“I didn’t know Almería is an Arabic word meaning ‘mirror of the sea’,” he said.
We didn’t know that either.
James drained his glass and set it down.
“Well,” he proposed, “shall we wander on down to the square?”
The closer we got to the square, the louder the music became until we could hardly hear each others’ words above the pounding beat.
“This certainly beats our village fêtes in the rectory garden!” James shouted into my ear.
The square and its surroundings were a seething mass of people. The new bar was packed, every seat taken. Stalls, manned by dark-skinned Moroccans, sold plastic toys, hot-dogs and firecrackers. Dogs barked soundlessly, unheard above the music. Marcia sat on a straight-backed chair in her shop doorway, her fingers busy with knitting, her eyes playing over the crowds like searchlights. Geronimo sat on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs, his Real Madrid scarf draped around his neck. He lifted a bottle of beer to his lips to drink and I saw another two bottles lined up beside him, awaiting his attention.
People were dancing in family knots: mothers, fathers, grandparents and children. I saw Lola and Papa Ufarte dancing with the twins, while Maribel sat on a bench, jiggling a pushchair containing a sleeping toddler. As I watched, the twins tired of dancing and chased away to join a group of children near the stalls.
Paco, Carmen, Alejandro and his wife, Sofía and Alejandro Junior danced nearby. Beside them, Alejandro Senior clasped Mother to him, one arm encircling her waist, the other clasping her hand aloft as he deftly guided her through the other dancers. Paco caught sight of us, waved a greeting and beckoned us over.
“Shall we?” I asked, eyebrows raised in question. I knew James and Joe couldn’t hear me. The music was unfamiliar, but the rhythm was mesmeric, making my feet itch to dance.
I didn’t expect James to follow, but he did. We joined Paco’s family group and jigged and swayed with them, drinking in the Spanish party atmosphere. The heat, the sounds, the smells, the happy faces and the vibration of the music seeped into my bones as it always did. I was loving it and judging by his face, so was the vicar.
One tune melted into the next and I lost all sense of time. We rarely wore wristwatches and it would have been impossible to hear the church clock strike the hour above the music. Joe caught his breath and stopped dancing for a while, but the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery was in his element. He adapted his steps to the changing rhythm, a broad grin stretched across his face as he whirled and tapped. He didn’t look like a man who suffered from a painful hip to me.
The band at the fiesta
At around two o’clock, Geronimo jumped off the stage and rummaged beneath it. He backed out with an armful of wicked-looking fireworks, great rockets packed with explosive. I knew what was going to happen next and it wasn’t my favourite aspect of Spanish life.
“Watch!” I shouted to James, pointing to Geronimo.
He swung round and I saw his eyes widen. The band finished their number, paused, then backed away from Geronimo who had joined them on the stage. Now everybody watched as Geronimo held a firework aloft, pointing it at the sky. He set light to the touch-paper then allowed the firework to burst from his grasp and shoot into the air.
“Good grief! That’s so dangerous!” said James. “What about Health and Safety?”
“This is Spain, James.”
One by one, Geronimo let the fireworks off and they arced into the night sky, exploding with a bang that shoo
k the village. The villagers clapped and cheered every time until the last rocket had been set free. Then the band struck up again and the dancing continued with even more gusto.
Some time later, I was still on the dance floor. Occasionally I took a rest and so did Joe, but there was no stopping the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery. He gyrated, bounced and bobbed, only his white hair giving any clue to his age. Perhaps he could trace some Spanish ancestry back somewhere, because that night his feet were made for dancing. Paco kindly brought us some drinks, which we accepted gratefully, then carried on dancing.
I don’t know what time it was when it happened. Without warning, the village was thrown into total blackness. Every streetlight and coloured bulb fizzled out and the music ground to a halt as the electricity died. For five minutes, the villagers laughed and called, their voices floating through the darkness. Some lit cigarette lighters and held them high, the light casting strange shadows on their faces. Joe grabbed my arm and we stood still, waiting for the power to be restored. This was a common occurrence, particularly at fiesta time.
Just as suddenly, the lights came back on. As I blinked, adjusting to the sudden brightness, a couple standing quite close to me jumped apart guiltily. The crowd cheered and applauded the return of the electricity, but not everybody was in high spirits. As the music struck up and the cheering crowd settled down, a single voice cut through.
It was Maribel. Like me, she had seen her husband and her sister Lola in that close embrace. Like me, she had seen the pair spring apart guiltily. Now she stood, one hand with the knuckles turning white as she clutched the handle of the push chair, her other hand jabbing in fury, her mouth a slash of accusation.
I don’t know what she shrieked at the pair, I didn’t understand the words, but it made the hair rise on the back of my neck. This was a woman in shock, a woman who had just witnessed her own worst nightmare, a woman wronged, outraged. The people standing close by, me included, shrank into themselves and turned away. It was too painful to watch. As his wife screamed and stamped in fury, Papa Ufarte had the grace to look ashamed. Lola just lifted her chin in defiance.
I caught Carmen’s eye. She raised her brows and twitched her shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug, an ‘I told you so’ signal that I understood perfectly.
For me, the evening was spoiled and I wanted to go home. I didn’t feel like dancing any more although the crowd around us was already swinging in time to the music, swallowing up the harrowing scene. Joe was ready to leave too, but the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery was not. He hadn’t seen the distressing drama unfold and his toes were still a-tapping.
“Don’t worry, I can find my own way back,” he shouted over the music as Joe handed him a spare key. “I’ll see you in the morning!”
When we left him, Sofía and Alejandro Junior were teaching him some flamenco steps and he barely waved goodbye.
Joe and I didn’t say much on the short walk home, both deep in thought. We did smile, however, when we saw Little Paco sitting on a doorstep in the shadows with his arm around a pretty young girl. Little Paco was growing up.
There wasn’t much of the night left and we slept soundly through the little that remained. Next morning, when James and Mavis came down for breakfast, nobody would have guessed that the vicar had danced the night away.
“Did you sleep well?” asked Joe innocently.
“Like a log!” returned James, beaming.
“Well, I’m surprised,” said Mavis. “I was worried that the stroll around the castle yesterday would have aggravated your hip problem. One shouldn’t overdo it at our age, you know.”
Nobody said a word.
Judith came to collect our visitors and we said our final goodbyes. I wasn’t sorry to bid Mavis or her prim pussycat-bottom mouth or her rows of iron sausage curls farewell, but evenings would be quieter without the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery.
It was Sunday and the fiesta finished with another flurry of fireworks in the early evening. Village doors were locked and all the cars drove away up the mountain and out of the valley. Joe and I were saddened to see that Maribel Ufarte had also quit the village, taking her children and the unborn baby away, but leaving her husband and Lola together in their house.
In El Hoyo, months often slipped quietly by without a fuss, but that October was not one of them. The fiesta and the visit by the vicar and his wife were closely followed by another: the Gin Twins’ visit.
Of course they were as badly behaved as ever and I dread to think how many bottles of gin they consumed between them. But we had a blast. We went exploring villages, got lost numerous times, lazed by a friend’s pool, played Rude Scrabble (rules supplied upon application) and ate and drank far too much. My face ached from laughing. After a week of riotous living we bade them farewell until the next year.
The following October event wasn’t so amusing. Workmen appeared in the village and began digging holes randomly. Before we had a chance to find out what was happening, our water supply was switched off. It stayed shut off for two entire days, reappearing without warning. First a rusty trickle dripped from our taps, then a more enthusiastic jet of clear water appeared.
We assumed that maintenance on the village water supply was complete, but we were mistaken. For nearly a week, the water was randomly shut off and then resumed without warning.
One time, Joe was taking a shower, happily singing away. I could hear him as I typed at my computer.
“It’s been a hard day’s night,
And I’ve been working like a do-o-g,
It’s been a hard day’s night,
I should be sleeping like a... (pause)
VICKY! There’s no blasted water! Those idiots have turned it off again!”
“Oh dear.”
“VICKY? Where are you? I need to get this soap and shampoo off!”
“Okay, I’m coming...”
We always kept a few bottles of water in case of emergencies. And I had no choice, did I? I had to grab our bottled water from the fridge and throw it over his head and body to rinse the soap and shampoo. Yes, it was icy cold. Yes, he did bellow profanities. Yes, it did make him shudder and dance. And yes, I did enjoy doing it…
Unfortunately, Joe wasn’t the only one to suffer a cold shower that autumn.
Nowadays, most chickens are bred to lay eggs happily whether there is a cockerel present to fertilise them or not. The hen lays her daily egg then abandons it, no thought of incubation or childcare troubling her thoughts. However, just occasionally, something goes awry.
One day, Three decided she didn’t want to be parted from her egg. Instead of jumping down and carrying on with her normal daily pursuits of eating, preening and dustbathing, she chose to sit on her egg and stare into space.
Instead of roosting with her sisters, Three stayed with her egg all night. The next day and the next, she laid more eggs and still she stayed sitting on the nest. Three had definitely ‘gone broody’ and we had no idea how to deal with her.
Of course the eggs would never hatch, however long she sat on them. We tried removing the eggs, even though she pecked at our hands as we stole them from beneath her. It made no difference, she just sat on the empty nest, staring straight ahead.
Every now and then she left the nest, jumped down and produced an enormous, smelly poop. She snatched a beakful of food, took a few sips of water, then hurried back to her nest. According to the Internet, this is all normal behaviour for a broody hen.
Poor Three began to look a little ragged. She must have been hungry and uncomfortable, but still she remained immobile on that nest. We were at a complete loss how to help her.
“Pah!” said Paco, slamming his fist onto our kitchen table, “I will show you what I do with such a hen!”
“You won’t hurt her?”
“No, of course not! Now, watch me.”
Paco filled a bucket with cold water and carried it to the coop. We watched, round-eyed. He grabbed poor Three and carried her, flapping and
protesting, to the bucket of water.
“Oh no!” I gasped as he held her upside down and dunked her, headfirst, into the cold water.
“Uno, dos, tres,” counted Paco, then set a soaking wet and shocked Three on the ground. “Now she will forget all about the eggs.”
The chicken shook her feathers in a blur and water droplets flew off. She stood still for a moment, having a deep think, clearly disoriented. Then she realised she was ravenously hungry and pecked enthusiastically at the grain. After a good drink of water, she settled down to preen her feathers and take a dustbath. All thoughts of egg incubation and starting a family were forgotten.
That November, strong winds ripped through the valley, snatching the last crisp leaves from our grapevine. Over-ripened grapes still hung from the vine’s branches, attracting wasps and fruit flies. Frequently the grapes dropped with a splat on the patio below, leaving black sticky stains. Now that the leaves were stripped away, we could see the grapes and cut them down. It took several hours, an unpleasant job, dodging wasps and smearing ourselves with decomposing fruit that already smelled alcoholic.
Chickens eat everything, it doesn’t matter how unpleasant it may seem to us. I’ve seen a video of a chicken catching and swallowing an entire live mouse. They’ll eat dead or live cockroaches, potato peelings and their own eggshells, which are supposed to be good for them. So when we threw the rotting grapes into the coop, the chickens dived on them. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I’m sure the fermenting grapes caused the girls to stagger to bed that night.
By November, the wind had lost its hair-dryer warmth and had a chilling edge to it. The sun was still warm but nights were long and cold. We stockpiled our logs and lit the woodburner a little earlier each day.
But now Christmas approached and as with every year, Carmen and Paco came round bearing gifts of home-grown tomatoes, a bottle of red wine and a poinsettia. The tomatoes were useful for homemade tomato soup and the wine was most welcome too. However, as always, the poinsettia filled me with dread.
Two Old Fools in Spain Again Page 8
