Before he had time to discover which was the doctor’s door, the lights suddenly switched off leaving him standing in pitch darkness. The lights were the energy-saving kind and designed to switch on for a few moments when the main entrance was opened. He fumbled up and down the nearest wall, feeling for a light switch but found nothing. So he opened the main door and the lights came on again. He spotted the light switch on the wall opposite and reached it just before the lights switched off again. But the light switch didn’t work.
Well, I’ll just have to feel my way around, he thought.
Joe had no idea which door belonged to the doctor. He walked around the wall, feeling his way.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed as he tripped over the communal side table. And, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” when he stubbed his toe and became entangled with the large fake potted plant.
Having reached a door, he listened carefully. He could hear children’s voices and a distant TV, so he was pretty sure that this wasn’t the doctor’s surgery.
He felt his way to the next door and laid his ear on it, listening intently. He could hear nothing, so he crouched down to peer through the key hole.
To his embarrassment the door swung open to reveal a nurse. Joe quickly straightened and stepped back.
“Señor Twead?” she asked.
“Yes, I was just checking to see if I had found the right place,” he explained. “The lights in the hallway don’t work.”
“I know,” she smiled. “They never have. The doctor is expecting you.”
The doctor examined him thoroughly. Of course by now, Joe’s blood pressure was through the roof.
“Your blood pressure is very high,” said the doctor.
He made copious notes, then presented Joe with two huge plastic containers.
“What are they for?” asked Joe.
“You must collect all your urine for 24 hours. Then you must take it to the hospital for testing.”
“Really? Well, I won’t need both of these containers, will I?”
But he did.
On his next visit to the doctor the lights in the hallway still didn’t work, but he remembered which direction to head for and fumbled his way to the correct door quite quickly. The nurse, who turned out to be the doctor’s wife, let him in and the doctor examined him again.
“I have something I want you to wear,” said the doctor, unpacking a box.
This time Joe had to wear a ‘halter’ for 24 hours. A band was wrapped around his upper arm and attached to a little machine at his waist. At half-hour intervals the machine beeped shrilly, the band inflated and his blood pressure reading was recorded.
“I have to do some shopping on my way home,” said Joe.
“That is okay, you must carry on with your life as normal for 24 hours.”
As Joe stood in line at the supermarket checkout, the machine beeped and his fellow customers looked around, wondering where the beeping was coming from.
“Madre mía,” said the cashier and checked her till, convinced it was malfunctioning.
It was an uncomfortable day and a bad night for Joe. He tried hanging the machine over the bedpost but ended up tying himself in knots. It was a great relief to both of us when the 24 hours were over.
He returned to the doctor, who analysed the readings and prescribed tablets. A couple of weeks later he measured Joe’s blood pressure again and was pleased with the results.
“The doctor said I need to keep taking the tablets, but he said they are working well and my blood pressure is nearly normal.”
Of course I was delighted.
One might think that our lifestyle wasn’t very stressful. After all, we were retired and no longer went to work. But there was always something to sky-rocket Joe’s blood pressure to dizzying heights. And sure enough, he was about to be dealt another blow.
Ten days after losing all our BBC channels, Joe switched on the TV to watch the early evening news. We’d adjusted ourselves to watching the independent channel, ITV. Joe hated the advertisements with a passion but he’d accepted them as a necessary evil and at least he could watch the British news and some sports events. Now he stared at the screen in disbelief.
NO SATELLITE SIGNAL IS BEING RECEIVED.
Joe’s roar could be heard several villages away. “WHAT? Have they taken away ITV too?”
Sadly, it was true.
I was very pleased that Joe’s blood pressure had been stabilised with medication. Without the tablets, I think that final blow may have sent it over the edge.
Although the loss of all our TV channels was lamentable, that paled into insignificance when compared with the next loss. Early in the morning the telephone rang again. It was Karly and her voice was small and sad.
“Mum, we’ve just come back from the hospital. Bad news, I’m afraid. They couldn’t detect a heartbeat. The baby died.”
31. Beginnings
Cinnamon Easter Biscuits
It’s May now and summer is already in full swing. Giant carpenter bees bumble around the garden searching for rotten wood to excavate and lay their eggs in. The exotically coloured bee-eaters have returned from wintering in Africa, filling the valley with their distinctive trills. A cuckoo is calling and I know the swallows will arrive any day now.
Our vine has sprung back into life, providing us with a canopy and a hiding place for fledglings. Tiny grapes are already forming.
Our chickens are not looking their most beautiful. They are moulting and Joe still says they look more like roadkill than hens.
Easter has come and gone in a clamour of churchbells and processions. As always, Marcia made us a delicious rice pudding, which her youngest son, now well into his forties, delivered to us. It was still warm and scented with lemon and cinnamon. When we take the bowl back, we’ll give her a dozen eggs.
Marcia still lives alone behind the shop with only her black cat for company. Sometimes Geronimo sits with her outside the shop, his three dogs at his feet and the black cat tucked safely under Marcia’s chair or high on the windowsill. They don’t talk much, but Marcia’s knitting needles clack with disapproval when Geronimo swigs from his beer bottle.
Judith is fine, kept busy by her ever-growing pack of rescued dogs and cats. Mother is often seen in the passenger seat of Alejandro Senior’s flashy Mercedes as they sweep off together to enjoy evenings in the city.
Alice celebrated her 95th birthday this January. My brother and sister have been to visit her, but Alice and I have yet to meet. I chat with her on the phone every two or three weeks and she often passes on new nuggets of information she has remembered about my grandmother, Anna.
Since the Ufartes returned, the Boys no longer need us to babysit. Little Emilia is growing tall and has become firm friends with the Ufarte children. The Ufarte house is always bursting with children and one more makes no difference.
We haven’t seen Lola again, or her partner. She is rarely mentioned in the village and we assume she has settled elsewhere, no doubt to wreak havoc in her own special way.
I continue to avoid Pancho the mayor. So far successfully. I have absolutely no intention of giving him English lessons. Ever.
Evenings are warm and Grandmother Ufarte sits dozing in her armchair, placed in the street. Papa Ufarte often sits on his doorstep, like old times.
Papa Ufarte’s handsome head is bowed over his guitar, concentrating on his fingers plucking at the strings. At first he strums odd notes, then gradually, the notes join together and become phrases which increase in urgency and volume. flamenco music is infectious and soon Grandmother Ufarte’s toe is tapping. Then the full-blooded flamenco floods from his fingertips, the urgent, explosive gypsy melodies filling the street.
Maribel emerges to sit beside her husband. Before long, her foot is tapping and her body begins to sway. If they have friends and relations visiting, everybody spills out into the street and the dancing begins. Sometimes the twins join in, but more often they break away to run wild with the other village
kids, while their brothers play a never-ending game of soccer in the square.
Felicity still likes to sit on the kitchen windowsill and peer inside, just like her mother Sylvia did and her grandmother, Little Tabs, years ago. If we open the window, she disappears in a flash. But with the glass between us, I guess she feels safe. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of her offspring from last year, crowding round the fish van waiting for scraps. By now they have found territories of their own to patrol in the village.
This week, Felicity surprised us. She sat tall and proud on our windowsill and playing between her front paws was a tiny black kitten. We admired the baby, which stared at us wide-eyed.
“Well, I think we can guess who the father is,” I said to Joe. “It’s old Black Balls … I mean Blackie.”
The next day, there was no sign of Felicity or her kitten. That is, until the evening, when I happened to look out of the window into the garden and saw her washing one black kitten while another played with her tail. A third pranced around, pouncing on nothing in particular.
“Another generation,” said Joe and I knew he was also thinking of that baby in Australia which would never be born.
The good news is that it was such early days and the baby was so unformed that they could just give Karly a ‘D and C’, or scrape.
“It’s nature’s way,” I said. “There must have been a reason for her to lose the baby. Anyway, the obstetrician told her that everything looks great and there’s no reason to wait to start trying again. Apparently she’ll be even more fertile for the first three months after the D and C.”
“We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
“It’s awful, I’m so sad for them, but at least it was no bigger than a grape. It could have been so much worse.”
Last week we were invited next door for drinks. Paco and Carmen’s house was stuffed full of people. All Paco’s cousins, nieces and nephews were there and all three Alejandros and their families. Yukky pushed his way through legs, thrusting his cold, wet nose into people’s hands, while Bianca sat under the table.
Little Paco is nearly nineteen now and much taller than his mother. He had his arm draped around a pretty girl and introduced her as his girlfriend. My mind backtracked ten years to when we first moved into the village and Little Paco had burst in and placed a huge, green cricket on the table. I smiled, remembering how Paco had moved like lightning, seizing the cricket in one capable hand and his son’s ear in the other and had evicted both small boy and cricket into the street.
Little Paco’s big sister, Sofía, sat at the table, her hands in her lap.
“English! You must have a glass of wine,” said Paco. “Here, taste this. Made with my grapes and the grapes of my good friend Alejandro. It is excellent wine.”
We sipped and agreed with him.
“Beautiful taste,” I said, “very clear with a wonderful rich colour.”
Paco nodded. “Everybody knows I make the best wine in the village, no, the best in Andalucía and I think this is the best year yet!”
He turned away to fill other guests’ glasses.
“What’s all this about?” Joe whispered to me in English. “Are we celebrating something?”
I shook my head, but I had a suspicion. I caught sight of Carmen and she was smiling so broadly I thought the top of her head might come off.
Everybody was talking at once and the level of noise was high. Paco put the wine bottle down and thumped the table with his balled fist. The voices fell silent.
“We have brought you here to celebrate a great event,” he roared. “I am happy to announce the engagement of my daughter Sofía and Alejandro, son of my old friend Alejandro. Please raise your glasses and drink a toast to the happy couple! Sofía, show everybody your engagement ring!”
Alejandro Junior moved through the crowd and stood behind Sofía’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. Blushing, Sofía spread her hand on the table, revealing a diamond ring with a sparkle almost as bright as the one in her eyes.
“Pah! Hold your hand up, girl! Show everybody!” shouted Paco.
Sofía obediently lifted her hand and waved it for all to see. As glasses clinked and congratulations were shouted, I thought Carmen might burst with pride. Sofía had finally found The One.
How Uncle Felix would have enjoyed that gathering! Never a man of many words, he would have sat quietly in the corner, watching from under his flat cap. I hoped he was watching from up above.
I often think of him. He never learned to read, write or count, but Paco said Felix instantly knew when one of his sheep or goats was missing. He was recognised as the village authority on vine pruning. Uncle Felix was the first villager we saw when we returned from the Middle East and his mule carried our suitcases down the mountain.
As for Uncle Felix’s mule, well, I can see her from where I’m sitting now. The whole village was convinced she would pine away when her beloved master died. Nothing Geronimo did had any effect and the old mule hardly ate. She stood with her head hung low, utterly dejected, the bones beginning to show through her grey coat. Geronimo was at a loss what to do.
“Bring her over to my place,” said Alejandro, Alejandro Senior’s son. “She can live with my young horse. She might teach him some manners.”
So Geronimo led her through the gates of Alejandro’s property, past the three giant snarling dogs and to the smallholding at the side. The mule never lifted her head and dragged her hooves as he urged her along.
Geronimo brought her slowly up to Alejandro’s young horse and then something extraordinary, something magical happened. Felix’s mule lifted her head, perked up her ears and snickered. The horse whinnied softly and the two touched noses. Suddenly, the old mule stood more upright and there was a gleam of interest in her eyes.
The friendship blossomed. The old mule began to eat again and developed a spring in her step. The two became inseparable, grazing together and grooming each other.
I can see them now, standing close together high on the mountain slope, hoof-deep in wildflowers, cropping the lush green grass. As one moves on, so does the other.
Life is full of ups and downs, losses and gains. I’ve learned that however bad things seem, something wonderful always awaits just around the next corner.
Our plan is still to visit Australia this year, probably in November, for several months. We can’t wait to see Indy and who knows, there just may be another little one on the way by then.
And as much as I love Spain and our wonderful little village of El Hoyo, I’m finding it harder and harder to leave my family behind.
Victoria Twead
May 2014
So, what happened next?
This book was intended to be the last in the Old Fools series. Whenever I finish a book, I’m exhausted and without fail I solemnly vow I’ll never write another.
But I always do.
I guess there’s never really an end to a memoir, events just continue to roll out. Since writing the last words of this book, more astonishing things have already occurred and I’m keeping a record of it all, just in case I change my mind and decide to write another book.
Hmmm… Exactly who am I kidding? I know as sure as the sun rises over the Spanish mountains every day that I’ll get that irresistible urge to start yet another sequel…
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Acknowledgements
Most importantly, thanks must go to my loyal readers. Thank you for taking the time to read my scribblings and HUGE thanks to those of you who have taken the trouble to leave reviews. Authors love reviews more than wine or chocolate and I read and appreciate every single comment.
Thanks to Nick Saltmer who painted the cover picture. What a talented artist and what a nice man! The scene actually depicts Mijas, not El Hoyo, but Nick has captured the essence of a Spanish village. I loved the cover of Spain Again so much that I asked him to paint new covers for all the Old Fools books. And he has! See them all here!
Heartfelt thanks to my advance readers for reading and checking my work before it was published.
Big thanks to Gayle and Iain from OrceSerranoHams.com for letting me steal from their wondrous recipe collection again. And thanks to the readers who kindly donated their own recipes for this book.
Oh and thank you to the lovely members of the We Love Memoirs Facebook group. You are an AMAZING bunch and not a day goes by when I don’t pop in for a chat and good laugh.
This memoir reflects my recollections of experiences over a period of time. In order to preserve the anonymity of the wonderful people I write about, some names have been changed, including the name of the village. Certain individuals are composites and dialogue and events have been recreated from memory and, in some cases, compressed to facilitate a natural narrative.
Books by Victoria Twead
The Old Fools Series
•Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools
•Two Old Fools ~ Olé!
•Two Old Fools on a Camel (New York Times bestseller)
•Two Old Fools in Spain Again
•The Complete Old Fools Trilogy (1st three books)
Two Old Fools in Spain Again Page 22
