Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  And as Oscar, Stephen Fry’s cat, I indulged myself in silly banter... and still do. But at the same time, Joe was also making a new friend.

  12 Poinsettias and Underpants

  Spicy Broad Bean and Serrano Ham Fritters

  November in the Alpujarra mountains brought air so crisp and cold that sucking it in almost hurt the lungs. By early morning, ice had formed a glassy layer over puddles, and the tarmac of the roads glistened with ice crystals.

  Apart from the chickens and Sylvia and Gravy, our two semi-wild cats, we didn’t have any pets. I hoped we’d have a dog one day but as we still travelled, it didn’t seem a sensible idea yet. However, Joe had befriended something green and about six inches long. As the weather grew colder, Joe’s visits to the woodshed became more frequent, and it is was there that his new friend had decided to live.

  Joe named him Bug-Eye and he probably wasn’t the most ideal or attractive of pets. He wasn’t furry, or fluffy. He didn’t do tricks or obey commands. He didn’t answer when spoken to, or ask for walks or food. He just sat there, motionless, whatever the weather.

  Bug-Eye

  I would often hear Joe talking to him. “Hello, Bug-Eye, how are you today? Bit chilly, isn’t it? No, don’t move, I just need this log over here. No, you’re not in my way. Sorry to disturb you, mate, this won’t take a minute.”

  Bug-Eye never replied.

  That November, I had a Facebook message out of the blue. My old college friend, Andy, contacted me. I’d seen my friend Anna, his wife, briefly before we’d left for Spain, but we were poor correspondents and hadn’t caught up with each other’s news for a long time.

  November 23, 2009

  Hi Vicky,

  How are you? Been a long time! Well, I finally bought Chickens as a Christmas present for Anna and I would like to get a flight for Anna to come over and see you as part of her present (and to sign the book). Say a Friday flight returning on Sunday some time in Jan/Feb?

  If you think this is a good idea then please let me know. If this is not a good idea, then again let me know I would understand .

  My view was that a visit from Anna may provide material for the next book haha!

  All the very best for the book, the future looks great...

  Andrew

  X

  November 24, 2009

  Hello Andy,

  How nice to hear from you! Of course it would be lovely to have Anna here for a weekend. The only thing that worries me is the weather. Winter in the mountains is very unpredictable, often cold, often wet and windy. If that doesn't matter, then fine, but a little later in the year may be more pleasant. It's totally up to you.

  We have niece Becky coming in June for a week, and other friends in May, apart from that any time is great.

  love,

  Vicky xx

  November 25, 2009

  Hi Vicky,

  Well that’s great, I started to read the book and I could not put it down, so I wondered if we could both come? What if Anna and I came out to see the chickens and the mules and two very special people on the 12th of March returning on 14th March?

  I thought it would be a special present to send Anna on her own but that was before reading the book. Is this doable? (new word). IF it is I will look out for flights, if not let me know what fits in best for you, re dates...

  Your fan, haha

  Andrew

  X

  November 26, 2009

  Hello Andy,

  Those dates in March are absolutely fine and it would be lovely to see you both. We've got plenty of space and although I can't guarantee the weather, it will be a little warmer than Jan/Feb and the mountain wildflowers will be starting which is always pretty.

  Hope you can find flights.

  Vicky xx

  In Spain, the 8th of December is a public holiday called Immaculada, the feast of the Immaculate Conception. Around this time, poinsettias suddenly appear in the shops and are planted on roundabouts and public places in the city. The Spanish have different names for this flaming red plant. Sometimes it is called the ‘Christmas Star’ or ‘Flower of the Holy Night’ and we were told they grow wild in the Canary Islands, mainly on the northern slopes. Every December, Carmen-Bethina would knock on our door and hand us one of these festive, colourful plants.

  One year, I asked her to explain the significance of the poinsettia. It was such a beautiful story that I listened in awe. I have since heard many different versions, but this is the story that Carmen-Bethina told me:

  ‘There were once a very poor orphan brother and sister living in a small village. Their names were Pablo and Pepita and because they wore rags and were forced to beg to survive, they had few friends.

  At Christmas time, the village held many parties and festivities, but Pablo and Pepita were never invited. The village set up a beautiful Nativity scene in the church which everyone admired, but Pablo and Pepita had never seen it.

  On Christmas Eve, the Midnight Mass would take place and all the village children were encouraged to attend and bring the Baby Jesus a gift.

  “How can we go,” wept Pepita, “when we have nothing to give?”

  Her brother put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her but could think of no reply. What gift could they bring when they had scarcely enough food to keep themselves alive, and no shoes on their feet?

  Suddenly an angel in shimmering white appeared before the two children. “Any gift that you give with love will be cherished,” said the angel before fading away in front of their eyes.

  Hand in hand, Pablo and Pepita walked down the lane to the church. Pepita, deep in thought, stooped and picked an armful of weeds growing in the hedgerow.

  “This is what I’ll give the Baby Jesus,” she said. “It will make a soft bed for Him.”

  When they entered the church, it was already full of villagers. Children were placing expensive presents around the crib, and looked up in scorn when they saw Pepita’s offering.

  “Those are weeds!” they cried. “Is that all you’ve brought?”

  Pepita held back tears of shame and tried to ignore them, gently laying down her gift.

  And then a miracle happened. The dull weeds burst forth into glossy green leaves and petals of flaming red appeared. The villagers gasped. They had never seen such marvelous flowers before and were speechless with wonder.

  The villagers were ashamed. They now understood that a gift given with love is far more valuable than the most expensive gift money can buy.

  From that day on, they invited Pablo and Pepita into their homes, and fed and clothed them. They named the beautiful plant ‘The Flower of the Holy Night’ and it continues to grow wild, like a weed.’

  When Carmen-Bethina gave us the potted poinsettia, it was like the one in the story; glossy of leaf, crimson petals that burst with colour and health. But the second that Carmen-Bethina turned her back, the plant began to wither. One by one, the leaves turned sickly yellow and dropped off. The glorious red petals curled and fell. Before long, I was left with a bare stem, a skeleton.

  I tried watering it more, then watering it less. I tried giving it more light, then placing it in shady places. Perhaps temperature was important? So I put it in warmer spots, then tried standing it in cooler locations.

  Nothing worked. Those wretched plants never survived and were dead by Christmas. Every year was the same - whenever Carmen-Bethina visited, I had no choice but to push the latest poinsettia into a cupboard to hide it.

  When we lived in the UK, we foolishly believed that by moving to southern Spain, we would never again need to endure cold winters and constant rain. Our first winter in El Hoyo was a revelation. We were snowed in for four days with no water or electricity and El Hoyo was cut off from the outside world. That particular winter was unusual, but we often had sprinklings of snow during subsequent winters, and night temperatures frequently fell below freezing point. Our chickens fluffed out their feathers and spent the cold nights huddled together on their perc
h. Sylvia and Gravy grew thick winter coats.

  Sometimes wild winds would arrive, sudden and unexpected, ripping the last stubborn leaves from the vine and howling down the chimney, puffing woodsmoke back into our kitchen.

  One particular day I’d pegged out the laundry on the rotating washing-line on our roof terrace, and promptly forgot all about it. Clothes don’t take long to dry in Spain and a cool winter breeze spun the dryer briskly. I went back downstairs and inside, not noticing that the wind was strengthening. Gradually, it whipped itself up into a rage and Joe and I could actually see the gusts arriving. The wind bent the trees at the top of the mountain, and like a Mexican wave, it travelled down the mountainside, contorting the trees in its path. Through the valley it roared until it engulfed our house, angrily rattling the shutters before moving on.

  Then I remembered the laundry on the line and ran back up the outside staircase to retrieve it. The wind still roared in the valley and whipped at the washing, bunching it together, twisting it round the line and trying to snatch it from my fingers. I filled the laundry basket and retreated back inside. I was dumping the basket onto the kitchen table as someone knocked on the front door.

  “I’ll go,” said Joe, and I listened as he opened the door and spoke briefly to the visitor. I recognised Geronimo’s familiar voice.

  “Vicky! Come here a minute,” Joe called and I joined him at the door.

  Geronimo stood hunched on our doorstep, collar up, his Real Madrid scarf wound tightly around his neck, the ends thrashing in the wind. The usual bottle of beer peeped out of his coat pocket. One hand held his coat together at the chest, defending himself from the wind. His other hand clasped a dirty grey rag.

  Female readers will relate to the uncomfortable incident that followed. We all have nice undergarments that we wear when going out, right? And we all have big, dreadful undergarments that should have been thrown away years ago, yes? But we hang onto that grotty underwear because it’s just too comfortable to part with. True?

  I recognised the rag that Geronimo clutched.

  “Buenas días,” said Geronimo, smiling, and to my horror, held up my ancient, faded tattered knickers, the size of the Mayflower’s mainsail as it set off for the Americas. “I believe these are yours?” My knickers dangled from his fingers, flailing in the wind.

  “No, no, they’re not mine!” I said, recoiling, withdrawing as far as possible from the humiliating garment.

  “Are you sure?” asked Joe, helpfully leaning forward to examine them more closely. “I think they are yours.”

  “They’re not mine,” I said, willing Joe to stop...

  “Come on, Vicky, I recognise them! They’re definitely yours! Geronimo found them in the village square, wasn’t that lucky? He noticed you’d hung the washing on the line this morning. And you and Marcia are the only ladies in the village at the moment. They’re hardly going to belong to Marcia, are they? She’s tiny - they’d be much too big for her!”

  I wanted to kill him. Slowly. Painfully.

  “They got rather dirty, I’m afraid,” said Geronimo apologetically, dropping the dreadful knickers into my reluctant hand. “But another wash will make them clean. Just do not hang your laundry up in winds like these, or you will lose it again.”

  “Thank you,” I said through gritted teeth, pocketed the shameful knickers and turned on my heel, my face the colour of a poinsettia. I resolved never to speak to Joe again. Ever.

  Joe carried on chatting with Geronimo. I heard them discussing El Gordo (the fat one), the biggest lottery in the world. All over Spain people buy Christmas lottery tickets in the hope of winning El Gordo. El Gordo prizes are massive, and it is not unusual for a good number of people from the same village to become a lot richer overnight.

  “We were just discussing the lottery,” said Joe later. “Lots of our villagers have clubbed together to buy a ticket. It’d be good if they won, wouldn’t it? By the way, you were a bit rude to Geronimo, saying those knickers weren’t yours, and walking away like that.”

  I didn’t bother to reply.

  Joe looked for Bug-Eye that evening, but he had disappeared, probably swept away by the ferocious wind. Joe missed him, saying that he had lost a good friend, one that never answered back, unlike some people he could name.

  When the wind finally blew itself out of the valley we heaved a sigh of relief, but we were not prepared for what Mother Nature was going to hurl at us next.

  13 Rain

  Castilian Hot Chocolate

  In Andalucía, winter is the wet season. Farmers relax, no longer needing to water their thirsty olive, almond and citrus trees. So when it began to rain heavily that December, nobody was surprised. But that year, it started well before Christmas and didn’t stop. The sky turned black and poured torrents down to earth, hour after hour, day after day. It rained so hard that decades-dry river beds transformed into raging rapids. Rain bounced off the corrugated asbestos roofs, producing a drumming sound that continued indefinitely. Gutters poured into streets below, creating fast-flowing streams coursing past people’s front doors. Even the builders working on The Monstrosity gave up, laid down their tools and went home.

  But the wet weather didn’t dampen the Ufarte twins’ excitement about the coming Christmas celebrations, even though Christmas was a couple of weeks away. One day, when the rain had temporarily eased, we had a visit from two identical fluffy pink bunnies. They sat in our kitchen, paws wrapped around mugs of hot chocolate.

  The Nativity by Twin #2

  “We are going to be in the Christmas Procession!” said Pink Bunny #1, dark eyes huge over her mug of chocolate.

  “Our abuela is making our costumes now!” said Bunny #2, her long ears flopping in excitement.

  “How lovely!” I said. “What are you going to dress up as?”

  The bunnies looked at each other conspiratorially, then, “It’s a secret!” they chorused.

  “And are your brothers going to be in the Procession too?” asked Joe, amused.

  “Oh yes,” said Pink Bunny #1.

  “Everybody is going to be in it. The priest will be in the front, then everybody behind,” explained Pink Bunny #2.

  “Except our abuela,” said Pink Bunny #1.

  “But she’ll be watching,” said Pink Bunny #2.

  “Our brothers are going to be shepherds...”

  “...with real sheep!”

  This was clearly a Christmas Procession not to be missed. I tried to imagine a flock of sheep processing with the villagers on Christmas Eve. I hoped it wouldn’t rain on their parade.

  “You can be in the Procession if you like,” said Pink Bunny #1 generously.

  “Well, perhaps we’ll just watch,” I said, “like your abuela. But we’ll make very sure we don’t miss it.” I spoke the truth. “Now, tell me, have you decorated your house ready for Christmas?”

  “Oh yes! Come and see our Belén!” the pink bunnies squealed. “It’s beautiful!”

  Christmas was celebrated very differently in Spain. It was certainly not the huge commercial event that we saw in the UK, where Christmas decorations appeared as soon as Halloween was over, if not before. Decorations in the Spanish home consisted mainly of a Belén, or miniature nativity scene. These tiny, intricate displays were carefully constructed and depicted the baby Jesus surrounded by Mary, Joseph, shepherds and cattle.

  “Well, we’d like to,” I said, looking down at the excited upturned bunny faces. “But we don’t want to disturb your family.”

  “Papa has gone down the mountain,” said Pink Bunny #1.

  “And Mama is taking a siesta with Sergio,” said Pink Bunny #2.

  “And your other brothers?”

  “Jorge and Carlos are playing soccer somewhere,” said Pink Bunny #2 rolling her eyes.

  “And where is Fifi?” asked Joe casually.

  “Fifi is in the bedroom with Mama and Sergio. Will you come and see our Belén? Pleeease?”

  “Of course we will, we’d love to
see it,” I answered.

  The little pink rabbits hopped off their chairs and dragged us by the hands down the street to their house. I looked up at the sky, willing those black rain clouds to go away and leave our village alone.

  In the Ufarte cottage, the kitchen and living room were one room. Now it was empty, apart from Granny Ufarte snoring in her chair beside the fire. Her mouth had fallen open, revealing pink, toothless gums. On her knees was a heap of sewing; yards of shiny white fabric and pieces of tinsel that twinkled in the firelight. It didn’t take the Brain of Spain to guess that the Ufarte twins would be dressing up as angels for the forthcoming Christmas procession.

  The Belén was charming, as we knew it would be. The Ufartes had sprinkled sand into a tray and set up a tiny cardboard stable surrounded by a fence made of twigs. There was a Mary, a Joseph, a tiny baby Jesus asleep in a thimble, three kings, some shepherds with cotton-ball sheep and an angel. Little plastic townsfolk stood in a cluster. Tethered to the twig fence were a couple of donkeys, a camel, two cows and a dinosaur.

  “Carlos put that there,” said Pink Bunny #1 crossly, wrinkling her nose in disgust, pointing an accusing finger at the dinosaur.

  “And Jorge put him there,” pouted Pink Bunny #2, pointing at one little figure. I leaned over to inspect the townsfolk more closely. Amongst them stood a little plastic soccer player in full Barcelona colours.

  “We don’t like them at all - but Papa said we should leave them.”

  “Well, we think your Belén is beautiful,” said Joe, smiling.