For the rest of December, it continued to pour with rain. Every day the chores were the same:
Mop up the lake in the dining-room
Empty the pots, pans, bowls and buckets of water
Lay down fresh straw in the chicken run so that the girls don’t wade in mud
Check for new roof leaks
Fiddle with the TV in the vain hope of getting a picture
The whole of Andalucía was being battered by the nonstop rain, so the 28th December, the Day of the Holy Innocents, came as a welcome break to lighten the general mood.
The origins of the Día de los Santos Inocentes are somewhat macabre. It is the day commemorating the slaughter of babies, at the time of Jesus’s birth, by order of King Herod.
However, in Spain, far from being a depressing time, this day is much like our April Fools day, a day for pranks and tricks. Even the TV and radio stations get in on the act, rather like in Britain. Few people of our age will ever forget the TV documentary, years ago, that fooled the British viewing public into believing that spaghetti grew on trees.
Children and adults alike delight in tricking each other and some Spanish bakeries do a roaring trade selling cakes made with salt instead of sugar. When the prankster is ready to reveal his joke, he chants, “¡Inocente, inocente!” much like we call “April Fool!” when the prank is over.
Carmen-Bethina popped round to give us a bag of tomatoes from her son Diego’s greenhouse empire. From her we heard that the Ufarte children had enjoyed themselves that day. They substituted salt for sugar in the sugar bowl. They removed Papa Ufarte’s guitar from its case and replaced it with Scrap’s Jack-in-the-box. Jorge Ufarte hung a ‘No Parking’ sign above Granny Ufarte’s chair by the fire and hid his little brother’s Tom and Jerry DVD.
Joe and I thought nobody had played a prank on us until Joe went down the garden to feed the chickens.
17 Mysteries and Midnight
Garlic and Pepper Chicken
Joe trudged down to the bottom of the garden, head down, bucket of grain in one hand, plastic box full of kitchen scraps in the other. We called the blue plastic box the Chicken Treat Box and one glimpse of it was guaranteed to drive our chickens into a frenzy of anticipation. With head low, and the hood of his coat up to shelter from the drizzle, Joe didn’t notice anything amiss until he reached the chicken coop gate.
Not a chicken to be seen. No excited cluckings and flappings and eager leaps at the gate from the other side.
Cursing, he checked and double-checked. No chickens hiding. The chicken run and hen-house were empty. It was most definitely a chicken-free zone. Joe thoughtfully scratched his nethers and pondered.
No visible escape holes. So, none had escaped. A fox? Not possible. If the chickens couldn’t get out, then a fox couldn’t get in. No sign of a struggle, no feathers strewn around as evidence. Stolen, perhaps? Unlikely. Who’d steal six elderly chickens who rarely laid eggs? And taking our chickens’ age into account, any chef attempting to cook them would be presented with a testing culinary challenge.
Hmm... and anyway, there’s no crime in El Hoyo. (deep thought) Aha! The date! 28th December, the Día de los Santos Inocentes when pranks are played... The Ufarte children? But how would they get into the garden without a key for the back gate? So who did have a key to get into the garden? Next door, of course. Sherlock Joe turned back to the house, satisfied he had solved the mystery of the disappearing hens.
“That naughty Little Paco has hidden our chickens,” Joe announced. “A Santos Inocentes prank, no doubt. I’d better pop next door and find out where he’s put them.”
Out he went again, and knocked on their door, entering when he heard the familiar “Come in!” call from Carmen-Bethina. Little Paco was stretched out on the couch, watching TV. He looked up and greeted Joe briefly, his mind occupied with the TV show he was watching.
“Now then,” said Joe, smiling, wagging his finger at Little Paco with mock severity. “Where are our chickens?”
Little Paco looked up in surprise, the TV show forgotten. He frowned and sat up straight, the picture of innocence. “Pardon?”
“Our chickens!” said Joe, still smiling. “Where are they?”
Little Paco stared, his mouth open, then he shook his head vehemently. “I do not know anything about any chickens...”
Sherlock Joe gave a hollow laugh, he wasn’t going to be thrown off the trail that easily.
“Now come on! Today is the Día de los Santos Inocentes, and you hid our chickens somewhere, didn’t you?”
“¿Qué pasa?” asked Carmen-Bethina, appearing from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, I was just asking Little Paco about our chickens. I think he took them for a Día de los Santos Inocentes joke.”
“I did not!” said Little Paco.
“He did not,” echoed his mother. “Little Paco has not been out all day. He has a cold and I would not let him go out in the rain.”
“Oh,” said Sherlock Joe, deflated. He looked from mother to son and reluctantly accepted that they were telling the truth. “I’m very sorry, I thought it was you.”
“You say your chickens are missing?” asked Carmen-Bethina, relaxing a little now that her son had been cleared of the charge. “When did you last see them?”
“Last night, when I went to feed them.”
“Hmm...” Carmen-Bethina said thoughtfully, but said no more. But Joe could tell her mind was working overtime.
Back in our kitchen, Joe was relaying the details of his investigation to me. We were still puzzling over the mystery when we heard a familiar pounding on the front door.
“English! English!”
Joe jumped up and let Paco in.
“¡Inocente, inocente!” bellowed Paco, following Joe inside and thumping him on the back so hard that Joe jerked forward a step. “¡Inocente, inocente!” And he roared with laughter.
“It was you?” Joe asked, astonished.
“Hehe! Of course! Who else has a key? I took your chickens! It was me! ¡Inocente, inocente!”
“Well!” said Joe, recovering. “And I blamed poor Little Paco...”
“You know how I always get up very early, even when I am not going to work? Today, very early, I unlocked your gate, and I tiptoed-tiptoed-tiptoed to the chicken enclosure.” Paco’s pantomime re-enactment of the scene, tiptoeing in his work boots made us all laugh. “It was still dark, and the chickens were very easy to catch.” Paco mimed how he plucked each chicken off her perch. “And I put them in my box! One, two, three, four, five and six! Then I shut the enclosure, tiptoed-tiptoed-tiptoed out, and locked your back gate again!” He turned the imaginary key with a flourish.
“Well...” said Joe, exhaling.
“¡Inocente, inocente!” crowed Paco. “Pah! And you English, you never noticed a thing!” More gales of laughter.
“No, we didn’t,” said Joe rather lamely. “Um, and where exactly are they now?”
“Your chickens? They are very safe, follow me.”
So Joe followed Paco back out into the street and to Paco’s store-room, next to his garage. Paco pushed the door open, and there, blinking in the sudden light, perched on an upturned wheelbarrow, were our six chickens.
Chickens can’t see at all in the dark, and our chickens were very tame, so it was an easy matter to catch them and transport them home. I set out the brandy bottle and glasses on the kitchen table, ready for Paco the Prankster and Sherlock Joe’s return. As Paco banged the table with his fist and retold the chicknapping story for the twentieth time, I was thankful that Día de los Santos Inocentes came but once a year. As for Joe, I think he was happy to hang up his metaphorical deer-stalker hat for good.
And still it rained. Low, charcoal-grey cloud slumped permanently in our valley and sprawled over the mountaintops. Beneath the olive and almond trees, murky pools collected, reflecting the dark clouds above. The water sat on the surface, the soil too saturated to soak up any mo
re.
Most of the time the rain was steady, insistent, unrelenting. Occasionally it would turn to drizzle and even seem to stop, but so much moisture hung in the air that stepping outside meant getting soaked, even when it didn’t appear to be raining.
We were heartily sick of the water that ran down our walls, and heartily sick of emptying the pots and buckets under our leaky roof. We yearned for a decent TV picture, but sadly, that wasn’t going to happen in the near future.
December 31st arrived: the end of the old year and beginning of the new. The Spanish have two curious New Year traditions although it is difficult to guess how many adhere to the first, as it requires the wearing of red underwear. Apparently this will bring luck to the wearer in the coming year. Some declare that this only applies if someone else has purchased the items for you.
The second tradition requires some skill. At the stroke of midnight, one grape must be swallowed with each chime of the clock, each chime representing one month of the year. This feat sounds easy, but believe me it is not. The best chance of success is to prepare your twelve grapes carefully. Peel them, de-seed them, and even then it is difficult to keep pace with the chimes.
This grape-swallowing custom was even more difficult to accomplish in El Hoyo as the church clock was so unpredictable. Sometimes it didn’t chime at all, but more often the chimes were duplicated. For example, at one o’clock it chimed twice, and at eight o’clock it chimed sixteen times. Of course at twelve o’clock, the village was subjected to twenty-four chimes, and with the echoes in the valley, seemed to last for ever.
Most Spanish families enjoy a big meal together on New Year’s Eve, then congregate outside the church at midnight to eat their grapes and wish each other a happy new year. Joe and I wrapped ourselves up against the rain and cold and walked down to the church just before midnight, our twelve (seedless) grapes at the ready.
“Are you wearing red underwear?” asked Joe.
“Mind your own business.”
“I was just wondering...”
“Well, don’t.”
“Do you think we should have brought twenty-four grapes each, in case the clock chimes twice, as usual?”
“Probably.”
There was already quite a crowd outside the church, despite the inclement weather. The lamplight threw crazy shadows against the church walls and the wet street shone. People milled around greeting each other, clutching their handful of grapes in readiness, all waiting for the stroke of midnight. Paco’s family were there in force. Carmen-Bethina shared an umbrella with Little Paco, and Sofía and her policeman boyfriend stood a little apart, deep in conversation.
Geronimo stood in a group of villagers, his Real Madrid scarf around his neck, beer bottle peeping coyly from his coat pocket.
Apart from Granny, all the Ufartes were there. Mama Ufarte stood in the centre of a cluster of ladies who were cooing over her new baby. Lola Ufarte was in the centre of another group, mainly male. I could hear her vivacious laughter and I saw Geronimo’s eyes repeatedly drawn to her. The Ufarte twins, dressed in identical raincoats and polka-dot Wellington boots, held their Father’s hands. A few steps away, Jorge practiced fancy footwork, bouncing his football off his toe, and catching it in midair. Scrap, head down, occupied himself by kicking an empty juice carton, occasionally missing and kicking someone’s shins instead. Snap-On slept in a pushchair swathed with plastic against the drizzle.
Even old Marcia was there, dwarfed by her grownup sons and their families.
I wondered idly how many folk were wearing red underwear that night, then glanced at my watch for the tenth time. Twenty seconds to midnight, ten seconds to midnight, MIDNIGHT!
Nothing. No church bells, no chiming, just the chatter of many Spanish voices. Perhaps my watch was wrong?
At five minutes past twelve, Paco shouted, “Pah! Geronimo! It is now past twelve o’clock! That confounded clock has stopped chiming again!”
“Give it a few minutes,” said somebody. “The damp may have affected the mechanism.”
Nobody seemed to mind, and the clock still hadn’t chimed by seventeen minutes past twelve.
“Pah! Geronimo!” shouted Paco again, banging the church wall with his fist. “We are going to be here until next year if we wait for that clock to chime!”
Everybody laughed and Geronimo detached himself from the crowd and entered the church, disappearing from view.
“There he is!” somebody said, and pointed.
In spite of the drizzle, we all looked up. In the church tower high above us, Geronimo had reappeared, climbing the rickety ladder to the bell. Higher and higher he climbed, the village ladies ooohing and aaahing as his feet slid a little on the slippery rungs. I began to worry about how much alcohol he might already have consumed that night.
“Come on, Geronimo! You can do it!” called Lola Ufarte, her hands cupped to form a megaphone.
Geronimo hesitated and looked down at the object of his desire. Spurred on by her voice, he renewed his efforts. When he could climb no higher and was level with the bell, he stopped and drew out a hammer from his coat pocket. Hanging on to the ladder with one hand, he whacked the bell hard. Some terrified pigeons, disturbed in their roost, flapped out of the tower into the night. Down below, everyone cheered and swallowed their first grape. Geronimo hit the bell eleven more times in a reasonably regular fashion, while we all concentrated on swallowing our grapes. I choked on grape #6 and had to be slapped on the back by Paco. Joe got off to a flying start but only managed ten.
After the usual round of cheers, kisses, hugs and 'Happy New Year!' we strolled back home.
“I would have managed all twelve grapes if Geronimo hadn’t rung the chimes so fast,” grumbled Joe.
“Well, we’ll peel the grapes next year, that’s supposed to make it easier,” I said. “You did well with your ten.”
“By the way, are you wearing red underwear?” Joe asked. “You never said.”
“No, you’re quite right - I never said.”
Looking back over our shoulders, we could still see Geronimo, lit up by the street light below, high in church tower, head tipped back as he swigged from his bottle.
I made just one New Year’s resolution that night. I promised myself to find out what was on Joe’s mind. Find out why his eyes sometimes took on that faraway look. Find out if he was tiring of our life in El Hoyo. I clenched my fists in my pockets and prayed that I’d made a mistake, misread him. I never wanted to leave El Hoyo and wished that Joe was as content as I was.
And so began 2010, apart from just one more noteworthy family event.
18 Expensive Cake
Baked Mackerel
Three Kings Cake
Joe was already asleep when the telephone rang and I answered it.
“Mum? Mum? It’s me! Happy New Year!”
“Karly! Happy New Year! How are you?”
“Brilliant! Everything’s amazing here!”
“How’s Cam?”
“He’s great, everything is just amazing!”
“What time is it in Sydney?”
“Nine o’clock in the morning, we’ve been up all night. I thought I’d probably catch you. It’s one in the morning in Spain, isn’t it? Did you go with everybody to the church and eat grapes? Haha, bet you didn’t manage all twelve! Remember a couple of years ago when I nearly choked? But, Mum, you’ll never guess what’s just happened!”
“No, neither of us managed all twelve. What’s just happened?”
“Well, we’ve just had the most brilliant night - that’s why we’re still partying. We were watching the New Year come in at Sydney Harbour - they have the most amazing fireworks, it’s fabulous with the Opera House all lit up - and the fireworks over the harbour are just beautiful, and there were loads of people there - and we’d just had a fantastic meal - and Cam’s parents were there, and everything... Then, guess what happened!”
“Karly, I have no idea...”
“Guess!”
�
��I can’t!”
“Cam went down on his bended knee and proposed!” Excited squeals, chatting and laughter in the background.
“Oh my word! How wonderful! Congratulations!”
“Mum, it was amazing! I couldn’t believe what was happening!”
“And Cam asked you right there in front of everybody?”
“Yep! It was so romantic! And everybody stopped to watch, and it all went really quiet, and I just stared at him, and then when I said ‘yes’ everybody clapped and cheered - and you should see my engagement ring! I’m going to take a photo of it and email it to you. It’s just gorgeous!”
“Congratulations! That’s fantastic news!”
“I know! I’m going to be a married woman! Can you believe it? I’m so excited!”
Karly carried on filling in the details for a further hour. By the time I put the receiver down and went to the bedroom, my ear was sore and Joe was deeply asleep. I hugged the information to myself, looking forward to Joe’s reaction when I told him in the morning. We both agreed, it was an excellent start to the New Year.
Karly and Cam
Ask any Spanish child which are his favourite days of the festive season, and the answer will always be the same: the 5th and 6th of January. In Spain, children everywhere have only one thing on their minds: Los Reyes Magos, or The Three Kings as we would call them.
Back in England, Joe and I were accustomed to thinking that Christmas was over when the New Year had been welcomed in. We’d be tiring of the Christmas decorations, eaten the last shreds of turkey and crumbs of Christmas cake, and we’d be returning to work. But in Spain the best is yet to come. Santa Claus is not the one who brings presents for the children on Christmas Eve, it is the Three Kings in January.
On the 5th of January, there are processions all over Spain that herald the approach of the Three Kings to Bethlehem. The Kings are often on highly decorated floats, and throw streamers and sweets to the children in the crowd. In the Sierra Nevada, the Three Kings arrive on skis. Each town and village has slightly different traditions, but it is common for the parade to end in a gathering at the local church or school. Then each child’s name is called out and they are handed a small gift. That night, when the excited children return home, they will leave their shoes out for the Three Kings to fill with yet more gifts.
Two Old Fools - Olé! Page 12
