Mad Dogs and an English Girl

by Caroline Waterman

  “We’re still in the Middle Ages here, you know. Mules! Oxen! You don’t find those in the streets of London.They have cars there. Everyone has a car. And a television. That’s progress. People here don’t know what progress is.”

  I stood for a moment outside the kitchen door listening to all this and trying hard not to shriek with laughter.When I walked in, having composed myself, I beheld the lean figure of Julio pacing restlessly up and down. He immediately stopped in his tracks in the middle of the kitchen, face flushed, dark hair awry, black eyes darting all over the place. Anita was smiling and humming a little tune as she poured the coffee. She threw me a quick side-long glance of amusement as though to say whatever next will you bring into this house?

  “Hello Julio,” I said. “Great to see you. You’re up bright and early.”

  He straightened his tartan tie, the one he bought in London and wore all the time, and cleared his throat.

  “You call this early? Dios mío! Why in Lon...”

  “Yes, yes,” I interrupted, “don’t go over all that again! As a matter of fact this leisurely Spanish life style rather suits me.”

  “That’s obvious!” Julio took a gulp of his coffee. “Now hurry up! We’ve wasted enough time. Get your coat on! We’re going out. I’ve something very important to tell you.”

  Anita and I sat down to enjoy our coffee while Julio resumed his pacing like a frustrated caged beast, pausing only occasionally to run his fingers through his hair and glare at us in exasperation as we unhurriedly finished our breakfast. However, sounds of Teo and Auntie Domi stirring above prompted me to fetch my coat before our visitor had time to break his temporary brooding silence.Anita winked at me as I hurried him through the door.

  Out in the street, he grabbed me roughly by the arm. “What are you doing in that house? What on earth have you been up to? I had a terrible time finding you.You weren’t at Vázquez’s place and they wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone.Why did you leave after all the trouble I took finding you a job? And why haven’t you written to me all this time? Is there somebody else?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion.“If there is I’ll kill him!You know you’re MY niña.”

  Patiently I explained to him all the events that led to my present situation except, of course, the bit about Vázquez trying to gain access to my bed as I didn’t want to see Julio arrested for murder. By the time I had finished my story he was exploding with anger.

  “That man’s a villain!” he shouted, gesticulating wildly. “I’m going to see him about this right now. I’ll see he pays you the money he owes you. Just wait till I get hold of him!”

  It was with the utmost difficulty that I managed to restrain him from bursting into Vázquez’s house then and there and creating an ugly scene.

  However, he eventually calmed down after I explained that it had all worked out for the best and Vázquez now had to live with the embarrassing fact that his English teacher had left his house but was still living in Burgos.

  We entered one of the cafes in the Espolón and sat down by a window. I wanted to know what matter of great importance he had to impart to me. His face lit up at the mention of it.

  “Look!” He rubbed a clear patch in the steamed-up window. “Do you see that?”

  I peered through the glass and spotted an ostentatious American car, its excessive length spread over the pedestrian area opposite the café. It looked thoroughly out of place parked there, under the trees, with its flashy chrome plating and enormous headlights: like some alien object dropped from outer space.

  Julio demanded to know if I liked it. “It’s big, isn’t it? And expensive?”

  I nodded. I found cars rather boring but he had to be humoured.

  “Well,” He reached for my hand and held it between both of his. “One day I shall have one just as big and twice as expensive. You see, I’m going to be rich.Very rich.”

  This comment did not come as a surprise to me as he was always thinking up grandiose schemes for making money. Not for him some mundane job; he was going to become a self-made millionaire.To this end he had already sunk most of his savings in various futile projects but his lack of success did not deter him in any way from pursuing his dream.

  “Oh yes, so what is it this time?”

  “Heels.” He lowered his voice mysteriously and looked about him as though seeking out some spy who might be lurking in the shadows, eager to poach his new money-making secret.“Steel caps for stilettos. I saw them in England.There’s nothing like them here. They prevent narrow heels from wearing down. I’m onto a real winner here. I can’t lose.”

  I was doubtful.“You’ve had these schemes before,” I reminded him.

  “But this is something altogether different. I’ll borrow the money and start manufacturing them in Logroño.And I’ll launch a huge publicity campaign – ‘steel heel caps will bring double life to your stiletto shoes’ – that sort of thing.Yes, I shall soon be running a most successful business and then, later, I shall expand. Market them in Venezuela. There’s no end to the possibilities. You’ll see. Very soon I’ll be rich.”

  He seemed so delighted with his new idea that I hadn’t the heart to voice my own thoughts on the subject which were that fashions come and go and the days of stiletto heels were probably numbered.

  “I saw Eduardo the other day,” I said, trying to distract him from this new obsession.“He told me about his terrible holiday in England.”

  “Careless idiot!” snapped Julio. “It was all his own fault. He’s always doing stupid things and landing himself in hospital. And how about me? I had to practically carry him all the way to London.”

  “You could have been a bit more sympathetic; after all he is your best friend and he’s got such an awful problem.”

  “But he’s a fool. He ruined my holiday in England. Anyway, what was he doing sneaking down here and seeing my novia on his own?”

  “How many more times? I’m NOT your novia!”

  Julio looked at his watch, ignoring my protest.

  “I’ve got to go. I have a train to catch. I must be back in Logroño tonight. I only stopped over here on my way back from Madrid and tomorrow morning I’ve a meeting with someone about my business.”

  He carried on talking incessantly about his project all the way to the station. I noticed he had bought himself a briefcase and was already trying to acquire the appearance of a successful businessman.

  We arrived at the station with only a few minutes to spare and indeed, the approaching train could be heard in the distance as he bought his ticket. He frowned down at me, his dark eyes smouldering.

  “I want to kiss you.” he announced suddenly, dragging me into a corner.

  “But the train’s coming!”

  “I want to kiss my niña.”

  He threw down his briefcase and pounced on me like a cat on its prey. Julio kissed in much the same way as he spoke: fast, furiously and non-stop. The train was pulling into the station but he appeared to have forgotten about his important business appointment.

  “You’ll miss it,” I gasped, trying to extricate myself from his vice-like embrace. “You’ll miss the train and your appointment tomorrow. It’s terrible the way you inefficient Spaniards never keep appointments on time.”

  Julio started, threw me aside, grabbed his briefcase and bounded out of the shadows and into the train like a streak of lightning just as the stationmaster waved his flag.

  “Here! I’ve a present for you,” he shouted from the open window as the train moved off.“Catch!”

  He tossed me a small packet which I caught while running alongside the train.

  “Adiós, niña!”

  His dark head disappeared into the carriage as the train snaked away. I looked down at the object in my hand. Carefully I opened it and extracted two small pieces of metal stuck to a card bearing the legend:

  FOR THE ELEGANT WOMAN. JULIO RIVERA’S

  STEEL CAPS FOR STILETTO SHOES

  CHAPTER TEN

  CO
USIN BEA AND CHORIZOS

  We were now well into November and the weather was becoming increasingly cold. There were frequent flurries of snow and the bitter mountain winds returned with a vengeance. It was always such a relief to return to the warmth of Anita’s kitchen after my last lesson of the day. Here, the heat generated by the cooking stove and the brasero, (a container of smouldering charcoal placed under the table) was augmented by the volume of people who usually packed the room.

  I noticed that several relatives had suddenly come to stay at the house. First, there was Anita’s cousin, Margarita. She was the daughter of that uncle who had somehow managed to escape the fate of his brothers and had fled to France towards the end of the Civil War. He made his home there, in the French Pyrenees which divided him from his native land: the land to which he was destined never to return. However, he settled down well and raised two beautiful daughters, Margarita and Blanquita. Unlike their exiled father, the girls were able to return regularly to Spain and, on reaching adolescence, they both acquired Spanish novios to whom they remained remarkably faithful despite long absences.

  On this occasion, Margarita had come for a short stay to be with her novio, a smiling young man called Jacinto, and the house was all the brighter for her presence. Everything about her exuded cheerfulness and vitality, from her exotic gypsy looks and flamboyant style of dressing to the lusty sound of her rich flamenco voice raised in song as she toiled over the washing in Domi’s sink. Her firm, young arms, bronzed even at this time of year, would plunge in and out of the lather in time to her singing which resounded through the house.

  In addition, we were at that time host to Domi’s Cousin Bea and her family on one of their regular visits. Bea was the true country cousin who lived in a remote village some miles from Burgos with her husband, Jaime, the village school master, and their daughter, Marta, an only child. When they came to see us they nearly always brought something from the country such as those memorable cockerels in the lavatory, but this time, to our relief, her offering consisted of nothing more formidable than a home-made cheese. The purpose of her visit, as she soon made clear, was to persuade Aunt Domi to return with her to the village the following weekend in order to help her with the preparation of chorizos. They had fattened a fine pig, the best, she assured us, to be found in the entire neighbourhood and it was now ready for slaughter. It would provide chorizos, the spicy sausage so typical of Spain, for the rest of the year, not to mention morcillas (blood sausage). Clearly, she could not, single-handed, undertake all the work involved in making them so she had come to fetch Domi.

  Aunt Domi did not seem too happy with the idea. She had enough on her plate already, she grumbled, and was disinclined to leave her house and ‘children’ for a whole weekend. Cousin Bea brushed aside her objections, pointing out that Margarita was quite capable of looking after the house and cook for Teo, and as for Anita and me, well, why not bring us with her? The country air would do us good, we could help with the chorizos and there would be plenty to entertain us. Every Saturday night there was a dance for the young people in the village.Yes, that would be the best solution.

  So it was that the following Saturday found us bright and early waiting for the train to take us to the nearest station to Bea’s village. I had to cancel my classes for that day but I didn’t mind. After my amusing experiences at the recent wedding, I was curious to find out more about Spanish rural life.

  Bea had gone home the day before to organise the slaughter of the pig so that it would be ready for when we arrived. Her village, she told me, was really two villages, one on a hill and the other down in the neighbouring valley. Legend had it that a secret underground passage ran from the church on the hill to somewhere down in the lower village but no one had managed to discover it.This all sounded rather intriguing.

  When we arrived at the station it was pouring with rain and we seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Clutching our bags, we set out across the fields, squelching in the mud and stumbling over ruts and through puddles.The bleak meseta stretched out before us, a flat, treeless wilderness with no shelter anywhere and the driving rain was soaking us to the skin. I longed for wellies as my leather lace-ups gradually became saturated.

  “How much further?” I enquired of Anita between chattering teeth, after staggering along for about a quarter of an hour.

  She laughed.“There’s a long way to go yet,” was her reply and she was right. Our trek lasted about an hour although Anita assured me it would have taken less time but for the mud.At last, the small hill containing half the village came into sight, just visible through the gloom and pounding rain which was fast turning to sleet. Despite the fact that we were all freezing cold and soaked through, Aunt Domi never complained. She battled on before us, beating a trail, like an Arctic explorer. Amazingly, she knew her way despite there being absolutely no landmarks. The sight of her small, dark figure forging ahead inspired us to keep going as she ploughed her way defiantly through the inhospitable landscape, clutching her drenched shopping bag and several strings of garlic. We struggled along behind as best we could, like two bedraggled sheep following their shepherdess, confident that she knew where she was going and would lead us, eventually, to shelter.

  The best end of the village, apparently, was the part that stood on the hill. Here lived the more important members of the community such as the priest, the guardia civil and the school master, Bea’s husband.The house stood close to the village school and was built of mud and stone with small barred windows and a roof of curved, terracotta tiles. Adjoining the house was a large cattle shed surrounded by a cobbled yard, slippery with mud and dung. A number of chickens were grubbing around but they scattered, spraying us with mud, as a bedraggled dog approached.

  Cousin Bea stood beaming in the doorway, pleased to see that despite all odds, we had in fact turned up to help her with the chorizos. She gathered us up and bundled us into the warm haven of her farmhouse kitchen, relieving us of our belongings and calling to Marta to bring out a bottle of anís. Our sodden clothes hung from us like limp rags, dripping pools of water onto the tiles. We were numb with cold and exhausted but Cousin Bea and Marta fussed around us, helping to peel off our outer garments and remove our mud-caked shoes, while plying us with anis to revive our bodies and spirits after our ordeal.

  Bea hung the wet clothes from various hooks in the ceiling close to the charcoal stove and alongside strings of onions and great strips of raw meat belonging, presumably, to the unfortunate prize pig that had met its fate the day before.

  Anita and I sank gratefully down at the table, feeling the delicious warmth of the brasero embracing our bare legs and watching Bea and Aunt Domi discussing the best way to set about preparing the chorizos. On and on they went, interrupting each other and gesticulating wildly, Domi’s shrill voice vying with that of Cousin Bea. Anyone not understanding Spanish would have assumed that they were having a fierce argument. Fascinated, I watched how Bea would spread her hands dramatically across her chest, rolling her eyes heavenward and, from time to time, run her fingers through the stray wisps of hair that had escaped from her bun. Her gestures reminded me so much of a Murillo Madonna that I half-expected to see a cluster of cherubs gather above her head!

  I liked Cousin Bea. I knew that beneath those generous, heaving bosoms lay a heart of gold. It was she who always rallied to our assistance at times of emergency such as when there was illness in the house.Yes, I liked her a lot and was glad we had come to help her with the chorizos.

  The anís went down very well. In the region of Burgos it was always considered the standard remedy for cold and I was frequently offered a glass before going out to my classes in the morning. We sipped it slowly, savouring its sweet, aniseed flavour and enjoying its warm glow as it slipped down our throats. Domi and Bea were still discussing the chorizos.

  “Have you got enough garlic? And how about the girl? Is the girl coming to help us this afternoon?”

  “She’ll be here when she’s nee
ded.”

  They were referring to one of the village girls who helped Bea in the house. I had seen this girl before as sometimes she accompanied Bea to Burgos. She was a buxom teenager with well-rounded hips and breasts and rosy cheeks. I had a sneaking feeling that Jaime had more than a passing interest in her.

  “There’s not a minute to be lost,” remarked Domi. “We must have an early lunch and get started straight away.”

  “That’s right. Not a minute to be lost,” echoed Bea. “There’s all this meat to deal with and I’ve got a bucket of blood in the pantry for morcillas.”

  Suddenly, I didn’t feel so hungry for that early lunch.

  One of the things I was quick to discover about Spanish village life was that there were no such things as lavatories; at least not in the conventional sense of the word. Being unable to find anything remotely resembling one anywhere in the house, I asked Anita what I should do as Nature’s urge increased. She smiled and told me to ask Bea to show me the way.Ah yes, I thought, an outside loo of course. It’s still the same with some old cottages in England. However, I was not a little surprised when Bea hurried me from the house to the adjoining cowshed and pushed me into its dark, smelly interior.

  “Over there,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. I peered into the gloom looking for a door to the loo but, so far as I could see, there wasn’t one; just four stone walls, a lot of straw, two enormous brindled cows and a few chickens.

  Puzzled, I turned again to Bea.“Where?” I queried.

  “Why, over in that corner, there. Not this end where the animals are. Oh, and mind the chickens!”

  So saying she disappeared and I was left alone with the cows which raised their great heads and eyed me with some interest. For a moment we stood staring at each other while I plucked up sufficient courage to cross the shed to the appropriate corner.This must be what life was like in medieval times, I thought to myself while using the corner with considerable distaste and not a little apprehension as the cows had decided to accompany me and I noticed they had very long, sharp horns.They stood close by and I tried to ignore them, but I could hear the sound of their munching jaws and feel their warm breath on the back of my neck. Also, as my eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, I saw that beside the hens pecking at my feet, a row of them sat roosting on a nearby rafter so care had to be taken to avoid this additional hazard. By comparison with all this, the cockerels in Domi’s lavatory seemed but a minor inconvenience.