Two Old Fools in Spain Again (20 page)

23. The Cemetery

Butternut Squash with Herbs and Garlic

O
ur house stood just a pebble’s throw from the village cemetery and funeral processions would pass our front door. The first time this happened, many years ago, I was on my own in the living room. At the time, we had one small, quite high, window overlooking the street, too high for people to look inside. I looked up when I heard the tramp of many feet approaching. To my astonishment, a coffin sailed past the window. Being high the window didn’t reveal the bearers, which resulted in the unnerving sight.

I’d always loved El Hoyo’s cemetery. It was far more intimate than any cemetery I’ve seen in England. Surrounded by white walls, the graves were neat and well maintained. An ancient yew tree, a favourite place for nesting birds, cast its shadow over the sleeping inhabitants. Apart from the graves, rows of niches were set into the walls. Each niche had a shiny brass plaque and was often accompanied by a portrait photograph of the departed.

From our vantage point on the roof terrace, we could look down on the cemetery. One beautiful January day, Joe and I climbed the stairs to enjoy the view. The sky stretched blue and clear and the almond trees had already burst into flower, their pinky white blossom fresh against the mountain backdrop.

“There’s a lot of activity around the cemetery today,” remarked Joe, turning his head to speak to me.

But I had gone. I had ducked down and was crouching by his feet.

“Vicky, what on earth are you doing down there?” he asked, astonished.

“I’m hiding!”

“Hiding from who? It’s only Pancho the mayor showing some men around.”

“I know,” I hissed. “I don’t want him to see me. He might remember those English lessons he keeps banging on about.”

But the mayor and men were engrossed in whatever they were doing, so I bobbed up again to watch.

“They’ve got clipboards,” I said. “and they are measuring things.”

We watched as the mayor, deep in discussion, led the men outside the cemetery where they made notes and took more measurements along the wall.

There was quite a large patch of waste ground beside the cemetery and it seemed to both Joe and me that the party was discussing extending the cemetery. We’d both noticed that it had become very crowded and had wondered where the next newly deceased deceased villager would be laid to rest.

The mayor finished his discussion and shook hands with the men. They departed in one direction while he headed towards our house. My heart sank.

“If he knocks on our door, I’m not in,” I instructed Joe.

Sure enough, Pancho did knock on our door.

“Don’t you dare let him in,” I ordered Joe through gritted teeth.

“I have to, it might be important.”

“Then don’t tell him I’m here!” I hissed, as Joe headed for the door and I darted into the kitchen.

“
Buenas tardes
, Pancho,” said Joe, opening the door. “How are you?”

“Ah, Joe, I am very well. I was just at the cemetery and I thought I would call to arrange those English lessons your wife promised me. Is Beaky in?”

Hidden behind the kitchen door, I made a face and rolled my eyes. I waited for Joe’s reply, not really trusting him to keep my presence secret.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Vicky isn’t here,” answered Joe as I exhaled with relief. Then, neatly changing the subject, “Yes, we … I mean I ... saw you were there. Are you thinking of enlarging the cemetery?”

“Yes,” replied the mayor. “The village has been talking about it for a few years. We need more space. We would like to use the waste ground beside the cemetery but there is a problem with the ownership of that patch of land. Never mind, we will sort it out. Please tell Beaky that I called. Perhaps she could phone me some time?”

“Yes, I’ll certainly tell her.”

I relaxed as I heard Pancho turning away, then froze in horror when I heard Joe’s next words.

“Oh and before you go, come into the kitchen and I’ll give you some eggs to take home.”

What? Joe! How could you!

“Thank you, newly laid eggs are so fresh and tasty.”

Their footsteps approached and I willed myself not to move, trying to regulate my breathing, praying Pancho wouldn’t see me behind the kitchen door.

Joe seemed to take forever transferring the eggs into a paper bag. Divorce loomed large in my mind as they chatted. It was all I could think of when I heard what Joe had to say next.

“Can I offer you a coffee, Pancho?” he asked pleasantly. “Or a brandy, perhaps?”

To my profound relief, Pancho refused and left soon after.

“It’s okay, he’s gone,” said Joe returning to the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear.

“I hope you’ve got a good solicitor,” I said, coming out from behind the door. “You’re going to need one.”

Although Pancho brushed aside the subject of the land’s ownership, we soon discovered that it was a bigger problem than he had admitted.

“Pah!” said Paco, thumping the kitchen table with his fist. “The village needs a bigger cemetery, there is no question about that!”

“So who owns the land next to it?” I asked.

“It’s not clear,” explained Carmen. “Some of the papers have gone missing. The village has always understood that it is land belonging to the council, but Alejandro has papers that seem to show that it belongs to his family.”

“Alejandro Senior? Your friend the millionaire?”

“Yes, he insists the land is his.”

“Perhaps he could sell the land to the council?”

“No, the council has no money to buy the land and Alejandro Senior refuses to sell it anyway. Alejandro Senior is a very generous man, but not when it comes to land. He will not part with land. It is the Spanish way.”

I knew that was true. Village houses rarely came onto the market. Instead, they were passed down through the family from generation to generation. Even if houses were unused and had fallen into ruins, the owners wouldn’t sell the land they stood on. We were lucky to be able to buy our own house.

“And what happens when Alejandro Senior dies?” ranted Paco. “If he doesn’t give the village that land, there will be nowhere to bury
him
!”

“Claro,”
said Carmen, shaking her head until her chins wobbled.

In every house in the village, on every street corner, in the bar and in Marcia’s shop, the question of the land was being discussed. We noticed that people took sides. Some were outraged that Alejandro Senior wouldn’t give it up and others understood his traditional viewpoint. The land belonged to his family; it was their birthright.

A legal team was put on the case to determine to whom the land belonged. I quietly hoped it would find in favour of the council and the problem would be solved. An announcement was expected within a few weeks. In the meantime the subject of Alejandro Senior and the cemetery extension remained the hot topic.

Although the cemetery issue hadn’t been resolved, the regular seasonal events came round with unerring regularity. Andalucía Day is celebrated in February and all the shops, schools and banks close for the day. Every Andalucía Day, the villagers made a procession up to the little shrine at the top of the mountain. Once there, they ate
churros
and drank hot chocolate.

But that year, things seemed different. Instead of an untidy column of people parading together up the mountain track, there were two distinct factions.

“This is more serious than I thought,” I said to Joe as we watched from our roof terrace. “It looks as though the whole village has divided. The mayor and half the village are in the front group and Alejandro Senior and his friends and family are in the one behind.”

“Can you see Paco and Carmen?”

I shaded my eyes from the glare. “Yes, they’re in the mayor’s group. What a pity! Paco and Alejandro have been friends since they were little boys. I hate to think they’ve fallen out.”

Not only had the two old friends fallen out, but there was worse to come. We were to discover that the feud would affect even the younger members of the two families.

In early March the legal team responsible for investigating the ownership of the wasteland still hadn’t announced its findings. Spring was already on the way and Paco and Uncle Felix arrived to prune our vine. This time they were accompanied by Geronimo. I noticed that Uncle Felix now leaned on his mule for support, the mule slowing her pace to match his faltering steps. He tethered her to our window bars and Geronimo helped the old man through the house and to an outside seat where he could supervise the pruning.

When the vine had been sufficiently butchered and twigs and branches littered the ground, I invited them all in for coffee and brandy, as I always did.

Geronimo set his beer aside and accepted the brandy Joe offered him, refusing the coffee. Paco and Uncle Felix added a glug of brandy to their coffee and conversation began.

“It is good that you kept Veeky away from the vine this time,” said Paco and Uncle Felix nodded in agreement. “A woman must never be allowed near a vine. It is man’s work.”

I bit my tongue. Fortunately, Joe had the sense to change the subject, probably fearing another mackerel supper.

“Will you be watching Real Madrid play Barcelona next weekend, Geronimo?” he asked innocently.

Geronimo almost spluttered his brandy and I smiled to myself. He set down the glass and gripped both ends of the Real Madrid scarf he wore around his neck.

“But of course! What a team! Never has a team played soccer like Real Madrid. Poetry. Every kick is poetry. Watching a team with skills like that is better than a night in bed with a beautiful woman.”

He suddenly remembered me and flushed red.

“
Perdone, Señora
Twead.”

Embarrassed, he took another swig from his brandy glass and my presence was forgotten again.

“When that ball glides across the pitch from one player to the next,” he whispered, “it’s like fingers moving up a woman’s thigh.”

Uncle Felix stared straight ahead, unblinking. Paco slapped the table, making the glasses dance.

“Geronimo! Enough! Remember Veeky is here. And don’t forget,” he lowered his voice, “Felix has never had a woman.”

He clapped Uncle Felix on the shoulder, nearly knocking the old man off his chair.

I tried to steer the conversation to safer ground.

“How is your big new TV?” I asked Uncle Felix.

“He never misses that dating show!” shouted Paco. “Do you, Felix?”

Uncle Felix’s expression didn’t change, but his head nodded once in agreement.

“So, has anyone heard whether the waste ground alongside the cemetery belongs to Alejandro Senior or the council?” asked Joe.

Geronimo was still staring into the bottom of his glass, probably dreaming of Real Madrid goals, past and future.

“Pah!” roared Paco, his face reddening. “No, we have heard nothing! It is a disgrace! El Hoyo needs that bit of land! I have known Alejandro and his father all my life and I cannot believe that they are being so difficult! Alejandro is a stubborn old fool and we are no longer friends. What does he need that land for? It is not good for olives and he would not be allowed to build on it. I have told our Sofía that I will not allow her to see young Alejandro until the whole stupid business is sorted out.”

Joe and I gaped at him. Surely not? Not when his daughter had finally found The One? Alejandro Junior and Sofía seem so happy together, how tragic if they were forbidden to see each other!

“That’s terrible,” was all I could say.

“What does Sofía say?” asked Joe. “Will she obey you?”

“She must obey her father,” said Paco, his eyes narrowing. “If she does not, she is no longer a daughter of mine.”

After Paco, Geronimo and Uncle Felix had left, Joe and I mulled over the visit. Neither of us could believe Paco’s decision.

“Was he serious?” I wanted to know. “Sofía is in her thirties, surely she can do as she pleases?”

“You know how close-knit Spanish families are and how the children, especially daughters, always obey their parents’ wishes. I imagine she will do as her father orders.”

“Well, it’s a terrible shame. The sooner this mess gets sorted out, the better. Sofía and Alejandro Junior seemed made for each other. I really thought I could hear wedding bells.”

Once again I prayed that the land would belong to the council. And I also put my thinking cap on, wondering if there was any way we could help.

24. Pluckers and Wildfires

Iberian Ham with Peaches and Olive Oil

O
ur telephone rang and I picked up the receiver.

“Victoria? It’s Alice here.”

“Hello, Alice! How are you?”

“Oh, not too bad, thank you for asking.”

“What’s the weather like in England? We’re hearing horrid things about it on the News.”

“The weather’s ghastly, floods and strong winds, but I am used to the British weather after all these years. I called because I’ve just recalled something else about Anna, your grandmother.”

“Oh yes?”

“She was dog plucker, you know. Made quite a business out of it.”

“A what?”

“At one time your grandmother plucked dogs for a living. She wrote an article about it for the
Tail-Wagger
magazine. I’m having it sent over for you to see.”

A stack of papers duly arrived with photocopies of Anna’s articles and columns from various publications. Dated from the 1940s, they bore intriguing titles like
I Saw the Nazis March into Austria
,
I Stayed in the Same Hotel as Mussolini
and
Words and Phrases I Never Wish to Hear Again
.

Anna described Mussolini as ‘a fat little man who looked as if he was still seated after he stood up’. The
Words and Phrases
were also fascinating. Anna must have been a list-maker like myself because she wrote in
The Countrywoman
:

Here is a short list of words and phrases I never wish to hear again: Coupons, black-out, spam, egg substitute, semi-fashioned stockings, black market, underneath the counter, make and mend, utility, purchase tax, fifth column, blitz, swastika, siren, direct hit, missing, gas mask, warden and concentration camp.

I shook my head. How little we knew about what the last generation had endured. I also wanted to know about my grandmother’s dog plucking business. I found an article entitled
‘I Pluck Dogs’
and I read on…

Most dogs cast their top coat at certain times of the year. With some of the terrier breeds, such as Scotties, Airedales, Lakelands, West Highland Whites, Irish Terriers and Wire Fox Terriers, this top coat is very loose when it is ready to fall out and is easily removed with the help of a stripping comb or knife. This procedure leaves the undercoat exposed to light and air and enables the dog to grow a new warm coat in a few months.

The majority of my four-legged customers seem to enjoy the plucking operation, but a small number try and a still smaller number succeed in giving me a hearty nip.

I travel all over the country and know the bus and train timetables by heart and the conductors by sight. I pluck dogs in mansions and cottages, on sideboards and card tables, in stables and drawing rooms.

This variety of individualities, human and canine, prevents me from ever feeling bored with my work.

Fascinating stuff! I wondered how Anna disposed of the mountains of dog hair she must have collected. I read further and discovered that Anna used the hair to stuff pincushions, which she then sold to high-class stores in London. She also had another use for the dog hair.

Of course, combings from the coats of Samoyed dogs were woven into wool during the war and used for knitting comforts for troops. However, what else do I do with the hair I pull out? Well, at nesting time I put it into the hedges to let birds use it for their housing scheme.

A resourceful lady, my grandmother. I wish I had known her.

Although February is usually the coldest, wettest month of the year, February 2012 was glorious. Most days saw wall-to-wall blue skies, sunshine and not a single snowflake. I wasn’t complaining but Paco shook his head.

“Weather like this is not good for the olives and grapes,” he said. “You mark my words, the harvest will be poor this year. I cannot remember such a dry winter.”

March was much the same, although the wind was still quite chilly and often blew with considerable force, bending the ancient trees that grew on the mountain slopes.

Another day in paradise,
I thought as I climbed the staircase to our roof terrace. I set down the heavy laundry basket, heaped with damp bed-linen. Perfect drying weather. Very windy, not a cloud in sight and the sun beating down. The washing would flap itself dry in no time.

I leaned on the terrace wall and looked around. Joe and I never wearied of the view over the village and around the mountains. I looked down at the cemetery, the cause of such controversy. It was empty and silent. I glanced at the rooftops and the few curls of smoke rising from the only occupied houses in the village. Puffs of smoke wafted from Uncle Felix’s chimney and were immediately whipped away by the wind. I smiled to myself, imagining Uncle Felix cosy in his cottage, watching his dating show on his widescreen TV.

Clusters of almond trees dressed in white blossoms decorated the mountain slopes, the wind tugging at their petals. The green mountain tops undulated against endless blue sky.

I turned my head, then froze. To the west, on a nearby mountain slope, I could see a lot of black smoke. I squinted. Not just smoke but bright orange flames too. As I watched, they reared up and began to spread. I stared in horror. It was a wildfire and it was moving fast, whipped up by the high winds.

“Joe! Joe!” I yelled. “There’s a wildfire on the mountain. Quick! Bring the binoculars!”

In the short time it took Joe to join me on the terrace, the fire had doubled in size. I estimated that the line of flames was now as wide as a football pitch. Trees and bushes burst into flame as the fire galloped up the mountain devouring the dry vegetation, fanned by the wind.

“I’m going to get Paco,” I said and clattered back down the staircase at high speed.

I knew Paco would be next door as he always took his annual leave during this time of year, spending it shooting quail and carousing with his friends. I shot out into the street, and, calling him, burst through his open front door.

Except for the dogs, Paco was alone in the little kitchen. He was busy skinning a rabbit for the pot on the fire. Yukky barked a greeting and Bianca wagged her tail in welcome. For once I ignored them.

“¿Que pasa?”
asked Paco, alarmed.

“¡Fuego! Fuego arriba!”
I explained breathlessly. (Fire! Fire above!)

“Where?”

I waved my arms and pointed. I knew that Paco would alert the authorities and he would describe it much more clearly than I could in my stumbling Spanish.

Paco wiped his hands on Carmen’s best teacloth and followed me into the street. I pointed up the mountain and he stared, shading his eyes with his hand from the glare.

“I’ll call the Fire Brigade,” he said and disappeared back inside his house.

Joe and I watched from our roof terrace. The fire had crested the hill, travelling away from our village but heading towards the next out of sight over the mountain. Clumps of bushes on our side of the mountain were still alight, but the heart of the wildfire, judging by the columns of black smoke, was growing on the other side. El Hoyo was in no danger, unless the wind changed direction, but the next village was.

We couldn’t hear the crackling of the flames as the wind whistled in our ears but then we caught a whirring sound growing louder. Helicopters arrived with giant bags of water. They buzzed overhead, hovering nose down like giant dragonflies. Having assessed the situation, they spilled their loads to douse the flames.

Next, little figures appeared on the hill. Each carried a tool like an elongated shovel and the last stray patches of flame were beaten into submission.

That evening, as the sun went down, Joe stoked the woodburner in our kitchen.

“I’d better bring the washing in,” I said. “It’ll be nice and dry by now.”

I climbed the staircase yet again and looked at the scene of the fire. Although the mountainside was black and dotted with smoking tree skeletons, the fire was out.

It was then that I discovered that the laundry was not dry at all. Not in the slightest. In all the excitement of the fire, I had forgotten to peg it out and it still sat in a big wet heap in the washing basket.

But that was the good thing about living in Spain, tomorrow invariably brought another sunny day.

Before I went back down the stairs, I leaned on the terrace wall to watch the sunset. The sun was as orange as the flames we’d watched lick the mountain slopes earlier in the day. Shadows deepened and the whitewashed cottages of El Hoyo were bathed in a golden light.

A tiny movement caught my eye. There were two people in the little copse of fir trees just beyond the cemetery. I squinted and tried to identify the figures in the shadows, wondering what they were doing out so late on a chilly night.

The figures appeared to embrace each other, then settled on a fallen tree trunk, sitting very close to each other with their heads leaning together. I’d seen enough. I knew who they were. I collected my basket of wet washing and made my way back down the stairs.

“Very sad,” I said to Joe.

“What? The fire? Or that you forgot to hang the washing out? It’ll dry tomorrow.”

“No, I just saw figures hiding in the copse.”

“Did you? Who were they?”

“Sofía and Alejandro Junior.”

I think it was around that time that yet another plague of miniature beasties appeared in our house. For a while, I’d heard funny little ticking sounds in the kitchen and it took me a long time to locate the source. We had a new fridge that made peculiar noises, sometimes like cows lowing in a distant meadow, so I blamed the fridge for a while.

Then, one evening, the tiny ticking seemed to be more insistent than usual. I tiptoed across the floor, listening carefully while following the noise. It seemed to be coming from a food cupboard, the one where I kept canned food and emergency supplies.

Even shining a torch into the back of the cupboard revealed nothing, so I resigned myself to taking out all the cans and packets. All seemed clear until I lifted a pack of pasta. It was tortellini, little circles stuffed with dried meat and designed to be emptied into boiling water.

Tiny bugs

The packet was riddled with tiny holes. Inside, the dried pasta was peppered with miniature gnawed-out tunnels, corridors and compartments. A thousand little round bugs, not much bigger than pin heads, were partying. The ticking noise was the sound of their munching through the plastic wrapping and once inside they feasted on the dried meat and pasta. It looked like a thriving, well-established community and I imagine that more bugs were created and born inside the sachet and were chewing their way out.

Whatever, I wasn’t happy about their feasting and multiplying in my pantry, so I presented both pasta and bugs to the chickens. The chickens gobbled them up. If only all bug infestations were so easy to eradicate.

Thankfully, (touch wood) Joe and I have yet to cross paths with a Mediterranean banded centipede.

Sounds pretty harmless, doesn’t it? Don’t be fooled.

The banded centipede is a menace, a creature best avoided. Mediterranean banded centipedes usually prey on crickets, worms, spiders and moths and sometimes each other. Apparently, if hungry enough, they’ll even attack small rodents. Although venomous, they are not really dangerous to humans, but the bite is painful and affected parts often swell for a while before subsiding.