Two Old Fools in Spain Again (6 page)

Our mailbox

Fixing anything to any wall of our house was a challenge. Old Spanish houses were constructed with rocks and rubble held together with dry, compacted sand. Joe’s drill bit would either sink without trace, or hit a flint and emit sparks without making the slightest impression. Joe did his best, but we invariably ended up with a vast, cavernous hole even if we were just attempting to hang a picture. He therefore had good reason to dread the task of putting up the mailbox.

Valiantly, he drilled into the wall and, as usual, copious amounts of dry grit poured out until the drill bit hit a stone and skittered sideways. The mailbox required four holes, so he had to repeat the operation four times and each hole grew alarmingly in size.

The vibrating drill had brought Paco out of his house. He inspected Joe’s handiwork, eyed the mound of grit and rubble on Joe’s feet and roared with laughter.

“English! What are you doing?”

“I’m putting up a mailbox. I’m drilling out four screw-holes.”

A fist would have fitted comfortably inside each hole.

“You are not doing a good job!” Paco said, when he’d stopped laughing.

“I can’t help it if these walls are impossible,” said Joe, scratching himself irritably.

“Pah!
Yeso
will fix that.”

So I was instructed to go and make up some
yeso
to fill the holes.

Yeso
. For those who are contemplating a move to Spain and have DIY in mind, be warned.
Yeso
will become very familiar to you, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

I don’t believe there is an exact equivalent to
yeso
in the UK and we’d never heard of it before we moved. The Spanish building trade use it for everything: plastering, fixing door or window frames, filling holes, whatever. Wonderful stuff,
yeso,
but only if you handle it with the utmost care and respect.

6. Babysitting

Egg and Anchovy Toast Tapas

I
cut open the brown paper sack of
yeso
we had bought and tipped a generous amount of the fine white powder into a metal bucket. Then I added water and mixed enthusiastically with a trowel. It didn’t take long for it to attain a smooth consistency, like thick custard. I stirred a few seconds more, ensuring there were no lumps. Satisfied, I lifted the bucket and brought it through the house and presented it to Joe.

“Okay,” said Joe, grabbing the trowel, “let’s mend these holes.”

But the trowel didn’t move. It was stuck fast into the
yeso.
Trowel,
yeso
and bucket were one united, solid lump, as hard as rock.

“WHAT THE...”

“It can’t have set already!” I said.

But it had.

Paco laughed so hard he had to take his cap off to rub his eyes.

“You English!” he gasped. “You must have used
yeso rapido!
You need the regular
yeso!
”

We didn’t know there were two types of
yeso
.

Paco stamped off to get some more
yeso
, while Joe and I struggled to rescue the bucket and trowel from the granite grip of the
yeso
. Paco returned and deftly filled the holes in the wall for us. It soon set and Joe drilled the screw-holes again, then mounted the mailbox on the wall, almost perfectly straight.

“There! That’s done,” he said, standing back to admire his work. “The postman shouldn’t have any trouble with that.”

We had to throw the bucket and trowel away and we needn’t have bothered with the mailbox at all. There it hung, waiting to be fed with post that never came.

I suppose the fact that our house had three doors, opening onto three different streets didn’t help. I imagine any postman would find that confusing. Our house wasn’t huge, but decidedly quirky.

“Any post?” I asked hopefully, as Joe unlocked the box daily.

“Nope, just moths,” was the usual reply.

Our mail arrived in a variety of ways. Usually, it arrived on the fish van, smelling strongly of sardines and calamari. Sometimes it came on the bread van and smelled much sweeter. At other times the phone rang and Marcia from the village shop informed us that she had letters for us.

“There’s a small packet from your daughter in Australia, an electricity bill, a postcard from your English friends, they’re on holiday in Lanzarote by the way and a letter from the taxman.” Marcia may have been well over 80, but nothing escaped her eagle eye.

We’d discovered that UPS and DHL drivers flatly refused to drive up to El Hoyo and devised all manner of excuses to avoid the twisting, winding road to our village. When the phone rang in the morning, we knew it would be a driver, needing to deliver a parcel.

“Señora Twead?”

“Yes, speaking...”

“My van is broken, can you meet me in the next village?”

Or,

“Señor Twead?”

“Yes, speaking...”

“I cannot drive to your village. Your village does not show up on my navigation equipment.”

Joe and I knew how to answer. We’d done it so many times before.

“You know the Repsol service station at the bottom of the mountain?” we said. “The one near Carrefour? Put it behind the counter there.”

“Yes! I know it! I’ll leave it there.” We heard the relief in the driver’s voice.

Sorted. So Joe would climb into the car and drive down the mountain to collect our waiting parcel from the nice staff at the Repsol garage. Soon they recognised Joe on sight and handed over parcels without a word. We were ever grateful for their enduring patience.

The mailbox was not always empty. Sometimes a lonely slip of paper forlornly awaited retrieval at the bottom.

“That proves the postman does know it’s a mailbox,” Joe said, waving the slip of paper at me.

“What does it say?” I wanted to know.

Joe read it aloud.

“We tried to deliver your packet, but nobody was in. Please collect it from the post office between the hours of 8.00am and 2.00pm.”

We’d been in the house all day and nobody had knocked on any of our doors.

“Oh well,” Joe would say, “I’ll drive down to the post office tomorrow morning. And I’d better check that nothing’s been left at Marcia’s or the Repsol garage while I’m there.”

It always amazed me that we received any post at all.

September meant that most villagers returned to their homes in the big town below the mountain and returned to work or school. Apart from at the weekends, El Hoyo was quiet and no children kicked footballs, no motor bikes buzzed and no strains of flamenco echoed in the streets.

During the week in the winter months, the sole inhabitants of El Hoyo were Uncle Felix, Geronimo, Marcia at the shop, the Boys and us. The new bar closed its doors, opening them again only at weekends or for festive occasions.

Our grapes hung in giant, fat bunches, ripening faster than we could eat them. Sylvia taught Snitch and Felicity, her two almost-grown kittens, how to crouch still and silent in the thick thatch of vine-leaves, then pounce on unsuspecting sparrows as they pecked at the plump grapes.

Snitch and Felicity

One afternoon that September, there was a polite knock at our door. Joe went to open it. I was in the kitchen and stopped clattering plates to listen.

“Hola,”
said Joe.

“Hola,”
came the reply. “How are you and Veeky?”

“Very well,” said Joe and I noted a tone of inquiry in his voice.

I recognized the visitor’s voice, it was Roberto. But why were the Boys calling on us?

“Veeky said that when we started our salsa classes down the mountain, you and she would be happy to watch Emilia for us.”

“Er, she did?”

“Yes, it will not be for long and we’ll leave everything out for you. Emilia is a very good little girl.”

Oh dear. I’d quite forgotten to tell Joe about that conversation I’d had with the Boys weeks ago. It had completely slipped my mind.

“So Vicky offered to babysit?” I heard Joe say, too casually.

I hurriedly dried my hands and remembered some vital jobs I needed to do on the roof terrace. I slipped quietly out of the back door. A few minutes slipped past, then...

“Vicky? VICKY! Where are you?”

I sighed and sheepishly came back down the staircase, preparing myself to face the music. Joe was not pleased. I could tell by the way his lips were pressed together and the agitated scratching of his nethers.

“What’s all this about? You offered to babysit for the Boys? Is that right?”

“No, I didn’t offer... They just kind of assumed it would be okay.”

“Well, it isn’t okay! Why didn’t you just say no?”

“I couldn’t. They just kind of sprang it on me. You wouldn’t have been able to say no either.”

“Humph! Well, their salsa classes start next week. I’m not happy about this.”

“Oh, we’ll probably enjoy it. Emilia looks like a lovely little thing. We can get into practice in case we have grandchildren one day.”

When the day came around, Joe and I rang the Boys’ doorbell. We’d all agreed that it made more sense to watch Emilia at their house. They had all the baby equipment and toys there and our house was not really baby-proof.

“Come in,” said Roberto, who had little Emilia balanced on his hip.

We followed him inside and I tried not to stare round the room. It was gorgeous. Everything was either cream or white, including the floors, walls and three-piece suite. A few clever paintings adorned the walls and tasteful ornaments were artfully displayed. The glass dining table and side tables were polished to a dazzle. At the far end was a gleaming kitchen with American-style fridge and stone counters. This was nothing like our cottage.

“Everything is ready for you,” said Roberto. “We have shut the dogs in the garden, so they will not bother you. Emilia has had her meal and her bath. You can put her in her highchair and give her this yogurt to finish off, if you like. She is already in her sleep-suit, so you will not need to change her. But we have left spare nappies and things here just in case.”

Federico patted a pile of nappies on the sofa and gestured to the changing mat, lotions and talcum powder we might need.

“Do you need reminding how to change a nappy?” asked Roberto.

“Of course not!” said Joe. “We’ve had children too. It’s one of those things you never forget.”

Little Emilia studied him solemnly with her dark, brown eyes.

“As I say, I do not think it will be necessary to change her. When she’s had her yogurt, you can just play with her until we get back.”

Federico indicated the big, white box in the corner, brimming over with toys.

“If she gets tired and falls asleep,” went on Roberto, “that is okay.”

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “Go and enjoy yourselves.”

Now that it was time to go, the pair seemed reluctant to leave. Federico straightened a couple of already straight cushions and Roberto kissed the top of Emilia’s head and finally handed her over to me.

“There is a bottle of juice on the side, if you think she is thirsty.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” I said again.

Reluctantly, the Boys left. Emilia’s pudgy hands grabbed the chain round my neck and cooed.

“You are lovely!” I told her.

And she was. Her skin was perfect, soft and clear and her hair was a crown of dark golden curls. She smiled and cooed all the time and smelled delicious. I turned to Joe.

“Do you want to hold her?”

“Okay.”

I handed her to Joe and she beamed into his face. He smiled right back at her and I knew everything was going to be all right.

Unfortunately, it was a Tuesday and my favourite TV program was on. Joe and I had already discussed this and we’d agreed, if he felt comfortable, that I would shoot home and watch my show. It was only on for 45 minutes and I’d be right back. I couldn’t watch it on the Boys’ TV because it was an English show, not on Spanish channels and our video recorder wasn’t working.

Now it was my turn to be reluctant to leave.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I said for the third time. “I won’t go if you’re not one hundred percent sure.”

“Go! Enjoy it. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Emilia?” Emilia smiled back at him. “I’m going to put her in the highchair, give her that yogurt and then we’ll play for a while. You’ll be back by then.”

“Okay, if you’re really sure...”

“Go!”

I left them on the sofa, playing ‘This Little Piggy went to Market’, Emilia’s giggles filling the air. There is no language barrier with babies and it didn’t matter a bit that she didn’t know what a piggy was.

Three quarters of an hour later, I hurried back and tapped lightly on the door.

“Come in quick,” said Joe, letting me in. “I’ve had a couple of little problems.”

He was holding Emilia, who beamed at me.

“What sort of problems?” I asked, coming in and closing the door behind me.

“Well, I put her in her highchair and tried to give her the yogurt. It was really difficult! She kept grabbing the spoon and the yogurt went everywhere. I forgot how hard it was feeding babies.”

“Ah! That’s why she’s wearing a different sleep-suit? Well, you seem to have managed okay.”

“Left a bit of a mess I’m afraid... Yogurt everywhere and this little one could do with another face and hand wash. Couldn’t you, Milly-Molly?” He tickled her and she squirmed, chuckling.

“That’s okay,” I said, “you keep her amused and I’ll have a wipe round.”

I walked over to the highchair, which was coated liberally with yogurt. Yogurty smears decorated the floor, end table and the white leather couch.

“How did the yogurt get this far?” I asked curiously.

“Well, that was my second little problem. She was covered in yogurt, so I put the changing-mat on the floor and managed to get her sleep-suit off and I thought I’d change her nappy at the same time, but she wouldn’t keep still. I’d forgotten how wriggly babies are, it was like a wrestling match and she thought it was hilarious. Anyway, she flips over and zooms off. I’m telling you, she’s so fast! She crawls like a demon!”