Two Old Fools in Spain Again (9 page)
“Joe! You didn’t!”
“I didn’t know what to say!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
Well, it was too late to invent an excuse now. We’d just have to make the best of it. Perhaps I was being uncharitable, but I really wasn’t looking forward to having strangers sharing our house, particularly a man of the cloth and his spouse.
9. The Vicar and His Wife
A
s the days went by, I became more and more anxious about the impending visit by the vicar and his wife. I worried about our house. Would our guests be comfortable? Would they remember to duck their heads through some of the smaller doorways? Would they mind the electricity switching off without warning? And would they notice Joe’s scratching?
As luck would have it, our guests’ visit would coincide with El Hoyo’s annual fiesta, which was another source of worry for me. Would they be able to stand the thump of music all night? What about the constant fireworks?
As the village prepared for the fiesta, I prepared the house, cleaning every nook and cranny. Judith had promised to whisk the vicar and his wife away every morning, so they would only be with us late evenings and at breakfast time, but I wanted everything in order.
On the Friday, Geronimo fired rockets into the sky at midday, heralding the opening of the fiesta and start of the festivities. As the day wore on, more people descended into the valley. The village was packed with local families and their friends and relations, the cars jamming the narrow streets and parking in every available space.
At around nine in the evening, our guests arrived, shepherded by Judith. She introduced us to the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery and his wife, Mavis. To my relief, I liked the vicar instantly. He had a kindly face with a smile that never seemed to leave his lips. His shock of white hair nearly matched his dog collar and his eyes were good-natured and friendly. I wish I could have said the same for his wife, Mavis.
“We’re very pleased to meet you,” Joe said, shaking hands and I followed suit.
The vicar’s handshake was warm and reassuring, but shaking hands with Mavis was like clutching a bunch of dead twigs.
In contrast with her husband, Mavis was bony and angular with elbows that jutted out sharply and gimlet eyes that stared out from behind a pair of spectacles hanging from a gold chain about her scrawny neck. Her eyebrows were pencilled in and gave her an air of permanent surprise, while her lips were pale and pressed together.
“It’s very kind of you to take us in,” said the vicar, smiling. “We’re so sorry if we’ve put you out at all.”
“Not at all!” I said, lying through my teeth. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Very smooth and pleasant...” the vicar began, but his wife cut across him.
“The poor vicar found the flight terribly cramped,” she said, “and the food was appalling. I had to send it back and ask for something else. My husband wouldn’t dream of complaining, of course, but I knew it would upset his sensitive stomach.”
“It wasn’t
that
bad, Mavis, dear.”
Mavis pursed her lips, which was to become a familiar mannerism to us in the next couple of days. Joe said her mouth looked like ‘a pussycat’s bottom’ and he wasn’t far wrong. She also had a habit of jerking her head from side to side as though checking to see if somebody was creeping up on her. Her hair had been set into orderly rows of sausage curls, but sprayed so heavily they never moved.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, m’dears!” said Judith. “Toodle-pip and I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that she was gone.
“Er, what should we call you?” I asked the vicar as Joe portered their cases upstairs.
“Oh, just...” he smiled, but Mavis was already chiming in.
“My husband is accustomed to being addressed as ‘Reverend’”, she said, “but ‘Vicar’ will do as we’re on holiday.”
“Okay. Well, let me show you around,” I said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here with us.”
The vicar chatted amiably as we toured, but Mavis stayed silent, her head flicking from left to right, as though searching for places I’d forgotten to dust.
“Would you like to see outside?” I asked when we were in the kitchen. My hand rested on the handle of the back door, ready to open it. “It’s dark, but we have outside lights in the garden. I’ll show you the chickens, although they’ll be asleep now.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mavis, pursing her lips. “We wouldn’t want the vicar to catch a chill.”
“A snack, perhaps?” I asked, as Joe joined us. “Or something to drink?”
“I think the vicar would like a nice warm milk, if you have it,” said Mavis. “We’ll take it up to bed. Nothing to eat, thank you, the vicar never goes to bed on a full stomach. It’s been a very tiring day for my husband and he needs his full nine hours of sleep every night.”
Joe had been heading for the drinks cupboard but changed direction and pulled a saucepan from the rack instead.
“I hope you’ll sleep okay,” I said. “I’m afraid the dancing in the square is going to start soon. I hope it doesn’t keep you awake.”
“I have terrible trouble sleeping,” said Mavis. “I shall take one of my sleeping pills.”
“Oh, the noise and music won’t worry me,” said the vicar and gave me a tiny wink that I couldn’t quite interpret.
Our house had a quirky layout. It had a bathroom and cave bedroom downstairs, while upstairs there were another two bedrooms, a bathroom and a little kitchenette. Unless we had visitors, we rarely used the upstairs rooms and could shut the door at the top of the stairs. When the vicar and his wife climbed the stairs to bed, they shut the door behind them and Joe and I looked at each other.
“Well!” I said.
“Isn’t that Mavis awful!” groaned Joe. “Thank goodness they’ve gone to bed. I don’t think I could stand being around her for long. Shall we have a drink?”
We hadn’t eaten yet, but a drink was very welcome. Joe poured us a couple of glasses and we sank onto the kitchen chairs. Relaxing, we discussed our visitors further.
“He’s nice,” I said, “but she’s...”
“She’s dreadful! A dragon! How does he put up with her?”
“Does she ever let him speak?”
“I bet she does the sermons in church!”
We drank and giggled over the She-Vicar for a good half hour until I suddenly heard a familiar noise.
“Ssssh! That’s the door at the top of the stairs opening! They’re coming back down!”
We both sat up straight and waited. Quiet, slippered footsteps came down the stairs, through the dining room and into the kitchen. It was the vicar. Resplendent in a dressing-gown with JM embroidered in gold on the breast pocket, he stood there, grinning broadly at us.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “She won’t wake until the morning. Is that offer of a drink still there?”
Of course it was! Joe pulled out a chair and I poured him a stiff brandy.
“Please call me James,” he said. “I sometimes forget I have a name, I’m so used to being called ‘Reverend’ or ‘Vicar’. Actually, my middle name is Andrew, but Mavis objected to having JAM embroidered on my towels and dressing-gown pockets.”
Within ten minutes, we were the best of friends, laughing, joking and swapping stories. James was hilarious and if his sermons were as good as his stories, I was sure the pews in his church were packed full every Sunday.
“Can we go outside?” he asked. “I’d love to see the garden and your chickens.”
It was a wonderful, warm balmy night. We switched on the garden lights and took our drinks with us. James was fascinated by the sleeping chickens, roosting on their outside perch. Each hen sat so close to her sister that they looked like one continuous chicken with seven sets of claws locked onto the roosting rail.
“I never knew chickens snored!” he said.
“Oh, they always do,” we assured him.
“Silly birds are still sleeping outside,” Joe added. “When winter sets in, they are going to get cold. We’ll have to train them to sleep inside somehow.”
Even in the middle of October, winter seemed a long way off. The air was heavily scented from our jasmine bush and the sky was black velvet spangled with a million blinking stars. The band in the square began to play and the villagers clapped and cheered. Behind our walls, nobody could see us, but we heard children scamper past up the street, dogs barking, men discussing politics and ladies chattering, all heading for the square. The village was waking up for the fiesta.
One drink followed another until my stomach growled.
“We haven’t eaten yet,” I said. “We’ve got a big, hot curry to reheat, would you like some, James?” Joe and I love spicy food.
“Curry? I’d love some!”
“It’s hot...”
“Perfect, the hotter and spicier, the better!”
We sat outside until the early hours, eating, drinking and listening to the fiesta. Sylvia and her almost-grown kittens, Felicity and Snitch, appeared from nowhere. When the kittens saw we had nothing to offer them, they chased each other and romped behind the flowerpots.
“This is a marvellous place to live,” said James. “I can understand why you’re so happy here. I love our village in England, but this life-style takes some beating.”
“I know,” said Joe. “We’re very lucky.”
“Do you wear your dog collar every day?” I asked curiously.
“Vicky!” Joe said, scolding me. “It’s called a clerical collar!”
“That’s okay, Joe. I call it a dog collar too. Yes, I tend to wear it every day. Mavis prefers me wearing it and I don’t really mind.”
When the church bell chimed four times, we knew it was two o’clock. I yawned.
“It’s late,” I said. “The church clock always repeats itself. I think I’m ready for bed.”
“Me too,” said Joe.
The Reverend James Andrew Montgomery stood up and stretched.
“Yep, bed for me too,” he said. “It’s been a wonderful evening, thank you both. I’ll see you in the morning and please,” he tapped his nose conspiratorially, “not a word to Mavis.”
Joe and I watched him depart and lingered in the garden for a few moments more.
“Who would have thought it...” I said.
“I don’t think this visit is going to be so bad after all,” said Joe.
We cleared the table as the band thumped out its music. It would carry on for many hours yet and tomorrow night would be an even bigger occasion. The chickens, undisturbed, snored on, although Sick-Note coughed occasionally.
The next morning the vicar and his wife appeared at 8 o’clock, dressed and ready for the day. Mavis’s curls were all in place and James looked bright and refreshed.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked.
“Oh yes, thank you,” answered Mavis. “I was worried that the fiesta might keep the vicar awake, but he says it didn’t bother him at all.”
“That’s good,” I said and caught one of James’s tiny winks. This time I understood it.
The chickens were laying well and I’d cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast. Joe poured the tea and I served the toast and eggs.
“That looks delicious,” said the vicar. “Thank you!”
“Just a slice of dry toast for me, please,” said Mavis primly.
“Salt? Pepper?” I asked James.
“Oh no,” Mavis broke in. “The vicar never touches spicy food of any kind. He’s a martyr to his delicate stomach.”
I managed to keep a straight face and not think of the large plate of curry the vicar had devoured late last night. I would keep his secret. Joe was already lifting the first forkful of scrambled egg to his mouth when Mavis threw both hands up to her face in horror.
“Wait!” she cried.
Joe froze, eyes bulging, mouth still open, loaded fork hovering.
“The vicar hasn’t said Grace yet!” said Mavis in hushed tones, then pressed her thin lips together, closed her eyes and bowed her sausage curls, waiting.
“I’m sure the Good Lord would forgive us if we missed it just once, my dear. We’re on holiday after all,” said the vicar mildly. When the sausage curls bowed even lower he sighed and mumbled a quick blessing.
Thankfully, Judith arrived soon after and spirited our guests away for the day. But not before I had the chance to say a line I’d always wanted to say...
“More tea, vicar?”
El Hoyo at fiesta time is madness. Marching bands come out of the hills. Processions form. Contests take place and clowns perform. Flamenco dancers writhe and stamp. Fireworks shoot into the sky, day and night. One year, the village square was filled with foam to play in, another year, coloured plastic balls. We loved it all. If we didn’t join in, we would stand on our roof terrace looking down at all the activity.
Late that evening, the vicar and his wife returned, having spent a pleasant day with Judith sightseeing. They’d toured Almería and its castle and driven into the mountains to eat in a whitewashed village restaurant.
“Judith had to drop us miles away tonight,” complained Mavis. “We couldn’t drive into El Hoyo at all because the road is blocked with all the parked cars. I was very worried about the vicar’s hip. He’s not supposed to exert himself too much.”
“I was fine, dear,” reproached the vicar. “Good exercise and I enjoyed the walk. There certainly are a lot of people in the village at the moment.”
“It’s like this every year,” I said. “Saturday is the main day of the fiesta. The dancing will go on until four or five in the morning. The band just carries on playing until the last people leave.”
“Good heavens!” said Mavis, tossing her perfectly cylindrical iron curls at the thought. “Well, the vicar and I shall be in bed. Could I trouble you for some warm milk to take up with us? I know my husband must be exhausted after our busy day today.”
“No trouble at all,” I said and heated the milk.
Off they went upstairs, Mavis firmly leading the way. Did I see James give me a tiny wink? I thought so. The door at the top of the stairs closed behind them.
“I’m willing to bet that’s not the last we’ve seen of the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery tonight,” said Joe.
I agreed with him.
10. The Fiesta and Cold Water
J
ust before midnight the door at the top of the stairs opened again and Joe and I smiled at each other. We heard the now familiar footsteps coming down the stairs.
“It’s only me,” grinned the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery. “Mavis is out like a light, she took a double dose of sleeping pills. The band is even louder tonight.”
Far from complaining, his foot was tapping in time to the beat that permeated even the thick walls of our house. I noticed he was fully dressed this time and the dog collar had gone.
“Shall we take a drink outside?” suggested Joe.
The vicar raised his white eyebrows. “I rather thought we’d go and join the fun in the square,” he said. “But yes, I wouldn’t mind another glass of that marvellous wine of yours!”
It was another balmy night and we enjoyed a leisurely drink outside in the garden. We told James about the fiesta goings-on that day and he described their sightseeing visit to Almería. He was impressed by the castle. Although some of it is in ruins, there is still much to see. Built high on a hill by the Moors a thousand years ago, the encircling fortifications protected 20,000 people in the town. To this day, gypsies still live in the caves at its foot.
“I didn’t know Almería is an Arabic word meaning ‘mirror of the sea’,” he said.
We didn’t know that either.
James drained his glass and set it down.
“Well,” he proposed, “shall we wander on down to the square?”
The closer we got to the square, the louder the music became until we could hardly hear each others’ words above the pounding beat.
“This certainly beats our village fêtes in the rectory garden!” James shouted into my ear.
The square and its surroundings were a seething mass of people. The new bar was packed, every seat taken. Stalls, manned by dark-skinned Moroccans, sold plastic toys, hot-dogs and firecrackers. Dogs barked soundlessly, unheard above the music. Marcia sat on a straight-backed chair in her shop doorway, her fingers busy with knitting, her eyes playing over the crowds like searchlights. Geronimo sat on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs, his Real Madrid scarf draped around his neck. He lifted a bottle of beer to his lips to drink and I saw another two bottles lined up beside him, awaiting his attention.
People were dancing in family knots: mothers, fathers, grandparents and children. I saw Lola and Papa Ufarte dancing with the twins, while Maribel sat on a bench, jiggling a pushchair containing a sleeping toddler. As I watched, the twins tired of dancing and chased away to join a group of children near the stalls.
Paco, Carmen, Alejandro and his wife, Sofía and Alejandro Junior danced nearby. Beside them, Alejandro Senior clasped Mother to him, one arm encircling her waist, the other clasping her hand aloft as he deftly guided her through the other dancers. Paco caught sight of us, waved a greeting and beckoned us over.
“Shall we?” I asked, eyebrows raised in question. I knew James and Joe couldn’t hear me. The music was unfamiliar, but the rhythm was mesmeric, making my feet itch to dance.
I didn’t expect James to follow, but he did. We joined Paco’s family group and jigged and swayed with them, drinking in the Spanish party atmosphere. The heat, the sounds, the smells, the happy faces and the vibration of the music seeped into my bones as it always did. I was loving it and judging by his face, so was the vicar.
One tune melted into the next and I lost all sense of time. We rarely wore wristwatches and it would have been impossible to hear the church clock strike the hour above the music. Joe caught his breath and stopped dancing for a while, but the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery was in his element. He adapted his steps to the changing rhythm, a broad grin stretched across his face as he whirled and tapped. He didn’t look like a man who suffered from a painful hip to me.
The band at the fiesta
At around two o’clock, Geronimo jumped off the stage and rummaged beneath it. He backed out with an armful of wicked-looking fireworks, great rockets packed with explosive. I knew what was going to happen next and it wasn’t my favourite aspect of Spanish life.
“Watch!” I shouted to James, pointing to Geronimo.
He swung round and I saw his eyes widen. The band finished their number, paused, then backed away from Geronimo who had joined them on the stage. Now everybody watched as Geronimo held a firework aloft, pointing it at the sky. He set light to the touch-paper then allowed the firework to burst from his grasp and shoot into the air.
“Good grief! That’s so dangerous!” said James. “What about Health and Safety?”
“This is Spain, James.”
One by one, Geronimo let the fireworks off and they arced into the night sky, exploding with a bang that shook the village. The villagers clapped and cheered every time until the last rocket had been set free. Then the band struck up again and the dancing continued with even more gusto.
Some time later, I was still on the dance floor. Occasionally I took a rest and so did Joe, but there was no stopping the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery. He gyrated, bounced and bobbed, only his white hair giving any clue to his age. Perhaps he could trace some Spanish ancestry back somewhere, because that night his feet were made for dancing. Paco kindly brought us some drinks, which we accepted gratefully, then carried on dancing.
I don’t know what time it was when it happened. Without warning, the village was thrown into total blackness. Every streetlight and coloured bulb fizzled out and the music ground to a halt as the electricity died. For five minutes, the villagers laughed and called, their voices floating through the darkness. Some lit cigarette lighters and held them high, the light casting strange shadows on their faces. Joe grabbed my arm and we stood still, waiting for the power to be restored. This was a common occurrence, particularly at fiesta time.
Just as suddenly, the lights came back on. As I blinked, adjusting to the sudden brightness, a couple standing quite close to me jumped apart guiltily. The crowd cheered and applauded the return of the electricity, but not everybody was in high spirits. As the music struck up and the cheering crowd settled down, a single voice cut through.
It was Maribel. Like me, she had seen her husband and her sister Lola in that close embrace. Like me, she had seen the pair spring apart guiltily. Now she stood, one hand with the knuckles turning white as she clutched the handle of the push chair, her other hand jabbing in fury, her mouth a slash of accusation.
I don’t know what she shrieked at the pair, I didn’t understand the words, but it made the hair rise on the back of my neck. This was a woman in shock, a woman who had just witnessed her own worst nightmare, a woman wronged, outraged. The people standing close by, me included, shrank into themselves and turned away. It was too painful to watch. As his wife screamed and stamped in fury, Papa Ufarte had the grace to look ashamed. Lola just lifted her chin in defiance.
I caught Carmen’s eye. She raised her brows and twitched her shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug, an ‘I told you so’ signal that I understood perfectly.
For me, the evening was spoiled and I wanted to go home. I didn’t feel like dancing any more although the crowd around us was already swinging in time to the music, swallowing up the harrowing scene. Joe was ready to leave too, but the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery was not. He hadn’t seen the distressing drama unfold and his toes were still a-tapping.
“Don’t worry, I can find my own way back,” he shouted over the music as Joe handed him a spare key. “I’ll see you in the morning!”
When we left him, Sofía and Alejandro Junior were teaching him some flamenco steps and he barely waved goodbye.
Joe and I didn’t say much on the short walk home, both deep in thought. We did smile, however, when we saw Little Paco sitting on a doorstep in the shadows with his arm around a pretty young girl. Little Paco was growing up.
There wasn’t much of the night left and we slept soundly through the little that remained. Next morning, when James and Mavis came down for breakfast, nobody would have guessed that the vicar had danced the night away.
“Did you sleep well?” asked Joe innocently.
“Like a log!” returned James, beaming.
“Well, I’m surprised,” said Mavis. “I was worried that the stroll around the castle yesterday would have aggravated your hip problem. One shouldn’t overdo it at our age, you know.”
Nobody said a word.
Judith came to collect our visitors and we said our final goodbyes. I wasn’t sorry to bid Mavis or her prim pussycat-bottom mouth or her rows of iron sausage curls farewell, but evenings would be quieter without the Reverend James Andrew Montgomery.
It was Sunday and the fiesta finished with another flurry of fireworks in the early evening. Village doors were locked and all the cars drove away up the mountain and out of the valley. Joe and I were saddened to see that Maribel Ufarte had also quit the village, taking her children and the unborn baby away, but leaving her husband and Lola together in their house.
In El Hoyo, months often slipped quietly by without a fuss, but that October was not one of them. The fiesta and the visit by the vicar and his wife were closely followed by another: the Gin Twins’ visit.
Of course they were as badly behaved as ever and I dread to think how many bottles of gin they consumed between them. But we had a blast. We went exploring villages, got lost numerous times, lazed by a friend’s pool, played Rude Scrabble (rules supplied upon application) and ate and drank far too much. My face ached from laughing. After a week of riotous living we bade them farewell until the next year.
The following October event wasn’t so amusing. Workmen appeared in the village and began digging holes randomly. Before we had a chance to find out what was happening, our water supply was switched off. It stayed shut off for two entire days, reappearing without warning. First a rusty trickle dripped from our taps, then a more enthusiastic jet of clear water appeared.
We assumed that maintenance on the village water supply was complete, but we were mistaken. For nearly a week, the water was randomly shut off and then resumed without warning.
One time, Joe was taking a shower, happily singing away. I could hear him as I typed at my computer.
“It’s been a hard day’s night,
And I’ve been working like a do-o-g,
It’s been a hard day’s night,
I should be sleeping like a... (pause)
VICKY! There’s no blasted water! Those idiots have turned it off again!”
“Oh dear.”
“VICKY? Where are you? I need to get this soap and shampoo off!”
“Okay, I’m coming...”
We always kept a few bottles of water in case of emergencies. And I had no choice, did I? I
had
to grab our bottled water from the fridge and throw it over his head and body to rinse the soap and shampoo. Yes, it was icy cold. Yes, he did bellow profanities. Yes, it did make him shudder and dance. And yes, I
did
enjoy doing it…
Unfortunately, Joe wasn’t the only one to suffer a cold shower that autumn.
Nowadays, most chickens are bred to lay eggs happily whether there is a cockerel present to fertilise them or not. The hen lays her daily egg then abandons it, no thought of incubation or childcare troubling her thoughts. However, just occasionally, something goes awry.
One day, Three decided she didn’t want to be parted from her egg. Instead of jumping down and carrying on with her normal daily pursuits of eating, preening and dustbathing, she chose to sit on her egg and stare into space.
Instead of roosting with her sisters, Three stayed with her egg all night. The next day and the next, she laid more eggs and still she stayed sitting on the nest. Three had definitely ‘gone broody’ and we had no idea how to deal with her.
Of course the eggs would never hatch, however long she sat on them. We tried removing the eggs, even though she pecked at our hands as we stole them from beneath her. It made no difference, she just sat on the empty nest, staring straight ahead.
