Two Old Fools in Spain Again (11 page)
Outside our kitchen door, our grapevine was a tangle of dead-looking branches over our heads. For the first time, neither Uncle Felix nor Paco arrived to prune it for us, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.
“How hard can it be to prune a grapevine?” I asked Joe.
Joe looked at me blankly and shrugged.
“You just chop it, I guess.”
I shouldn’t have asked him. Had I wanted to know something about the molecular structure of hydrogen sulphide or (heaven forbid) something about the Fourier analysis of waves, he might have helped. If I’d asked him to list all the American Civil War battles and their commanders, or the dates of every significant writer from Samuel Pepys onwards, he might have been useful.
But gardening is not one of Joe’s strengths. Joe calls every flower, regardless of size or colour, a pansy.
Having been away for a year, the shrubs had become rather unruly and I’d asked him to help me in the garden. We had a beautiful jasmine and a plumbago that grew together, intertwined. The blue plumbago flowers lasted for months and when the snowy jasmine flowers peeped through, it was my favourite part of the garden.
“Could you just tidy it up a tiny bit?” I asked him, handing him the secateurs. “Just neaten it up, nothing more.”
Then I turned my back to get on with other jobs. Big mistake.
“I’ve finished,” he called some time later and I came to view his labours.
Joe stood there, beaming, obviously well pleased with his efforts, the garden shears hanging loosely from one hand. Piles of green foliage, blue and white blossoms and branches were piled on the ground, already wilting. The plumbago had been reduced to a foot-high stump and the jasmine was nearly as bad. I stared with horror.
“It would have taken too long with the secateurs,” he said, “so I used the big shears.”
I couldn’t speak. To be honest, I felt quite tearful.
The plumbago, unsurprisingly, gave up and died. The jasmine eventually recovered and took over the space. I loved the blossoms and the fragrance of the jasmine, especially during summer evenings, but I sorely missed the cheerful splash of blue that the plumbago had provided.
Yes, the grapevine needed pruning, but this was not a job Joe could be trusted with.
“If Uncle Felix and Paco don’t turn up by the end of the month,” I announced, “I’m going to have a go at doing it myself.”
13. Pruning
‘Your baby is now the size of a raspberry. Those little arms and legs are wriggling around like crazy...’
B
y the middle of March, Paco and Uncle Felix still hadn’t appeared to prune our grapevine. I spent a lot of time under its twisted, naked branches, gazing up, considering how best to tackle the job.
I turned to the Internet for assistance.
‘Prune the 12 renewal buds so that there is always one more bud growing from the tip. Allow the renewal buds to extend and grow one bud length. The fruit develops on the new growth that springs from the renewal bud. Keep it short during the dormant season and the plant under control.’
I’ve always liked gardening, but this was a little baffling. Twelve renewal buds? I stared up at the vine and did a little counting. This wasn’t going to be quite as simple as I’d thought.
“I’ve sharpened the clippers,” said Joe. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”
“Quite sure, thanks,” I said, recalling the ugly slaughter of the plumbago. No, I was not going to allow the same thing to happen to our beloved grapevine.
I took a deep breath, trying to remember the rules I’d just read about new growth and old growth, renewal buds and fruiting spurs. Then I positioned the cutters and snipped. The first branch tumbled to the ground.
An hour later, my feet were surrounded by fallen branches. I had a stiff neck from looking up, sore eyes from squinting against the bright sky and blisters on my hands from the clippers. I was exhausted, but satisfied that I’d done a fairly good job. In fact, I was feeling rather pleased with myself.
Vine branches and twigs make perfect kindling, so Joe and I chopped them into short lengths and stored them away to dry, ready for next winter.
A week or so later, we heard the clattering of hooves up our street and voices. Then a fist pounded on our door.
“English! English!”
“Hello Paco,” said Joe, opening the door to admit our neighbour and Uncle Felix.
As always, Paco burst in and his presence dominated the room, in sharp contrast to Uncle Felix who shrank a little every year. Uncle Felix’s flat cap was pulled down over his eyes and he shuffled behind Paco, his fourscore years evident. Uncle Felix’s mule tried to follow her master inside, but she’d been tethered to the window bars so only succeeded in pushing her head into our living room.
Uncle Felix’s mule was showing her age, too. I put out my hand to pat her and noticed white hairs growing amongst the grey. She ignored my gesture of friendship, but I wasn’t affronted. Uncle Felix’s mule had eyes only for her master, whom she adored. The entire village chuckled every time the mule managed to escape, which was often and watched her trot the streets in search of Uncle Felix. She usually found him in the square and her trot would quicken, her ears stood tall and, with a little whinny of delight, she clopped over to nuzzle the old man.
“Uncle Felix and I have come to prune your vine,” bellowed Paco, waving his industrial branch-cutters.
The mule took a last look round the room, rattled her ears and withdrew to munch on the plants in my window-box.
“The vine?” I echoed weakly.
“This year Uncle Felix and I have come much later than usual because the winter has been quite dry. It would be a mistake to do it earlier. Today is the perfect day to prune your vine.”
I stared at him in dismay, aware that I’d committed a massive crime and I was about to be discovered.
“Er, Vicky has...” Joe began.
But Paco wasn’t listening and was already pushing past us to the kitchen and out of the back door. Joe and I exchanged worried glances and followed reluctantly.
“¡Madre mía!”
roared Paco. “What has happened here?”
Uncle Felix sank down onto the bench in shock. He removed his flat cap and rubbed his head, his faded old eyes sweeping the already-pruned branches above.
“What has happened here? This is a massacre! This grapevine has been butchered!” bellowed Paco. “Who is responsible for this abomination?”
Just for a brief second I considered blaming aliens, or burglars that had broken in and savaged our vine.
“Er, it was me...” I stammered. “I pruned the vine...”
“¡Madre mía!”
shouted Paco. “Did you hear that, Felix? Veeky pruned the vine!”
Uncle Felix rolled his eyes and shook his head sadly for a full thirty seconds.
“Joe, what in God’s name were you thinking, allowing her to touch the vine?”
“Well, I...”
“What do women know about the art of pruning a grapevine? Why did you not stop her? You should have done it yourself, or waited for me and Uncle Felix.”
“I tried to stop her,” said my traitorous partner in life, thoroughly enjoying himself. “But you know what’s she like. I told her she was doing it all wrong.”
I gaped at him.
“Look at this! Can you believe she cut this branch here?” said Paco, smacking the offending branch with the flat of his hand. “And this one?
¡Madre mía!
”
“I know,” said Joe, swinging round to look at me severely. “I remember telling her not to cut that one.”
I stared at him, mouth open.
“It is a disaster,” pronounced Paco. Then he sighed deeply. “We will do our best to put it right, but if this vine produces decent grapes this summer, then my name is Julio Iglesias.”
I’d heard enough. I slunk back into the kitchen, head hanging, eyes downcast. I boiled the kettle and set out the brandy, resisting the urge to take a large swig straight from the bottle. My actions were punctuated by
snip-snips
from outside. I peeped out of the window and saw Uncle Felix directing operations from his seat, waving his arm and pointing up at branches that required further attention. Joe stood aside, an insufferably smug expression on his face. I gritted my teeth and rummaged in the freezer for a bag of mackerel that had been lurking right at the back for several months. I caught sight of Joe’s slippers by the door and viciously kicked them behind the kitchen bin.
By the time the job was finished, Paco was in a good mood again.
“I’m sorry I pruned the vine,” I said as the men trooped back into the kitchen. I didn’t look at Joe.
“Never mind,” said Paco, sitting down heavily at our kitchen table. He reached over and slopped a generous glug of brandy into his glass of coffee. “But next year, wait for me and Felix, or let Joe do it.”
I nodded meekly.
The grapevine sorted, conversation began to flow at the same speed as the brandy disappeared. Although Uncle Felix was frail and hunched, he hadn’t lost the ability to drink brandy. His ancient, crooked fingers curled around his glass and rarely released their hold.
“Uncle Felix is 84 years old now, you know,” said Paco.
Uncle Felix beamed proudly.
“Or are you 85, Felix?”
Uncle Felix thought hard, then shook his head. He was never a man of many words. Being a shepherd, he’d never learnt to read or write and I doubted if anybody knew his real age, including himself.
“Never had a day’s illness, have you, Felix?”
Felix shook his head proudly and I knew what was coming next.
“Never seen a dentist, have you, Felix?”
The old man beamed, exposing pink gums. I waited for the next comment and mouthed the words silently. I wasn’t disappointed.
“And he has never been with a woman!” Paco’s fist slammed down on the table in triumph.
Uncle Felix shook his head again, still grinning from ear to gnarled ear as though he had achieved something extraordinary.
“Tell the English about your new TV,” commanded Paco. Uncle Felix just beamed, so Paco took over. “He has a brand-new widescreen plasma TV!” roared Paco. “The whole family clubbed together and bought it for him.”
“In his cottage?” I asked.
“Yes!”
I blinked at the thought. I hadn’t been inside Uncle Felix’s cottage, but Joe had. It was very primitive, with thick, crumbling walls and a corrugated asbestos roof. It consisted of just two rooms with earth floors flattened by age. Uncle Felix lived, cooked and slept in one room, while his mule and two chickens occupied the other. I tried to imagine a wide-screen TV in that cottage and failed.
“He loves that matchmaking show on the TV in the afternoons. Never misses it. You know the one where couples come together? You love that show, don’t you, Felix?”
I thought I knew the one he meant, a little like a Spanish
Blind Date
for the elderly.
Uncle Felix grinned and released his glass long enough to tap his two forefingers together, side by side, signifying a couple getting together.
So Uncle Felix’s decrepit exterior hid a romantic and sentimental heart? Who’d have thought it? If only he had met a lonely shepherdess in the mountains in his younger days...
The conversation switched to Mother and Alejandro Senior whose torrid affair was the talk of the village.
“Good luck to them,” said Joe. “I hope I’m that lively when I get to their age.”
If I let you reach that age
, I thought.
“Has anyone seen Maribel Ufarte and the children?” I asked.
“Bad business, bad business,” growled Paco. “Juan Ufarte made a big mistake there. Lola will be off soon, you mark my words, chasing some other man. Then Juan will have nobody. A bad business.”
The conversation turned to other village matters, like the new bar and the council’s decision to cut down on the number of dumpsters in the village to save money.
“I was talking to the mayor only last week,” said Paco. “He said the council has to save as much money as possible. The coffers are empty. Oh and Veeky, he mentioned you.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he said you promised to give him private English lessons.”
I stared at Paco, horrified. I thought that had all been forgotten.
“The mayor is thinking that he should speak good English and maybe attract more English people to the village. English people have lots of money.”
We’d come across this misconception many times before. Spanish people always thought the British were a hugely rich nation. We tried to explain that although salaries were higher in Britain, so was the cost of everything, including property, food, transport, utilities and taxes. In fact, we knew very few people in Britain who owned two houses, whereas in Spain it is common for families to have a house or apartment in the city and a house in the countryside.
We went on to discuss Spain’s floundering economy and the latest Spanish football triumphs. Eventually, Paco and Uncle Felix stood up to leave and we walked them to the front door. The mule gave a little snicker of delight when she saw her beloved master.
Paco leaned in to Joe and delivered his parting shot. He lowered his voice but I still heard the words clearly.
“Listen, Joe, never,
never
let a woman loose on grapevines. That is a man’s job.”
“Well, that was a nice visit, wasn’t it?” said Joe brightly, closing the front door and following me back into the kitchen. “Always good to hear the village gossip.”
I said nothing, still seething.
“Have you seen my slippers? I’m sure I left them here by the door.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, how strange... Never mind, perhaps I put them somewhere else. What are we having for dinner tonight?”
“I’ve defrosted some mackerel.”
“Mackerel? I hate mackerel!”
“Yes. I know.”
The Almería area has often been described as the vegetable basket of Europe. Ugly plastic greenhouses stretch for acres in some areas, the perfect growing environment for tomatoes, peppers and aubergines, all year round. They are a terrible eyesore, ruining glorious views, but they are a necessary evil. Spain was in the grip of a financial crisis and unemployment was rocketing, so this greenhouse industry was now more important than ever.
Almería is also a big supplier of citrus fruit. Joe and I never wearied of driving alongside the orange and lemon orchards. In the depth of the Spanish winter, the trees hung with luscious fruit.
Thanks to the generosity of the Spanish, we were never short of oranges. If we ever stopped our car near an orchard, a farmer would beckon us and fill our arms with oranges.
And although our garden may have been too small to grow orange trees, we didn’t even need to leave home in order to be supplied with oranges.
