Two Old Fools in Spain Again (16 page)
18. Letters
T
he rest of that day dragged by. Joe and I went to bed. The next morning, the 8th August, 2012, the telephone rang.
“Karly? Is that you?” My hand shook as I held the receiver.
A tired little voice filled with awe answered quietly, almost whispering.
“She’s here. And she’s perfect.”
I shrieked and danced around the kitchen.
“Have you and Cam decided on a name yet?”
“Yes. Indy Grace.”
“Oh, that’s lovely! The name Indy wasn’t even on your shortlist, was it?”
“No, but it just seems to fit her perfectly.”
Thanks to the wonders of technology, we saw little Indy Grace immediately. The baby was less than an hour old but the good news and photos of her flashed around the world before mother and baby were even out of the delivery room. My Facebook page was red-hot with congratulations from every continent. I was so happy, I could have burst.
Newborn
How was I going to be able to wait another four weeks before flying to Australia and meeting Indy? That first day, I couldn’t settle to anything and my heart ached to see her.
And so I did the only thing I could think of doing. I wrote a letter to my granddaughter.
Hello Indy Grace,
We haven’t met yet, but I’m your grandmother. Welcome to the world, little one. The world is a big place and you and your Mum and Dad live in Australia, on the other side of the world. We live in Spain, but that isn’t going to stop us coming to see you as often as we can.
We’ve been waiting for you to arrive for so long! Yesterday, your Mum went into hospital so that they could hurry you along. But you weren’t ready. So your Mum went on a children’s slide and a space-hopper thingy and tried all sorts of things to encourage you to come out. But you still weren’t ready. Your name, Indy, suits you already.
But now you’re here and of course you are the most gorgeous, intelligent, perfect baby ever born - 6 pounds, 12 oz of beautiful baby.
You couldn’t have been born to a better Mum and Dad, or in a nicer place. Your life is going to be filled with love and laughter.
And you are lucky! When you were in your Mummy’s tummy, your Daddy called you Wolfgang, then Grug, then Gruglington. Thank goodness they finally settled on Indy.
The world you were born into is a wonderful place and I hope it stays that way for you. I’ve seen so many changes and technological marvels in my life and I can only guess at the advances you’ll see. Perhaps you’ll have a holiday home on Mars, or a robot to do all your housework? Perhaps you’ll live until you’re 150? Who knows!
Have you any idea of how many people wish you well? Not just me and Grumps. Not just family, but hundreds (yes, hundreds!) of lovely people have posted on Facebook, Twitter and have emailed me, all congratulating you on your arrival. (You’ll learn about Facebook and stuff later – there’s plenty of time for that!)
You’ll love Grumps, by the way. He grumbles and scratches himself quite a lot, but he’s a big softie. You’ll be able to twist him round your tiny finger.
So, little one, you’re here at last. In one month, I’ll be holding you and I can’t wait!
Until then, I shall blow you kisses from Spain. When they arrive, they’ll turn into little fairies that flutter around your cradle, watching over you.
Be well, little Indy and I’ll see you soon.
Your loving grandmother, xxxx
Time crept at snail’s pace. I didn’t want to wish the summer away but my heart was in Australia. Life in the village was never fast but now each day seemed longer than the last.
Days were long and hot and evenings were quieter than before. No longer was the night air punctuated by the Ufartes’ flamboyant flamenco music and dancing in the street. The house next door was occupied but we rarely glimpsed Lola and her new partner and we never chatted with them.
There was something different about Lola’s manner, which puzzled me. She had always been loud, super-confident, almost arrogant. Her dress-sense had been designed to catch the eye and the sway of her hips was deliberate.
But the Lola who lived next door now had changed dramatically. Gone were the bangles and strappy sandals. Gone were the skimpy, revealing clothes, replaced by creased shirts and dirty jeans. No longer did she toss her hair in defiance. Instead of holding her head high, she stared at the ground when we approached.
“Have you noticed a change in Lola Ufarte?” I asked Joe.
“No, why?”
“Oh, you never notice anything. Remember, she always used to wear really short skirts and jangly bangles?”
“Yes, I suppose she did.”
“Don’t you think she’s much quieter, almost subdued?”
“Perhaps she’s sorry for breaking up that family.”
Maybe Joe was right, but when I saw her with lank hair and a slouch in her step, I felt there was more to it.
Whatever the change, Lola and her partner didn’t seem short of friends. A steady trickle of people, all strangers to us, arrived in the village at all hours of the day and knocked on their door. Sometimes they stayed for just ten minutes, at other times all day. Sometimes they knocked on our door by mistake, often very late at night and we’d have to redirect them.
The village was at its fullest, apart from fiesta time, as the villagers escaped from the heat of the cities and reoccupied their cooler cottages in the mountains. Paco and Carmen’s house was always filled with friends, relations and barking dogs. Glorious cooking smells wafted down the street and the buzz of conversation could be heard through our walls.
However, there was one house that remained empty. On the other side of the valley, almost hidden by Spanish oaks, was a house owned by Brits. They rarely used it and most of the time the house stood locked and unused. During the summer, some of the youths from the village used the garden to hang out, away from the watchful eyes of their parents. They did no harm, just sitting around the empty pool.
In the last week of August, Geronimo passed our house and stopped to bang on our door.
“Hello, Geronimo,” said Joe. “How’s things?”
“Bad,” said Geronimo, shaking his head.
Joe wasn’t concerned. This was Geronimo’s stock reply.
“What’s the problem?” asked Joe.
“Somebody tried to break into the English house,” said Geronimo. “I was walking past it this morning and I saw broken glass. I thought you would want to know.”
“Do you think it was the village kids?”
“No,” said Geronimo, vehemently shaking his head and causing his long hair to fly. “The kids here wouldn’t do that.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away up the street, thus passing the responsibility on to us.
“Well, I suppose we’d better go over there and take a look for ourselves,” I said.
We walked up the little track that approached the house. Wild fig trees were laden with summer fruit. Summer-baked acorns crunched under our heels as we walked round the property.
The attempted break-in was obvious. The thieves had tried to dig out the burglar-bars but failed, apart from one corner of the living room bars, which they’d managed to pry loose. The sliding shutters beyond had been forced open and the window-glass shattered. Glass and bits of rubble littered the ground. Despite the damage, we doubted if anyone had succeeded in getting in because the resulting gap was so small. Only a monkey or a contortionist could have gained entry.
“Can you see in?” I asked Joe.
“Not a chance. It’s pitch dark in there and the gap’s so small. I don’t believe they managed to get in.”
I’d brought my camera and had an idea.
“What about if I take some photos? We can’t see in but the flash will go off. The photo should show if anything’s been taken.”
I carefully stretched my arms through the broken window and snapped a few photos, pointing the camera this way and that, relying on the flash to capture any evidence.
We scrolled through the pictures with interest. All looked fine to us. I could see an end table and a sideboard and everything looked tidy and undisturbed.
“I’m sure they didn’t manage to get in,” I said.
We’d met the English owners of the house and I had their email address. I emailed them the bad news.
Hi,
I hope you and the family are all well.
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but one of the villagers alerted us to the fact that somebody has tried to break into your house. They’ve tried to get in through your front door, but didn’t succeed. They have also bent the window bars and broken the pull-down shutter and smashed the glass of the living-room window.
The gap is very small between the bent bars and the wall (see pic below) so I don’t think anybody managed to actually get in, though they’ve left a bit of a mess with the broken glass. I stuck my camera in and took some photos. I think you’ll agree that everything looks okay. (see pic below)
Back came the reply.
Hi Vicky,
They DID get in! There was a flat-screen TV on that low table and a computer on the sideboard. Could you please report it to the police? And find some workmen to fix everything?
“Oh no,” Joe grumbled, giving his nethers a mighty scratch. “That’s all we need. How are we going to find workmen in August? The whole of Spain closes down in August.”
“Well, we’ll have to report it to the police and take it from there, I suppose. I’ll transfer the photos onto the iPad so we’ve got something to show them.”
So Joe and I drove down the mountain and went to the
Guardia Civil
offices in the city, armed with the photos.
They examined the pictures and consulted each other.
“Are you the owner of the house?” asked an officer.
“No, it belongs to an English family. It’s a holiday house.”
“Do you have their details?”
“Yes,” I said, passing them the paper I’d brought with the owners’ names, address, telephone number and email address.
“I’m afraid we can’t do anything without a fax number,” they said. “We need to fax the documents to the owner.”
“But we have the email address.”
“No,” they insisted, “we must have a fax number.”
“A fax number? Who has a fax machine nowadays?” said Joe as we drove home after our failed journey. “Why couldn’t they just scan and email the documents?”
I emailed the owners and wasn’t surprised when they admitted to not owning a fax machine, but they rushed out and bought a ‘splitter’ or something.
Meanwhile, I contacted Julio, our builder, who spoke very good English. He kindly came to look at the job although he was supposed to be on holiday, as it was August. However, he couldn’t do anything, as it was August. And no glazier was open, as it was August.
I returned to the
Guardia Civil
offices and was dealt with by a different set of officers. I explained the whole thing again and triumphantly produced the owners’ fax number.
“Fax number?” they said. “We don’t need that.”
“But your colleagues said you needed a fax number!”
“We can make some investigations, but I doubt if we will ever find out who did this crime. If you would like us to start investigations, you must leave your passport with us.”
