Two Old Fools in Spain Again (7 page)

I was listening as I wiped the surfaces with a damp cloth. “Well, no harm done. You caught her in the end.”

“Yes, but it was quite a chase, under the table, behind the couch, behind the chairs. One big game of hide-and-seek. She was laughing and giggling the whole time, she thought it was all a huge joke.”

Satisfied that I’d de-yogurted everything and restored the Boys’ room to its former pristine glory, I concentrated on Emilia.

Joe sat down on the couch with Emilia on his lap. I plonked myself down beside him and took the baby’s fat little hands and sponged them off. Then I wiped her face.

“There we are!” I said. “Good as new.”

Emilia beamed at me, but unfortunately that wasn’t quite the end of the story.

7. Golf

Andalucian Beef Wraps

E
milia gurgled and reached for the pink rabbit that Joe was jiggling in front of her. She really was an incredibly happy baby, very easy to amuse. She cooed at the rabbit, grabbed it and sucked at one ear.

“Vicky, can you smell something?” said Joe.

I sniffed the air. “Oh dear, I think I can...”

“Has she filled her nappy?”

I leaned over and sniffed Emilia at close quarters, as one does.

“No, I don’t think so. She just smells of talc and baby lotion.”

Joe sniffed again. “It’s in the room somewhere.”

We both looked around at the sparkling clean floor. Nothing. I jumped up and peered under the table and behind the chairs. Nothing.

“I can’t see anything,” I said, “and I can’t smell it over here.”

“Now, let’s think,” said Joe. “Hmm... Now, if you were a really cunning, clever babypoop, where would you hide?”

I went back to the couch and sniffed again. “Oh no, I think it may be...”

“...behind the couch,” finished Joe.

He passed Emilia to me, got up and peered round the back of the couch. It was a huge, heavy corner affair of the Chesterfield type. However, there was a gap behind it.

“That’s where it must be,” said Joe, scratching himself. “She crawled behind there with her nappy off and she took ages to come out.”

“I don’t fancy trying to move this couch,” I said.

Joe scratched himself and thought for a second. “Pass me some tissues, I’m going to crawl behind.”

He dropped on all-fours and pushed himself behind the sofa. Emilia and I watched as he forced himself in.

“Yep, I see it.” His voice was muffled and I didn’t envy him his task. “Got it, I’m coming out.”

At that precise moment, a key turned in the lock and the door opened. Emilia squeaked and bounced, arms outstretched toward the Boys.

“We’re back,” said Roberto, taking Emilia and kissing her curls. “Has she been good? Was everything okay?”

“She’s been as good as gold,” I said, but my eyes were drawn to Joe’s rump, which had just appeared like a full moon, reversing its way out from behind the sofa.

Roberto and Federico watched in surprise as Joe shuffled out backwards and got to his feet. I held my breath.

“I found it,” said Joe, passing a toy clown to Emilia. “How was the salsa class?”

“Good, thank you,” said Roberto and Federico nodded his bald head. “Thank you for looking after Emilia. Same time next week?”

“Of course,” said Joe, cheerily. “No problem.” He waved to Emilia and hurried to the door, grabbing my arm to steer me out. “Come on, Vicky, we must go.”

“Thank you again,” said Roberto, as Joe bundled me out of the door.

“Well, that was a quick exit,” I said.

Joe was moving so fast I could barely keep up with him.

“Why are you walking all funny?” I panted when we were halfway down the street, Joe still racing ahead. “Joe! For goodness’ sake, slow down! And you look all sort of lopsided. Why are you walking like that?”

“Tell you in a minute,” he hissed.

As Joe unlocked our door, I fired off the other question that was burning in my head.

“Joe, what did you do with the babypoop?”

“I wrapped it up in the tissues and then I heard the Boys come in.”

“You didn’t leave the poop there, behind the sofa?”

“No...”

“So where is it now?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled a face. “That’s why I’m in such a hurry and why I’m walking funny, I was trying to avoid squashing it. I’ve got it here. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I shoved it in my pocket.”

In El Hoyo, summer extended well into September and October, although daylight hours lessened. The sun was still hot and the skies were usually cloudless. Autumn hadn’t arrived in full and there was no need for winter clothes.

The Ufarte twins and their older brothers went back to school and we didn’t see so much of them. The whole family spent most of the week in their other house in the city, although Lola often stayed behind in El Hoyo.

We carried on baby-sitting for the Boys until they finished their salsa dancing course. There were no further mishaps, but one conversation made me smile. As we arrived one evening, we heard Federico scolding his little dog.

“You are going outside, Copito. The English are coming to watch Emilia while we are out and I don’t want you pooping behind the couch like you always do.”

Joe and I stared at each other.

“What? So that was
dog
poop I picked up from behind the sofa?” Joe hissed.

I nodded. “Yep, seems like it.”

“I put
dog
poop in my pocket?”

“Probably...”

As the weeks went by, we’d become quite friendly with Sofía’s boyfriend’s family. Alejandro Senior, the grandfather, was a gentleman, but also a bit of a rascal, as we’d discovered the night of the Grand Opening. As far as we knew, he was still courting Mother and we wondered where that relationship was heading.

Alejandro Senior was always friendly and polite, but there was a shrewdness behind those eyes that Joe and I recognised. We knew he had built his business up from nothing and it was still thriving despite the terrible recession that had hit Spain.

Paco invited us round for a quick beer but as usual the evening had developed into another party. I was in the little kitchen with the women, but we could hear the men in the next room shouting their political views.

Eventually, the topic turned to golf, one of Alejandro Senior’s favourite subjects, although it baffled Paco. Alejandro Senior was sprightly for his age and regularly enjoyed a round of golf with his son Alejandro and grandson, Alejandro Junior.

“Come out with us for nine holes,” Alejandro Senior said to Joe. “The weather is still good and you will enjoy it! It keeps me young, you know, all that fresh air and exercise.”

“I haven’t played for years,” Joe said, “and I wasn’t very good then.”

“Nonsense! It does not matter,” said Alejandro Senior, clapping him on the shoulder. “It is only a bit of fun amongst ourselves. Do you have any clubs?”

“Well, yes, if I can find them. They’ve been in the garage for years, I’d have to dig them out and I don’t know if they’re any good any more.”

“Paco, you’ll come, won’t you?” said Alejandro Senior, swivelling in his chair to face Paco. “Forget about work for once and come and play a round of golf with us.”

“Pah!” said Paco, thumping the table with his fist. “Golf? I’ve no time for golf! It’s September and I have grapes to press and wine to make! I’ve no time for golf!”

“You should try it,” said Alejandro. “It is very therapeutic.”

Paco shook his head vehemently. “Count me out,” he said scornfully. “I’ve no time to waste on silly games.”

“Well, are you going to say yes?” I asked Joe later.

“I think so, it might be fun,” he answered, a little doubtfully. “That’s if my clubs have survived in the garage all this time.”

I sensed that he was a little uneasy about the planned outing. It had been a number of years since he last played golf and he probably didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

We dug out the golf paraphernalia, cleaned the bag, oiled the wheels of the trolley and packed the pockets with new golf balls.

“Those sticks scrubbed up quite well,” I remarked, “considering how long they’ve been mouldering in the garage.”

“Clubs. They’re golf clubs.”

“Whatever.”

A date had been set and I kept catching him in the garden making practice swings, his hands gripping an imaginary golf club, his eyes focused on some distant point on the mountainside.

The day arrived and the sky was uncharacteristically dull, with leaden clouds moving in.

“You’ll be fine,” I said as Alejandro Senior’s flashy Mercedes drew up, all three Alejandros inside. “I think you’re wise to take your waterproof jacket though, it looks like it might rain.”

Joe stowed his golf stuff in the boot, climbed into the car and they swept away. Waving to him and the three Alejandros, I hoped they’d have a good day. It would do Joe good to get out and do something different.

I enjoyed my day of solitude and used it for writing and pottering in the garden. Time flew past and I heard Joe’s key in the front door. He entered looking exhausted.

“How did it go? Did you have a good time?”

“Hang on, let me put this golf stuff away then I’ll tell you all about it. I’m putting it all back in the garage, I won’t be using it again.”

Oh dear. That sounded ominous. I made some coffee and waited for Joe to come back in. He returned, hung his jacket on the back of the chair and plonked himself down.

“Did the weather stay nice for you?” I asked.

“Yes, a few spots of rain at one time, but nothing much.”

“What was the course like?”

“Beautiful. I dread to think how many hundreds of gallons of water they use to keep it so green.”

Water is a precious commodity in any part of Spain and golf courses are notorious for using copious amounts of it.

“Well, what happened?” I was getting impatient. “Didn’t you enjoy it? Why won’t you be playing again?”

Joe took a sip of coffee, then began.

“Before we started, Alejandro Senior said they always put ten euros on the game, winner takes all. I was fine with that and handed over my ten euros, even though I knew I’d lose. From the first hole, I could see that all three Alejandros were really good, I reckon they spend more time playing golf than they let on. You should see their equipment. All the latest stuff, really expensive clubs. Anyway, I played superbly, couldn’t believe how well I hit that ball, especially with my old clubs. Alejandro Senior claps me on the back and says we should put another ten euros in the pot. Then we go on to the second hole and I’m still playing like a pro.” He paused, recalling the wonderful shots he’d played.

“So then what happened?”

“I got a birdie on the second hole, you know.”

“Oh, poor thing! Did you hurt it?”

“Don’t be obtuse. It means I was one under par.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t even going to ask what that meant. “Then what?”

“They all congratulated me and Alejandro Senior said we should add another ten euros to the pot, just to make things interesting. I didn’t really want to, but the other two Alejandros agreed, so I did. And then everything went pear-shaped...”

“How?”

“I couldn’t hit a ball straight after those first two holes. I played like an idiot. All the Alejandros said it was just a bit of bad luck, but I knew my first two holes were a fluke and now I was just playing my usual standard.”

“Oh dear.”

“My golf trolley started squeaking as I pulled it along, then one of the wheels went wonky. And every hole I played was worse than the last one. If there was a bunker, my ball landed in it. I even managed to hit a fence. All three Alejandros stood there watching me make a complete hash of every shot... It was awful.”

“Oh dear.”

Joe scratched himself and sighed. “The worst hole was the sixth,” he recalled, shaking his head. “I managed to hit my ball into the rough and it bounced off a tree. It took a while to find it, wedged under a root on the ground. Impossible to play, so Alejandro said we’d have to apply the penalty rule.”

“What’s that?”

“He said I’d get a one-stroke penalty, but I could pick up the ball and drop it over my shoulder, then play it from there. So I did that.”

“And?”

“Well, that’s when a funny thing happened. I dropped the ball and it just vanished. Completely disappeared.”

“How could it vanish?”

“I don’t know! We all searched for it, but we couldn’t find it. Honestly, it was a mystery! The grass wasn’t particularly long there and it wasn’t on a slope and there weren’t any roots or holes. We spent ages looking for that ball, but we never found it. Anyway, it meant I had to use a new ball and lost yet another stroke.”

“Oh well...”

“It didn’t make much difference, my score was diabolical by then anyway. I won’t be playing again. Apart from making a complete idiot of myself, it cost me thirty euros.”

“Who won?”

“Alejandro Senior, of course. He pocketed the 90 euros. No wonder he’s a millionaire.”