9 A Night Flight, New Faces and Melons
“...Police helicopters have been scouring the area and have successfully spotted several cannabis cultivations. Arrests have been made, and police are confident that the current crackdown on the growing of these illegal plants will result in more...”
The reporter’s voice continued, and the camera zoomed in on an individual plant. I froze, gripping the arms of my chair in horror.
“Joe? Joe! Did you see that?”
“Yes, why?”
“Mother’s tomato plants! They’re not tomato plants at all!”
“Mother’s tomato plants? What are you talking about?”
“They’re not tomatoes! She’s given us marijuana plants to look after!”
Joe stared at me, then started laughing. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure! The TV just zoomed in on a plant, and it’s exactly the same as Mother’s plants!”
“Haha, that wicked old lady!”
But I wasn’t amused. “Stop laughing, Joe, this is serious!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Do you think the Spanish police helicopters are going to be spying on our garden? Hovering around checking on us? They’re looking for big cultivations, not six plants in somebody’s garden!”
“Twelve plants, actually. And I wasn’t thinking of the helicopters. Have you forgotten we’ve got Sofía and her boyfriend coming round tomorrow?”
“So? They won’t know what those plants are, don’t worry.”
“Has it slipped your mind? Sofía’s new boyfriend is a policeman!”
“Oh!”
“And even if he didn’t spot them, he’d smell them. Those plants stink, and now we know why!”
Joe’s hand crept down to his groin for a good scratch. “I guess we’ll have to hide them or something,” he said at last.
“How can we hide them? They’re huge!”
“Hmm... Then we’ll have to take them back to Judith and Mother. Get on the phone to Judith.”
I hate it when Joe orders me around, but this time I obeyed him without question.
“Judith?” I said, when the barking dogs had quietened sufficiently for her to hear me. “I’m afraid we’ll have to bring Mother’s tomato plants back.”
“Oh, really? Why’s that, m’dear?”
“Er, they’ve grown quite large. Er, very large. Too large! We don’t have room for them anymore!”
“But I spoke with you yesterday. You didn’t say anything about their size being a problem.”
“Er, they’ve suddenly grown very quickly.”
“What, overnight? Never mind, of course we’ll take them back. I know Mother will be most excited about seeing them, she reads books about specialist gardening all the time. Some time next week suit you?”
“No! Can we bring them tonight?”
“But it’s already eleven o’clock, dear! Are you quite alright, Vicky? You sound strange.”
“I’m fine, thanks, Judith. But we really do need to return those plants tonight.”
“Haha! Worried they’ll grow even more overnight?” guffawed Judith. “They’re just little tomato plants, dear thing, not Jack’s beanstalk!”
I tried to sound more relaxed. “So, will tonight be okay with you?”
“Well, Mother’s already gone to bed, and I was just about to toddle off meself...”
“You could just leave your side-gate open? We’ll bring them over later tonight and put them in your garden.”
“Vicky, are you sure you’re quite well?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about a thing, Joe and I will bring them over, don’t wait up.”
“Righty-ho, m’dear, if you’re sure...”
That night was a long one. The Ufartes were singing and dancing in the street until 2.30 a.m. and we couldn’t begin our mission until the coast was clear. We dozed fitfully in our armchairs, waiting, waiting. Finally, at 3.30 a.m, we agreed that the village was asleep, and that it was time to begin Operation Evacuate.
Like burglars under cover of darkness, we loaded the jeep as silently as we could. At that time of night, every creak and footstep seemed magnified, and I kept checking that all our neighbours’ shutters remained closed. The plants had grown so tall that we needed to fold the car’s canvas roof down, and they filled the back like a miniature green Amazonian jungle. The smell was overpowering and the plants were awkward and heavy, but at last we drove away.
All went well until we passed through the village and out the other side. A figure was weaving down the road, bottle in hand, trailed by three dogs.
“Oh no,” I breathed, “it’s Geronimo...”
The road was too narrow to drive round him, so we were forced to stop.
“Geronimo! ¿Qué tal?” said Joe, as if this nocturnal encounter was the most normal thing in the world. “How’s things?”
“Mal,” Geronimo said, shaking his head grimly as usual. (Bad) He rested his beer bottle on the car. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Joe airily. “Just going for a night drive.”
“It’s such a lovely night,” I babbled. “A full moon.”
“The back of your car is full of plants,” said Geronimo, slurring a little.
“Yes,” said Joe brightly, “It is! Well, we must go... See you in the village tomorrow, probably.”
Joe revved the car’s engine and Geronimo stepped back. We drove off, but not before I noticed a mysterious, shapely figure hiding in the shadows. Was that Lola Ufarte? Geronimo tossed his long hair aside and took another lengthy pull on his beer.
“He won’t remember anything in the morning,” said Joe as we drove away.
“I don’t think he has us on his mind at the moment,” I said.
Judith had left her side-gate open as promised, and we saw nobody as we unloaded the plants. By 4.30 a.m. we were back in our bed in our cave bedroom, vastly relieved that our garden was innocent once more.
The next morning, Sofía brought her policeman boyfriend round to meet us. With clear consciences we sat under the vine in the garden, chatting. Only once did she break off and peer into our faces, saying in that blunt way the Spanish have, “You both look tired. Are you sleeping well?”
How could she know that her new boyfriend had cost us a night’s sleep?
In summer, the sun seemed to increase in size, hanging longer and longer in the sky, bleaching all the colour from the mountainsides.
During the day, sensible people hid from the fierce rays in the shadowy depths of their cottages. Cats and dogs were rarely seen, skulking in dark hiding places away from the punishing heat. Our chickens tucked themselves away in their hen-house and dozed, not becoming active again until the sun lowered in the sky. But as the sun sank, the villagers spilled out of their cottages and the streets became lively with gossip and the Ufarte’s Flamenco guitar. Cats magically reappeared and dogs loped round the village, stopping to sniff and water every corner.
Little Tabs, our semi-wild cat, usually whiled away the days asleep in the shade of our jasmine. Her beautiful stripy coat was a perfect camouflage. The sun could only penetrate the leafy depths of the jasmine in slashes, and Little Tabs’s stripes blended perfectly. Only her emerald eyes, unblinking, gave her position away.
She’d never brought her kittens back to see us and we wondered if they had survived. I imagined how big they’d grown, how they would look: one with silver stripes, the other a clone of its mother.
Joe and I had been working on the house and had some rubble to dispose of. The village had several dumpsters, one conveniently parked in our street. Joe raised the lid of the dumpster and I lifted my bucket of rubble, preparing to tip it in. In that split second, my brain registered something strange. I halted and stared into the depths of the dumpster. Stiff and still, Little Tabs lay there, her emerald eyes wide open and lifeless. Her burnished stripes had lost their shine and were already covered in a film of dust.
I was inconsolable. How had she died? Who had thrown her in the dumpster? Had she been shot? Poisoned? Why would anyone do that?
With heavy hearts we trudged back to our house, Joe with his arm around my shaking shoulders. He was upset, but more philosophical than I was. We both knew that village cats were not highly rated by the villagers, and it was not unusual for children to use cats as target practice. True, we couldn’t find any wounds on her, but the stark fact was that Little Tabs would no longer sit on our window-sill, peering into the kitchen and gently tapping on the glass.
“I shall miss her so much,” I sighed. “She was always in our garden. I can’t believe this has happened again. After that other time when we thought she was dead, and now she really is.” Miserably, I turned to gaze out of the kitchen window, remembering how Little Tabs used to sit there with her nose pressed to the glass.
What happened next was a minor miracle. Instead of Little Tabs’s face, two almost-grown kitten faces gazed back at me - one silver, the other a perfect replica of its mother.
We named one Sylvia because of her colour, and the other Gravy, I have no idea why.
Gravy and Sylvia
By day they slept in the shade of our jasmine, always together, often entwined. And by night they played in the garden or prowled the village. Like their mother before them, they grew quite tame, but never actually allowed us to touch them. And so, through her daughters, Little Tabs lived on.
As the temperatures soared, we, like the Spanish, rarely ventured outside in the middle of the day. Our house, built in the typical Andalucian style, had metre-thick walls and small shuttered windows, perfect for keeping the interior cool even when outdoors was a furnace.
One hot weekend I needed a letter posted urgently, so I sent Joe to the mailbox in the square.
A few minutes later he returned, letter in one hand, a bulging, heavy-looking plastic carrier bag in the other. He looked hot and bothered.
“You’re back already?” I said, surprised. “What’s in the bag, and why didn’t you post my letter?”
“Paco saw me pass by and gave me all these melons,” Joe explained. “They’re so heavy I thought I’d bring them home first, before posting the letter.” He mopped his forehead and once more braved the hot street, letter in hand.
Ten minutes passed and Joe still hadn’t returned. I stuck my head out of the window, glanced up and down the street and saw Joe approaching, this time weighed down by a big cardboard box.
“More melons,” he panted, sweat dripping off his nose. “Antonio, in the end house, called me in. I told him we already had loads, but he insisted.”
“What are we going to do with all these melons?” I asked. “And did you post my letter?”
Joe rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. “No, let me just catch my breath first and have a cold drink, then I’ll try again.”
I dragged the box of melons into the kitchen, and Joe set off for the third time, this time successfully posting the letter and returning empty-handed.
“Well, the chickens are in for a treat,” I said as we sat at the kitchen table, eyeing the melon mountain. “There’s no way we can eat all those melons ourselves.”
Just then, the phone rang. It was Marcia, from the village store.
“Come to my shop,” said Marcia. “I have a surprise for you.”
Obediently, in the searing heat, we retraced Joe’s steps back down to the square, to find Marcia waiting for us, hairpins escaping from her silver hair. There was a large plastic crate on the counter.
“Melons!” she smiled, patting the crate with a gnarled hand. “Melons for you, from my son. He grew them himself. The English supermarkets are buying all the melons he grows. Imagine! Your friends in England are probably eating my son’s melons grown here in El Hoyo!”
Melons from Marcia
We put in an Oscar-deserving performance of thanking her, and, gasping and sweating, lugged the crate home. Then we feasted on melons. The chickens feasted on melons. Judith, Mother and all our English friends in the next village feasted on melons. Even the men who delivered our new fridge went away with melons, and we still had plenty left...
There are many advantages to living in an isolated area. The peace is priceless and soothes the soul. One feels far removed from the turbulence of the town, the traffic and the people. Regrettably, there are disadvantages, too. No shops just around the corner for last minute necessities. No banks to quickly visit for bill-paying. We all loathe receiving bills, but thankfully, direct debits make paying bills easy, although not necessarily pain-free. That hot summer, Joe and I discovered the pitfalls of direct debits and dealing with big companies.