4 Football and Fifi
Before we even reached the square, we could hear the sounds of a game of football in progress. Joe always maintains that soccer is a universal language, transcending all international and generation barriers. And here was proof.
It appeared to be an evenly matched game between Barcelona and Real Madrid. Representing Barcelona were Joe and Jorge Ufarte. Joe was glowing red with exertion, puffing and gasping, trying valiantly to pass the ball to Jorge. The Real Madrid team comprised Geronimo and little Scrap. Geronimo had generously abandoned his beer bottle which was standing in the shade on a bench, awaiting his return. His three dogs lay panting, tongues lolling, guarding the half-empty bottle. Scrap Ufarte pelted after the ball, elbows out, legs pumping, the dummy in his mouth clenched with grim determination.
This game even had spectators. Old Marcia had emerged from her shop and was seated in the shade beside Uncle Felix, fanning herself with a bunch of letters. Uncle Felix sat with folded arms, cloth cap drawn down to shade his eyes. His bony frame took up very little space on the bench. Nearby, his mule was tethered to a lamp-post, resting, head hung low, one large watchful eye on her beloved master.
“Don’t you want to get down and play soccer?” I asked little Snap-On. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” I sighed as I felt his arms and legs wrap tighter, and his fingers dig deeper.
Joe had just taken possession of the ball.
“To me! Over here!” yelled Jorge, dancing from foot to foot, anticipating the ball.
Joe glanced up, positioned himself, and swung his leg right back, poised to take an almighty kick at the ball. Then a most unexpected thing happened, causing Joe’s foot never to make contact with that ball.
And why did Joe’s foot never connect? Because at that moment he came face to foot with what was to become his archenemy.
From behind me, a snarling streak of silver flashed past, hurling herself straight at Joe’s raised foot. Small sharp teeth sank into his ankle. Fifi! He never even saw her coming.
“What the..?” he yelled, leaping into the air in surprise. He was ready to do battle, but cunning Fifi had already darted away and was hiding behind Fairy #2.
“Oh! Fifi does not like Tío Joe,” observed Fairy #1.
“She does not mean to hurt you, Tío Joe!” said Fairy #2.
“Stupid mutt has a funny way of showing it...” Joe growled, rubbing his nipped ankle and glaring balefully at Fifi.
Scrap and Jorge were clearly familiar with Fifi’s delinquent behaviour. Unconcerned, they chased the football round the square. Geronimo, amused by the Brit versus Manic Mop incident, used the interlude to re-acquaint himself with his beer bottle. Marcia and Uncle Felix sat side by side on the bench, watching, but uninvolved.
“What brought that on?” protested Joe. “Look at her, she’s going to have another go at me!”
Sure enough, Fifi, snarling softly, was preparing herself for a second attack. As fast as a hairy bullet from a rifle, she shot straight for Joe. Joe backed away, but Fifi was committed. Deaf to the fairies’ calls, she nipped at Joe’s ankles.
“Stop it!” yelled Joe, twirling and dancing in an effort to escape the determined little dog. “Get her off me!”
Then I had an idea. The sabre-toothed tiger bait! I pulled the beef steak out of my pocket with the hand that was not clasping Snap-On.
“Fifi!” I called, waggling the steak in her direction. “Fifi! Look what I’ve got!”
I saw a dark beady eye glinting through her fringe, and with one last warning snarl at Joe, she scampered over to me.
“Naughty, naughty Fifi,” said Fairy #2 fondly, tapping her gently on the head with her magic wand.
“You must not bite Tío Joe,” said Fairy #1.
Fifi stopped in front of me and sat begging, front paws pedaling the air. What could I do? I gave her the steak, of course.
Joe was still ruefully rubbing his ankle when the minibus drew up. I hadn’t even noticed its arrival in the excitement. Geronimo glanced into the car, saw who was sitting in the back, flushed red and retreated.
“Mama! Papa! Tía Lola!” chorused the fairies. Snap-On bounced excitedly on my hip and his big brothers abandoned their game and ran over.
Mama Ufarte wound down her window. “Have you been good?” she smiled. “Have you had a lovely time with Tío Joe and Tía Veeky?” Lola, in the back seat, smiled and twiddled a lock of hair. I caught her looking across at Geronimo, busy with his beer.
“We’ve been playing soccer,’ said Jorge.
Scrap grinned silently around his dummy.
“We have a new pet!” said Fairy #1. “He is a caterpillar and his name is Francisco.” She held up the jam jar for her mother to see.
“Very nice, darling, but you cannot bring it into the house.”
Both fairies’ faces dropped. I stepped forward and took the jam jar. “I’ll look after Francisco,” I said. “Your Mama has enough little ones to look after. He’ll be safe with me.”
“And where is my little Fifi?” asked Mama Ufarte. “Has she been a good little doggy while I’ve been away?”
“Huh!” grunted Joe and quickly turned it into a cough. Fifi had demolished her steak and trotted forward. Mama Ufarte opened the car door, leaned down, scooped her up and made a fuss of her.
“Have you been playing tennis?” Papa Ufarte asked me, leaning across his wife and eyeing the tennis racquet.
“No,” I said, but didn’t elaborate.
“Well, we must go,” said Mama Ufarte. She handed Fifi to Lola behind her and held her arms out for Snap-On. I released him and he coiled himself up on her lap, gurgling happily.
“I hope you’ve been a good boy,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Now, why don’t you children run on ahead and tell your abuela we’re home? Your Papa and I will follow in the minibus.”
The children raced away and Papa Ufarte started the engine. “Hasta luego,” he called. “See you later! It is nice to know there is somebody next door who will look after the children whenever we need.”
“Yeah, right...” I heard Joe mutter in English and I kicked him on his already sore ankle, making him yelp.
The minibus accelerated away, and Joe and I collected up the tennis racquet, walking-stick, bucket and spade. We waved to Marcia, Uncle Felix and Geronimo and headed home. Joe put his arm through mine as we walked.
“What a day!” he said. “I’m exhausted. And hungry. By the way, what were you doing with the walking-stick and tennis racquet? And the bucket and spade?”
“It’s a long story...” I said.
“I think that wretched Fifi would still be stalking and attacking me if you hadn’t shown her the meat.” Joe went on, then paused and I saw his brow furrow. “Just a minute! That meat... Am I right in guessing that steak’s off the menu tonight and it’s scrambled eggs for dinner instead?”
I nodded and began a countdown silently, in my head. Five, four, three, two, one, zero... Right on cue...
“What? WHAT? Do you mean that bad-tempered, hairy little monster has just eaten my dinner? My steak? I don’t bloody believe it! You gave my steak to that delinquent midget Yorkshire terrier? First they dump their kids on us - without even a ‘thank you’ - then their dog savages me for no reason! And then, then you give my dinner to that malicious little tyke?”
Of course I’ve sanitised this rant, no reader deserves to be exposed to the full, unexpurgated version. Suffice it to say that Joe was still polluting the air with expletives as we reached our front door.
Much later, after our supper of scrambled eggs, I caught Joe with that faraway look in his eyes again.
“What’s bothering you?” I asked. “Is it the Ufarte family?”
Joe shook his head. “The Ufartes? No, of course not.”
“Well, what is it? I know something is bothering you. Aren’t you happy here in El Hoyo? Are you sorry we decided to stay?”
“No, no! I love our life here. It’s just that...”
I waited, but Joe refused to say more.
Spring is the time for new beginnings, and that year it was certainly true in El Hoyo. After Uncle Felix’s severe winter pruning, our grapevine sprang into life, juicy green leaves unfolding and reaching for the sun. Day by day, corkscrew tendrils groped for supports until, once again, we had a thick green canopy shading our patio. Sparrows flocked into our chicken coop to steal grain and strands of straw for their nests. Gorgeous bee-eaters arrived from Africa, their feathers a frenzied flash of crazy colours. The valley rang with their incessant chatter and calls as they flew in flocks from tree to telephone wire. Expert excavators, they bored perfectly round nest holes in the cliff-face, as efficient as any workman’s drill.
Bee-Eaters (by Kiersten Rowland)
On our kitchen windowsill, Francisco the caterpillar spun himself a silken cocoon and transformed into a chrysalis. Every time I saw the Ufarte twins, they’d ask, “How is Francisco? Can we come in and see him?”
Even in our chicken coop there were new beginnings, although not, as one would expect, of the feathered variety.