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By postponing the installation of central heating in this way, we’d be able to contact the three building companies that Julio had recommended and see which one would be able to start when we wished, work quickly without cutting corners, and not charge us naive foreigners the earth. Assuming the house became ours in early December at the latest, as the notary had assured us it would, the builders could get started and with a bit of luck we’d be able to move in sometime in January, touch wood… “A penny for your thoughts,” Matthew said as the puzzled pair of workers lugged the last of the fruit trees onto the little patch of land. “Er… I’m wondering if we should offer to buy half the trees right away, or let Reme see the error of her ways,” I fibbed, because my husband was still so embroiled in his central heating studies that I thought it wiser to let them run their course before dropping my back to basics bombshell, especially as I’d been the one who’d insisted on central heating in the first place. “We’ll dig correctly spaced holes, then see how many trees it takes to fill them.” “Good thinking, love.” “I’ll make a start right away.” By then I’d done enough deep cleaning to be going on with, so we both donned our walking boots and got to work. After a few leisurely stints of digging in the mild sunshine, two mornings later we planted the last of fifteen trees; the expensive self-fertilising kiwi which we placed in a sunny, sheltered spot to give it a fighting chance of surviving the winter. Matthew had previously planted some shrubs and a couple of olive trees, so the two strips of land were now full to capacity. Reme was pleased with the result which encouraged her to step outside more often to survey the mini orchards that young Sergio had assured us would begin to bear fruit within three or four years. “Sí, I believe those nice little trees will give me something to live for, although I doubt I’ll survive long enough to enjoy their fruit,” she said after ladling out the delicious lamb stew which she’d made without the assistance of a scullion, as we’d been digging and Juan had walked into town as he did most mornings, ostensibly to visit the library housed in the modernistic Casa de Cultura, though he was yet to explain the nature of his studies there. “Of course you will,” said Matthew. “Before you’re eighty you’ll have all the fruit you can eat, at certain times of year, of course.” After chewing savagely for a while she pulled a stringy bit of fat from her mouth and dangled it over her plate. “Ah, by that time, if by some miracle I’m still alive, you two will have forgotten all about me.” She dropped the fat. “I’ll just be a fading memory as you go native up there in the wilds, dressed in bearskins and hunting with spears, I wouldn’t wonder.” I chuckled. “Reme, our friend Julio tells us that the manager of the Banco Santander lives in a lovely house at the other end of the hamlet. He manages to drive into town every weekday, all year round, dressed in normal clothes.” Matthew nodded. “In a four-wheel-drive Toyota RAV, Julio says, in case it snows.” “Which we won’t need, because if we’re ever cut off for a day or two, we’ll just stay put.” “Spoilsport,” he muttered in English. “You know why, dear.” “No speaking Chinese in this house!” Reme snapped, having run out of European languages by then. I’d forbidden Matthew from lusting after a fresh vehicle because we were both determined to hold out for a fair price for our Benalmádena house, so we’d be spending a big chunk of our savings doing up the new one. Thanks to our friend David and our friendly gardener Pedro, the tasteful bungalow in one of the better residential areas was now officially on the market at a rather high price, just in case some wealthy Swede, rich Russian or loaded Latvian took an immediate fancy to it. We’d also considered trying to rent out the house and thus secure an ongoing income, but as we were now fully committed to our new life in Asturias we preferred to cut our ties down south for good. We would be paying at least one more visit, of course, to say au revoir to our friends and arrange for the transportation of our goods and chattels. I’d assumed that we’d be driving down before or after our Christmas trip to England, by which time the builder would hopefully be hard at work and we’d be able to return to see the renovation nearing completion. Matthew, however, after a short but subconsciously active siesta, proposed a new plan of action. He suggested that after contracting a builder and making him swear on his mother’s life or grave that he’d begin work as soon as the house was ours, we should drive to Malaga Airport and fly to England for a week or two. My sleepy eyes popped open. “What, in November?” “Yes.” “But what about Christmas?” I pictured our grandkids frolicking rapaciously around the real Christmas tree that Emma and Andy always installed in their spacious living room. “We love to see Sophie and Daniel opening their presents.” “Yes, then they end up playing with something that cost about six quid rather than the damned expensive Lego and whatnot we got them last year. We’ll be taking presents anyway, so the greedy little blighters will get a pre-Christmas treat, bless them.” “Well…” “Then we’ll fly back and pop down the coast to Benalmádena to see our pals there and sort things out, before motoring back so I can keep my beady eye on the builder.” He cracked an imaginary whip. “And make sure he doesn’t slack or shoot off to do other jobs. So what do you think?” “I’ll have to run it past Emma first. She’ll be concerned that we’ll miss seeing Andy’s parents as we usually do.” “Bah, that old bore of a lawyer and his snooty missus. We’ll leave a card and pressie for them.” “You and Jeremy used to get on like a house on fire.” He stretched his arms, performed two and half sit-ups, then bounced off the bed and into his slippers. “Yes, well, the thing is that I… and you, as individuals and a couple, are busy broadening our horizons, while those two stick-in-the-mud Tory voters will… would be the same as ever. They’d politely pepper us with questions about our move, like they did last time, while secretly believing we’re a pair of misfits for forsaking our green and pleasant land and the golfing and… poncing about lifestyle they enjoy.” “Hmm, you always were a bit jealous of how wealthy they are.” “Yes, well, while I spent my working life protecting people’s money, he was busy fleecing folk right, left and centre. Bloody lawyers.” “Speaking of which, or whom, we may have to find one soon.” “We’ll ask Julio. He knows everyone worth knowing in the whole valley. It’s been a stroke of luck meeting him.” “Yes. Do you trust his judgement… entirely?” “Almost entirely. He says all three of the builders he recommends are equally good.” He almost touched his toes, then managed it the second time. “But once I’ve met them all, I’m sure I’ll be able to identify the ideal one for us.” “Yes, love. So… so we’ll end up spending Christmas here with Reme, Juan, and his sister Lourdes, I suppose.” He grinned. “Or maybe just Reme and her daughter and co.” I sighed. “Why do you say that?” “Oh, I don’t know, but I suspect that Juan’s got something up his sleeve that he doesn’t want to tell us about yet.” “Yes, he has been a bit aloof lately. The other day when I encouraged him to take his first holiday he just mumbled something about biding his time. He hasn’t been to his flat in Oviedo either. Maybe I’ll pop into the library one morning to see if he really is going there.” “We should join and take out some Spanish novels.” I sighed. “The newspaper’s hard enough for me. A couple of short articles and my brain begins to go numb.” “Mine too, but not to worry. Whenever I think I’m making slow progress I just picture us back in the south, watching bloody Countryfile after another lazy day speaking bugger all Spanish.” “I do miss Countryfile and other good programmes.” He stiffened. “You’re not hankering after satellite TV, are you?” “Well, no… not much.”
