By Rachel Webb
Marta, face screwed up against the glare of the Spanish sunshine, came back to earth with a bang.
Her handbag was emitting a shrill ring and she’d chucked it with the shopping on the back seat on the back seat of her ageing and not so clean, Ford Escort.
She looked over one shoulder then the other to locate the carelessly tossed battered, yet beloved, bag. Her phone carried on shrieking, why was it so loud, she swore under her breath, stressing out at the repetitive shrilling. With a steering wheel wrench, a belated signal she stopped the car, leant backwards and grabbed the bag only to find it was hooked around the heavy shopping.
Swearing again, simultaneously releasing her seatbelt and opening the door, she escaped, opened the back door, retrieved the bag thinking ‘shut up.´ The racket continued, an annoying repetitive tune one of her sons put on years ago and she’d never changed, too busy to do it or really she probably wouldn’t know how.
Bag in one hand the other one braving the depths of the small yet cavernous bag to unearth the offending article. ‘Better not stop ringing now.’ She threatened and answered the call. ‘Hello! Hola!´ Exasperation oozing into those two words of greeting.
A deep masculine friendly voice, not at all put out by her tone replied ‘Hola, speak to me?’ Fuming and frustrated Marta shouted ‘Who are you? Quien Eres?’ ‘Que quieres? What do you want’? She was back in the driving seat, buckled up and wanting to go. ‘Ah, um. Is not good a moment? You hablar con me now?’ Said the unknown caller.
Completely flummoxed to who was calling, and why and even what language they were communicating in. She unbuckled again got out of the car, sighed heavily and started pacing up and down to calm down.
‘Uh, hola, pues, hello????’ The faint voice said. She put the phone back up to her ear. Suddenly feeling, helpless, hopeless and lost, both her and the unknown Spaniard on the phone tried to start again.
‘I’m sorry’ she said, ‘I was driving. What can I do for you?’
‘Is Missis Shaw I speak to? Soy Señor Ramón Luque you call me for to sell your house?’
She sighed again a huge, sad silent sigh and then quipped brightly
‘Si Senor, I need, I mean I want to sell my house, when can you come and see it?’
‘Pues, is why I am phone you, I come this moment. Is good?
After several more non-too-clear minutes they hung up with a tentative plan on both sides of where they though they were going to meet and who they imagined they would meet. Blast! She thought, and then realised she’d said it out loud and non-too-quietly. Now I’ll have to go and tidy the house while all I want to do is go home and flop.
The heat had a habit of sneaking up on you and draining you of all energy before you’d done anything. Thank God that it’s not always summer – and not always winter. Always spring or autumn she could probably cope with. Spring is so lush and colourful after the winter rains and autumn was like a revival. The heat of summer diminishing. Cooler, damper nights and the first bit of rain often brought on a second spring flush of flowers. Oh she’d loved it all. Their move to the south of Spain. The massive southern region of Andalucia bigger than Switzerland, Austria and Holland.
Their own bit of land with olive trees and vegetable garden. The newness and strangeness of it all. The loving being different but yet wanting to fit in.
They’d achieved their dream and moved to Spain when their two boys were just turned 5 and the youngest only 3. What a tremendous adventure it had been – still was really. How she’d loved the rawness, the baseness. She’d had the ferocity of a mother cat to learn the language and protect her boys. To enrol them at school, sort out paper work, re-register the car. She started from day one trying to understand Spanish for her boys.
Now, so many years later her boys were larger and more fluent in Spanish than she’d ever be and studying in England. And her mainstay, her life, her happiness, her best friend and the only soul mate not to mention lover she’d ever known had gone.
Steve her one and only, together forever pal had a heart attack so major then he died on the way to hospital. Her partner, fitter, healthier, trimmer than her, her constant companion gone. He was 52, she 47 and they’d never been apart. Not even for a night except hospital stays while giving birth, in 17 years of marriage.
Then one day he said, just after lunch that he didn’t feel well and needed a siesta. Which everyone needs once in a while in the summer heat, except Steve. She’d joined him, pillow propped against the bed-head with her latest book, a new purchase from a second-hand bookshop near the coast. No English books could be found where they lived. A great, rip-roaring, page-turning tale full of wry humor and chuckle-aloud bits that she always shared when she spluttered aloud and Steve would say ‘Come on then, what’s so funny?’
After a couple of spluttering chuckles that brought no response from the man beside her she looked at him and felt instant alarm. He seemed to be sweating, breathing shallowly and a rather odd colour. She put her hand on his forehead. It was cold and clammy and he didn’t flinch or flick her off. She said his name slowly as a spread of doubt and panic clenched her thoughts and made her heart race. She put her hand on his chest and felt only the slightest fluttering. Jumping up, she’d snatched her phone and dialled the ambulance. The rest was a blur. She still couldn’t remember anything except being given the news that Steve had gone.
That was three years ago and often in her thoughts until something, like today´s shrill phone call, dragged her back to the present. The last three years seemed longer than the previous twelve. Each day longer than they used to be. But with the approach of spring, tiny seeds of positiveness were starting to bud. She felt calmer, more confident and perhaps selling her house and running back to England wasn’t the right move after all.
She’d made the plan to meet the estate agent at 6pm and had some serious thinking to do before then. The timing was absolutely right and the thought of leaving all she and Steve had dreamt and built up together suddenly didn’t feel so right after all. And Senor Ramon sounded so nice and charming. Maybe my future should be here with bright blue skies and sunny days she thought, feeling lighter and more clear-headed than she had for ages, with just a tiny, unexpected touch of excitement maybe.
Would she, should she sell the house? She was no rush to make up her mind, just take each day as it comes and see where her future takes her. Back in the car she almost smiled, tidy the house, meet the estate agent and ….. whatever will be will be. Que será será.
Rachel has lived in Andalucia, Spain since 1996. As well as being an Estate Agent in Jaén province she writes articles, short stories and children´s picture books – but yet to have one published. She enjoys exploring Spain, tapas and wine tastings and rooting out beautiful hotels and B&Bs for her Only Spain Boutique Hotel collection. More of her work can be seen on her blogs….
Andalucia Explorer – https://www.andaluciaexplorer.com/
Luxury Spain Travel – https://luxuryspaintravel.com/
Only Spain – https://onlyspain.org/
