One Young Fool in Dorset (26 page)

Unperturbed, she then went to work in Cyprus until
July 1974 when Turkish forces suddenly invaded the country. Once
again, my sister was airlifted out. Once again, there was no time
to pack possessions. She and her colleagues escaped in just the
clothes they were wearing.

“
Ach,
” said my mother, looking over her
shoulder as though expecting to spot troops amassing in the shadows
behind the compost heap. “I’m a bit nervous of her coming back to
Wareham. She seems to attract wars.”

My sister went on to carve out a career working all
over the world for the Voluntary Services Overseas (VSO), the
British equivalent to the Peace Corps, and language development
projects. We blame her for starting the revolution in Iran two
months after she began work there. She eventually married a fellow
free spirit.

My brother followed in my father’s footsteps and
joined the Army for a while, before working for himself. He is
married and has three sons.

My mother and father both died in 1993, within three
months of each other.

Auntie Jean and Uncle Frank passed away recently
after some illness. Annabel, now the mother of two boys, returned
to Wareham to nurse her parents and is still there.

My schoolfriend, Jo, married a screenwriter. The
couple and their two young daughters moved to Los Angeles for a
while. Disillusioned with La-La Land, they returned to Dorset and
the girls attended Parkstone Grammar School, just like their mother
had done.

I don’t know if Janice Parry ended up marrying my
crush, Barry. Neither do I have any idea what happened to Tony the
Hippy.

Mrs Cox and Jeannie passed away a long time ago, but
not before they had raised a shedload more money for the charity,
Guide Dogs for the Blind.

I thrived at Teacher Training College and enjoyed
living in West Sussex. I married and had children. Living yards
from the sea was wonderful, even though our local beach couldn’t be
compared with beautiful Studland or Sandbanks, or the other
fabulous Dorset beaches that were part of my childhood.

Fast forward thirty years or more. Life in West
Sussex had been good. Our children had grown up and flown away, and
Joe was on the verge of retirement.

But at the age when most people want to take on
less, I decided to do the complete opposite and turn our lives
upside down. I nagged poor long-suffering Joe into moving to a
tiny, remote village in the Spanish mountains.

* * *

If you enjoyed
One Young Fool in Dorset
, I
would be forever grateful if you would consider leaving a
review.
Thank you!

* * *

See the next page for a preview of Chickens, Mules
and Two Old Fools.

Preview of Chickens,
Mules and Two Old Fools
1 The Five Year Plan

“
H
ello?”

“This is Kurt.”

“Oh! Hello, Kurt. How are you?”

“I am vell. The papers you vill sign now. I haf made
an appointment vith the Notary for you May 23rd, 12 o’clock.”

“Right, I’ll check the flights and…” but he had
already hung up.

Kurt, our German estate agent, was the type of
person one obeyed without question. So, on May 23rd, we found
ourselves back in Spain, seated round a huge polished table in the
Notary’s office. Beside us sat our bank manager holding a briefcase
stuffed with bank notes.

* * *

Nine months earlier, we had never met Kurt. Nine
months earlier, Joe and I lived in an ordinary house, in an
ordinary Sussex town. Nine months earlier we had ordinary jobs and
expected an ordinary future.

Then, one dismal Sunday, I decided to change all
that.

“…
heavy showers are expected to last through the
Bank Holiday weekend and into next week. Temperatures are
struggling to reach 14 degrees…”

August, and the weather-girl was wearing a coat,
sheltering under an umbrella. June had been wet, July wetter. I
sighed, stabbing the ‘off’ button on the remote control before she
could depress me further. Agh! Typical British weather.

My depression changed to frustration. The private
thoughts that had been tormenting me so long returned. Why should
we put up with it? Why not move? Why not live in my beloved Spain
where the sun always shines?

I walked to the window. Raindrops like slug trails
trickled down the windowpane. Steely clouds hung low, heavy with
more rain, smothering the town. Sodden litter sat drowning in the
gutter.

“Joe?” He was dozing, stretched out on the sofa,
mouth slightly open. “Joe, I want to talk to you about
something.”

Poor Joe, my long-suffering husband. His gangly
frame was sprawled out, newspaper slipping from his fingers. He was
utterly relaxed, blissfully unaware that our lives were about to
change course.

How different he looked in scruffy jeans compared
with his usual crisp uniform. But to me, whatever he wore, he was
always the same, an officer and a gentleman. Nearing retirement
from the Forces, I knew he was looking forward to a tension-free
future, but the television weather-girl had galvanised me into
action. The metaphorical bee in my bonnet would not be stilled. It
buzzed and grew until it became a hornet demanding attention.

“Huh? What’s the matter?” His words were blurred
with sleep, his eyes still closed. Rain beat a tattoo on the window
pane.

“Joe? Are you listening?”

“Uhuh…”

“When you retire, I want us to sell up and buy a
house in Spain.” Deep breath.

There. The bomb was dropped. I had finally admitted
my longing. I wanted to abandon England with its ceaseless rain. I
wanted to move permanently to Spain.

Sleep forgotten, Joe pulled himself upright,
confusion in his blue eyes as he tried to read my expression.

“Vicky, what did you say just then?” he asked,
squinting at me.

“I want to go and live in Spain.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Yes, I am.”

Of course it wasn’t just the rain. I had plenty of
reasons, some vague, some more solid.

I presented my pitch carefully. Our children, adults
now, were scattered round the world; Scotland, Australia and
London. No grandchildren yet on the horizon and Joe only had a year
before he retired. Then we would be free as birds to nest where we
pleased.

And the cost of living in Spain would be so much
lower. Council tax a fraction of what we usually paid, cheaper
food, cheaper houses… The list went on.

Joe listened closely and I watched his reactions.
Usually,
he
is the impetuous one, not me. But I was well
aware that his retirement fantasy was being threatened. His dream
of lounging all day in his dressing-gown, writing his book and
diverting himself with the odd mathematical problem was being
exploded.

“Hang on, Vicky, I thought we had it all planned? I
thought you would do a few days of supply teaching if you wanted,
while I start writing my book.” Joe absentmindedly scratched his
nether regions. For once I ignored his infuriating habit; I was in
full flow.

“But imagine writing in Spain! Imagine sitting
outside in the shade of a grapevine and writing your
masterpiece.”

Outside, windscreen wipers slapped as cars swept
past, tyres sending up plumes of filthy water. Joe glanced out of
the window at the driving rain and I sensed I had scored an
important point.

“Why don’t you write one of your famous lists?” he
suggested, only half joking.

I am well known for my lists and records. Inheriting
the record- keeping gene from my father, I can’t help myself. I
make a note of the weather every day, the temperature, the first
snowdrop, the day the ants fly, the exchange rate of the euro,
everything. I make shopping lists, separate ones for each shop. I
make To Do lists and ‘Joe, will you please’ lists. I make packing
lists before holidays. I even make lists of lists. My nickname at
work was Schindler.

So I set to work and composed what I considered to
be a killer pitch:

Sunny weather

Cheap houses

Live in the country

Miniscule council tax

Friendly people

Less crime

No heating bills

Cheap petrol

Wonderful Spanish food

Cheap wine and beer

Could get satellite TV so you won’t miss
English football

Much more laid-back life style

Could afford house big enough for family and
visitors to stay

No TV licence

Only short flight to UK

Might live longer because Mediterranean diet
is healthiest in the world

When I ran dry, I handed the list to Joe. He glanced
at it and snorted.

“I’m going to make a coffee,” he said, but he took
my list with him. He was in the kitchen a long time.

When he came out, I looked up at him expectantly. He
ignored me, snatched a pen and scribbled on the bottom of the list.
Satisfied, he threw it on the table and left the room. I grabbed it
and read his additions. He’d pressed so hard with the pen that he’d
nearly gone through the paper.

Joe had written:

CAN’T SPEAK SPANISH!

TOO MANY FLIES!

MOVING HOUSE IS THE PITS!

For weeks we debated, bouncing arguments for and
against like a game of ping pong. Even when we weren’t discussing
it, the subject hung in the air between us, almost tangible. Then
one day, (was it a coincidence that it was raining yet again?) Joe
surprised me.

“Vicky, why don’t you book us a holiday over
Christmas, and we could just take a look.”

The hug I gave him nearly crushed his ribs.

“Hang on!” he said, detaching himself and holding me
at arm’s length. “What I’m trying to say is, well, I’m willing to
compromise.”

“What do you mean, ‘compromise’?”

“How about if we look on it as a five year plan? We
don’t sell this house, just rent it out. Okay, we could move to
Spain, but not necessarily for ever. At the end of five years, we
can make up our minds whether to come back to England or stay out
there. I’m happy to try it for five years. What do you think?”

I turned it over in my mind. Move to Spain, but look
on it as a sort of project? Actually, it seemed rather a good idea.
In fact, a perfect compromise.

Joe was watching me. “Well? Agreed?”

“Agreed…” It was a victory of sorts. A Five Year
Plan. Yes, I saw the sense in that. Anything could happen in five
years.

“Well, go on, then. Book a holiday over Christmas
and we’ll take it from there.”

So I logged onto the Internet and booked a two week
holiday in Almería.

Why Almería? Well, we already knew the area quite
well as this would be our fourth visit. And I considered this part
of Andalucía to be perfect. Only two and a half hours flight from
London, guaranteed sunshine, friendly people and jaw-dropping
views. It ticked all my boxes. Joe agreed cautiously that the area
could be ideal.

So the destination was decided, but what type of
home in Spain would we want? Our budget was reduced because we
weren’t going to sell our English house. We’d have to find
something cheap.

On previous visits, I’d hated all the houses we’d
noticed in the resorts. Mass produced boxes on legoland estates,
each identical, each characterless and overlooking the next. No, I
knew what I really wanted: a house we could do up, with views and
space, preferably in an unspoiled Spanish village.

Unlike Joe, I’ve always been obsessed with houses. I
was the driving force and it was the hard climb up the English
property ladder that allowed us even to contemplate moving abroad.
In the past few years, we had bought a derelict house, improved and
sold it, making a good profit. So we bought another and repeated
the process. It was gruelling work. We both had other careers, but
it was well worth the effort. Now we could afford to rent out our
home in England and still buy a modest house in Spain.

“If we do decide to move out there,” said Joe, “and
we buy an old place to do up, it’s not going to be like doing up
houses in England. Everything’s going to be different there.”

How right he was.

* * *

Like a child, I yearned for that Christmas to come.
I couldn’t wait to set foot on Spanish soil again. We arrived, and
although Christmas lights decorated the airport, it was warm enough
to remove our jackets. Before long, we had found our hotel and
settled in.

The next morning, we hired a little car. Joe, having
finally accepted the inevitable, was happy to drive into the
mountains in search of The House. We had two weeks to find it.

Yet again the mountains seduced us. The endless blue
sky where birds of prey wheeled lazily. The neat orchards splashed
with bright oranges and lemons. The secret, sleepy villages nestled
into valleys. Even the roads, narrow, treacherous and winding,
couldn’t break the spell that Andalucía cast over us.