The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (10 page)

When the good San Miguel had worked it's magic……in the briefest of moments, when it is possible to solve all problems, and see all things clearly……. it was then, that I thought…………. .

I might have got an illicit girl friend. What I mean is somehow I have acquired a ‘confidant' a gentle listening, sort of soul, with a mouth that must have been quite sensuous, when black and white television sets were new. To say she has the ‘hots' for me might be putting it too strongly, but she seems ever so eager to please me. Tina cruelly described as Two Ton Tina works at ‘Cudeca' the Spanish charity shop. Often in the second hand book section, which is where it all began.

I read mostly biographies but nearly all the shelves, in all charity shops, are awash with novels. So we search together high and low, nothing is too much trouble for her. Down to the basement or up to the stock room, on missions of caring devotion she went, searching out any elusive biography just to please me. I had thought of following her, but its early days, I don't want to rush things. What would I do if she cornered me in a dark recess, and held me in a power lock? pushing against me, with the might of a Welsh rugby scrum, best to play it cool for the moment.

I have found myself visiting the Cudeca shop more often than usual and whilst ‘I don't dance down the street on a chance that we'll…….' . I have definitely more zest for life. To hell with the risk, faint heart never……. but coming back home clutching a load of biographies that don't normally feature on my radar, no matter how wide and varied my taste. And trying to explain to the “Evil one” why I had bought a copy of ‘Lino cutting and brass rubbings' by Sidney Silverbottom, was worthy of an Oscar. Talking in my sleep would really nail me to the door, this romance could soon be doomed.

So perhaps noticing a potential rival often loitering outside the shop, was a godsend. This huge and seriously heavy man, with Buccaneer type pantaloons that tie at the knee, his great calves the size of water melons. Perhaps this was the time for me to bow out, beaten but not to a pulp.

I noticed on her exit Tina called him Harold, they joined hands and set off down the street together. I could tell immediately that they were tailor made for each other, even down to the matching shoulder tattoos. I can't pretend that I wasn't a little miffed. But the nightmare of being caught between the meaty great thighs of Tina or being flayed to death by Beloved, was no real choice even for a pensioner play-boy.

Calling in at the shrine of San Miguel, where wisdom is handed down by the glass. I managed to get some direct insight to my battered feelings. I was pressurised by the swift passing of years, fast pouring down the hourglass of life. Ever eager for a kind word or friendly smile, I had dropped my guard, now all was clear……. en route for home……. at the Kiosk on the street corner, the woman who ran this enterprise…. looked a much safer attraction and in the soft half-light has a most appealing and gentle………

Men in white coats………are coming again.

Bjorn and Inga are a couple of Swedish, sun seekers down in Andalucía for the summer months. We met this happy couple at a car rally, and Bjorn is an out and out MG enthusiast, an MG owner, and was delighted to find an MG engine in my Marlin. So off we went talking, like old friends, thankful that like most Swedes they speak very good English.

They had rented a small house up the coast 30 miles away. Keen walkers and members of a local Northern European Walking Club, they asked us to join them on their next Tuesday mountain jaunt. ‘Upstairs in the mountains' as Bjorn described it. So we had a great day led by a local guide – ‘upstairs in the mountains' behind Nerja, followed by dinner out at a local restaurant, and so began our friendship, and enjoyment of their very good company.

Bjorn had raced Minis for the British Leyland Team at some time in his early years and his love and knowledge of British cars, especially MG's plus his mechanical knowledge left me in the shade. His mixed, odd English phrases like ‘we are meeting in the near of the sea' were a delight. One day down on the Balcon d'Europa at Nerja looking down over the small cove, I was able to impress the man. There were lots of cats down on the beach, probably twelve or so, all shapes and sizes, but one particular cat sitting on a rock stood out. ‘That one', I pointed out ‘is a fine female cat' ‘Oh yes' he said. ‘Quite so' said Inga, but they both wanted to know how I could possibly know it was female! Could I be certain?

Now thanks to Stephen, a retired veterinary surgeon and a very good friend, together with Nick, the three of us, like the ‘Last of the Summer Wine' have Monday adventures out in the untamed wilds and mountain tops, before seeking the sanctuary of a pub. When our walking trio was formed Stephen, who is particular who he walks with, issued me with a guiding rule. ‘Anthony', he said, ‘No more kindergarten half pints and under no circumstances lager and lime. From now on…. pints of real ale…. in pint pots.' The man was right, not only has my logic improved beyond measure but I have a clarity of vision I never had before.

It's here that Stephen and Nick with his staggering recall of facts, names and figures, tried to complete my education. This is a very uphill task for them, even if I concentrate! Nick can tell you, if you want to know, Mozart's mother's maiden name, who was the continuity girl when they made Gone with the Wind, and what key the Patagonian national anthem should be played in. With one tenth of these powers I could rule the world and Vicki too.

Stephen had made exactly the same claim to us, when we were out walking in the Yorkshire dales, crossing a farmyard a large cat sunning itself leaped up and shot past us. ‘That's an active female cat' says Stephen. Then he explained that there is an almost ninety something per cent likelihood that any three-coloured cat will be a female, something to do with passing on of hereditary colouring, genetics, etc. All cats may be one or two colours but only the female will have three colours. One of those wonderful, almost unusable bits of knowledge. Thanks to Stephen, my stock in Sweden is now so high I am the toast of Stockholm.

Over the next few years we spent many happy hours, walking and dining when we met up in the summer months. At the end of a very long coastal walk, the women had gone on ahead. Bjorn said ‘When we are getting back – our little women will be doing kisses to us and welcome home little kings – and they will be bringing us nice beers.' They may not have lived up to expectations but ever since we have been the two little kings. In a sort of Walter Mitty way, Bjorn is as mad as I am, although this doesn't stop him being a very accomplished jazz pianist as well.

Inga mentioned to us that next year Bjorn will be President of the Swedish MG Car Club, and would we like to come and stay a week with them in Kalmar. We were concerned because we had heard that Sweden is a very expensive country, but we were in fact surprised to find this was not necessarily the case. Of course, our hosts knew where to eat out, and staying in their very comfortable wooden home makes all the difference to finances.

My mad woman was much impressed with all the Swedish flag flying, much like the USA. Every home flies the flag, I must have said something about it being a good idea – because she went and bought a Swedish metal pole-holding wall bracket for me to fit outside our U.K. home. Currently she's flag happy, the English St George flag is flown almost continuously with short intervals when the Spanish flag appears if Rafa Nadal is playing tennis on TV, she takes her sport seriously this girl. Somewhere I have a Welsh flag, (due to my quarter Welsh blood) it's not been aired yet, if I find it, and get ‘permission' up it will go.

Bjorn's two classic cars are kept in a modern, warm garage – he has an MG Magnet four-door sports saloon, a very good original car and his treasured MGB special gold edition, he brought over from England. He then had all the internal trim removed and remade in best gold leather to match the exterior. The engine is tweaked and tuned – altogether a very fast and unique car. The four of us went on a special MG Rally in the Magnet. At each stop on President Bjorn's instructions I had to say ‘Gentlemen, start your motors' and drop the flag, then everyone roared off to the next check point, we had a lot of fun and enjoyed the day in the company of our hosts and their club friends. Back home a few beers then dinner and wine and a little later Bjorn produced a bottle of whisky.

After a few drams – we kings were deciding how we would run our respective countries. As fellow kings we had absolute power – so – we shot every politician just for starters – a very popular move, altered a few laws, and had more whisky. In our own world we changed army uniforms for more colourful flamboyant outfits, with sponsored training shoes, more whisky and on to planes, Swedish ones were jazzed up with multi-coloured dots and flashes – a great improvement, the RAF sported sexy cartoon girls in mind blowing poses, to delay fire from the enemy planes – all good stuff! Whisky and imagination flowed at last onto cars and roads – Bjorn wanted a change but wasn't sure which side of the road Sweden should ultimately drive on, he thought they should try both, not to be outdone, I went for a good English compromise by driving fast down the middle of the road and slow back up the edges. Nothing we couldn't do.

The two fellow kings ruled, toasting each other then toasting all our good ideas, the two wisest of worldly men.

We have two daughters, you might wonder where are they? Did we perhaps bump them off or farm them out? Not at all. We even love our daughters……. in a sort of family way! When they were little it was easy, but once they hit teenage years and with opinions and views of their own……. well…….

Daughters, Angela and Katy, if they got up to half the things we got up to, I had every reason to worry!

Angela, who was as good as 18 carat gold and never said boo to a goose, became quite a different person when she hit her mid-teens. Then great tall boyfriends kept appearing.

Sons of local farmers – some seven feet tall and strong as oxen, without doubt they were pleasant, amusing, politely polishing the top of my bald head as they looked at Angela's very young mum as another older sister – almost!

For some reason trials of strength were popular. Lying on the floor arm-wrestling with ‘Joiner John' or ‘James T' trying hard to win an impossible contest with young men half my age but twice my size. I think Angela had told them I like this sort of thing. I had hoped to stress to her boyfriends, that if we said back by twelve thirty – it was what we tried to mean!

They were never the lip trembling ‘Yes, Sir' sort of boys, I had hoped to impress. Very early on in order to even things up, I had the idea of inspecting their cars – to make sure that they had decent tyres and weren't driving death traps, but I learnt years later from Angela – via Vicki – that they were a bit shocked by this tactic. Angela nearly died of embarrassment. These great boys became good family friends enjoying competitions, parties, barbecues, etc., and still are family friends to this day.

Katy as a young girl didn't want a pony but preferred a small motorbike to ride round on. This tom girl started with a chunky little Honda 50cc monkey-type bike – progressed to junior trials bike and then onto a three wheeler ATC. She handled bikes with real style. We had competitions, speed trials, and we had, in those years, some really good crisp cold winters with plenty of deep snow.

The ATC really came into its own, power sliding about everywhere, Katy towing skiers holding a long rope tied to the back of the three wheeler. When the roads were totally impassable with very deep snow Katy's delight was to go out on the roads shouting – ‘I'm illegal, Dad!' Vicki rode the bikes too, but Katy was Top Biker, when she wasn't taking stray ducks to school or going out with trainee commandos. Try being forceful with these men!

I daren't complain, as wives go, Vicki is very economical. The money spent on make-up, clothes, etc. is very small indeed. She doesn't drink, smoke, gamble, she won't ever go to the hairdresser; sounds too good to be true……

She is attracted to charity shops, pound saver shops – these are to be encouraged, if she went berserk in a pound bazaar, I don't think it would reach twenty pounds ever, enough of the praises. This is a bit like her mother, who also had her quirky ways, she loved auctions and would outbid in angry determination all other women who dared to bid against her, sometimes ending up with things – like a stuffed, three-legged zebra – but never outdone.

After a lot of deep thought and realising that after around forty years or so, she was taking our relationship as a permanent fixture, I had a pang of secret, romantic, generosity.

When we were married all those years ago, I had to borrow thirty pounds from my Mum to help buy the engagement ring, which I bought from my old school friend, Tony Baker, a very knowledgeable and high class jeweller. I was concerned about the size of the stone; don't be, he said, the purity and quality are excellent. So Vicki's engagement ring is rather like an immaculate industrial diamond! And bless her she's never, ever hankered after jewellery or anything expensive.

Time to remedy this – what I was after, Tony described as something a galloping horseman wouldn't miss. Think Kohinoor, but for five guineas, somewhere between these extremes was my quest! It took Tony over six months before he rang me with news of the find – only because of his generosity and our well over fifty years friendship could this happen. He did us proud.

The night we were going out to dinner, I put the boxed ring on a shelf in the bedroom – where she couldn't miss it as she changed. Twice she moved the box out of the way, without noticing it. A third time I put it back; at last she noticed it, thought something odd here and opened the box. ‘Is it real?', she said, then ‘You've excelled yourself this time, Blackie'

Why do I bother? I could possibly change it for a glass Kohinoor one day, and have some spending money. There's a moral here somewhere something about ‘spare the whip and spoil the wife' or ‘the sweetest rose has the sharpest thorns'. Could this be nearer the truth?