Twead - Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

Wall Street Journal Top Ten

Three times New York Times bestselling Author

Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools is the firstbook in the Old Fools Series.

Also available in Paperback and Large Printeditions.

To the villagers of El Hoyo, young and old,

whose warm welcome, patience and generosity wasastonishing.

I thank them all from the bottom of my heart.

And to Juliet and Sue, the Gin Twins.

May their bottle never run dry.

Hello?

This is Kurt.

Oh! Hello, Kurt. How are you?

I am vell. The papers you vill sign now. I haf madean appointment vith the Notary for you May 23rd, 12 oclock.

Right, Ill check the flights and but he hadalready hung up.

Kurt, our German estate agent, was the type ofperson one obeyed without question. So, on May 23rd, we foundourselves back in Spain, seated round a huge polished table in theNotarys office. Beside us sat our bank manager holding a briefcasestuffed with bank notes.

* * *

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

Then, one dismal Sunday, I decided to change allthat.

heavy showers are expected to last through theBank Holiday weekend and into next week. Temperatures arestruggling to reach 14 degrees

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

House inEngland

My depression changed to frustration. The privatethoughts that had been tormenting me so long returned. Why shouldwe put up with it? Why not move? Why not live in my beloved Spainwhere the sun always shines?

I walked to the window. Raindrops like slug trailstrickled down the windowpane. Steely clouds hung low, heavy withmore rain, smothering the town. Sodden litter sat drowning in thegutter.

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

Poor Joe, my long-suffering husband. His ganglyframe was sprawled out, newspaper slipping from his fingers. He wasutterly relaxed, blissfully unaware that our lives were about tochange course.

How different he looked in scruffy jeans comparedwith his usual crisp uniform. But to me, whatever he wore, he wasalways the same, an officer and a gentleman. Nearing retirementfrom the Forces, I knew he was looking forward to a tension-freefuture, but the television weather-girl had galvanised me intoaction. The metaphorical bee in my bonnet would not be stilled. Itbuzzed and grew until it became a hornet demanding attention.

Huh? Whats the matter? His words were blurredwith sleep, his eyes still closed. Rain beat a tattoo on the windowpane.

Joe? Are you listening?

Uhuh

When you retire, I want us to sell up and buy ahouse in Spain. Deep breath.

There. The bomb was dropped. I had finally admittedmy longing. I wanted to abandon England with its ceaseless rain. Iwanted 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 cant be serious.

Yes, I am.

Of course it wasnt just the rain. I had plenty ofreasons, some vague, some more solid.

I presented my pitch carefully. Our children, adultsnow, were scattered round the world; Scotland, Australia andLondon. No grandchildren yet on the horizon and Joe only had a yearbefore he retired. Then we would be free as birds to nest where wepleased.

And the cost of living in Spain would be so muchlower. Council tax a fraction of what we usually paid, cheaperfood, 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 wellaware that his retirement fantasy was being threatened. His dreamof lounging all day in his dressing-gown, writing his book anddiverting himself with the odd mathematical problem was beingexploded.

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

But imagine writing in Spain! Imagine sittingoutside in the shade of a grapevine and writing yourmasterpiece.

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

Why dont you write one of your famous lists? hesuggested, only half joking.

I am well known for my lists and records. Inheritingthe record- keeping gene from my father, I cant help myself. Imake a note of the weather every day, the temperature, the firstsnowdrop, the day the ants fly, the exchange rate of the euro,everything. I make shopping lists, separate ones for each shop. Imake To Do lists and Joe, will you please lists. I make packinglists before holidays. I even make lists of lists. My nickname atwork was Schindler.

So I set to work and composed what I considered tobe 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 wont missEnglish football

Much more laid-back life style

Could afford house big enough for family andvisitors to stay

No TV licence

Only short flight to UK

Might live longer because Mediterranean dietis healthiest in the world

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

Im going to make a coffee, he said, but he tookmy list with him. He was in the kitchen a long time.

When he came out, I looked up at him expectantly. Heignored 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 itand read his additions. Hed pressed so hard with the pen that hednearly gone through the paper.

Joe had written:

CANT SPEAK SPANISH!

TOO MANY FLIES!

MOVING HOUSE IS THE PITS!

For weeks we debated, bouncing arguments for andagainst like a game of ping pong. Even when we werent discussingit, the subject hung in the air between us, almost tangible. Thenone day, (was it a coincidence that it was raining yet again?) Joesurprised me.

Vicky, why dont you book us a holiday overChristmas, and we could just take a look.

The hug I gave him nearly crushed his ribs.

Hang on! he said, detaching himself and holding meat arms length. What Im trying to say is, well, Im willing tocompromise.

What do you mean, compromise?

How about if we look on it as a five year plan? Wedont sell this house, just rent it out. Okay, we could move toSpain, but not necessarily for ever. At the end of five years, wecan make up our minds whether to come back to England or stay outthere. Im happy to try it for five years. What do you think?

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