Two Old Fools in Spain Again by Victoria Twead

to answer. We’d done it so many times before.
    “You know the Repsol service station at the bottom of the mountain?” we said. “The one near Carrefour? Put it behind the counter there.”
    “Yes! I know it! I’ll leave it there.” We heard the relief in the driver’s voice.
    Sorted. So Joe would climb into the car and drive down the mountain to collect our waiting parcel from the nice staff at the Repsol garage. Soon they recognised Joe on sight and handed over parcels without a word. We were ever grateful for their enduring patience.
    The mailbox was not always empty. Sometimes a lonely slip of paper forlornly awaited retrieval at the bottom.
    “That proves the postman does know it’s a mailbox,” Joe said, waving the slip of paper at me.
    “What does it say?” I wanted to know.
    Joe read it aloud.
    “We tried to deliver your packet, but nobody was in. Please collect it from the post office between the hours of 8.00am and 2.00pm.”
    We’d been in the house all day and nobody had knocked on any of our doors.
    “Oh well,” Joe would say, “I’ll drive down to the post office tomorrow morning. And I’d better check that nothing’s been left at Marcia’s or the Repsol garage while I’m there.”
    It always amazed me that we received any post at all.

    September meant that most villagers returned to their homes in the big town below the mountain and returned to work or school. Apart from at the weekends, El Hoyo was quiet and no children kicked footballs, no motor bikes buzzed and no strains of flamenco echoed in the streets.
    During the week in the winter months, the sole inhabitants of El Hoyo were Uncle Felix, Geronimo, Marcia at the shop, the Boys and us. The new bar closed its doors, opening them again only at weekends or for festive occasions.
    Our grapes hung in giant, fat bunches, ripening faster than we could eat them. Sylvia taught Snitch and Felicity, her two almost-grown kittens, how to crouch still and silent in the thick thatch of vine-leaves, then pounce on unsuspecting sparrows as they pecked at the plump grapes.

    Snitch and Felicity
     
    One afternoon that September, there was a polite knock at our door. Joe went to open it. I was in the kitchen and stopped clattering plates to listen.
    “Hola,” said Joe.
    “Hola,” came the reply. “How are you and Veeky?”
    “Very well,” said Joe and I noted a tone of inquiry in his voice.
    I recognized the visitor’s voice, it was Roberto. But why were the Boys calling on us?
    “Veeky said that when we started our salsa classes down the mountain, you and she would be happy to watch Emilia for us.”
    “Er, she did?”
    “Yes, it will not be for long and we’ll leave everything out for you. Emilia is a very good little girl.”
    Oh dear. I’d quite forgotten to tell Joe about that conversation I’d had with the Boys weeks ago. It had completely slipped my mind.
    “So Vicky offered to babysit?” I heard Joe say, too casually.
    I hurriedly dried my hands and remembered some vital jobs I needed to do on the roof terrace. I slipped quietly out of the back door. A few minutes slipped past, then...
    “Vicky? VICKY! Where are you?”
    I sighed and sheepishly came back down the staircase, preparing myself to face the music. Joe was not pleased. I could tell by the way his lips were pressed together and the agitated scratching of his nethers.
    “What’s all this about? You offered to babysit for the Boys? Is that right?”
    “No, I didn’t offer... They just kind of assumed it would be okay.”
    “Well, it isn’t okay! Why didn’t you just say no?”
    “I couldn’t. They just kind of sprang it on me. You wouldn’t have been able to say no either.”
    “Humph! Well, their salsa classes start next week. I’m not happy about this.”
    “Oh, we’ll probably enjoy it. Emilia looks like a lovely little thing. We can get into practice in case we have grandchildren one day.”
    When the day came around, Joe and I rang the Boys’