Moving On Part 6.
Sat 10 Oct 1998. Antonia dropped the chip pan. Not bad as her accidents went. In the last three weeks, we’d lost one window, a ceramic pot, and the kitchen was a skating rink. With the house in Antonia’s safe hands, we left for Cala Llombards.
At the house, while Tayrne was inspecting the bedrooms, Stanley attacked her leg. We signed the contract with Anita and paid-up ready to move in, in November.
Back home, Antonia had cleaned up the oil. She told us she was increasing her price from 800 to 1000 Pesetas an hour. That was OK with us if it was in November when the new owners took possession. She cycled off, happy with her wage negotiation.
Sandy phoned Sebastian to inform him we weren’t taking the Porto Colom house. He was relieved. It seemed, his family wanted the place as a summer house, between tourists rentals. That’s why he made himself scarce when we went to sign the contract. All’s well that ends well.
We went to Son Bennassar. Using two tape measures and Pythagoras’s theorem, we staked out the new house foundations. Joachim, the builder, arrived for our first site meeting and said he couldn’t start work for four months.
14 Oct. We rang Anita in England, she’d not yet paid for the house. This was tricky, if we moved in and the deal fell through we’d be squatters. Regardless, we drove to Cala Llombards to formally introduce Stanley to our dogs. Stanley was snoozing on the back terrace, but seeing the dogs, he jumped up onto the wall. With his back arched, hairs on end, he tried to look intimidating. Having no appreciation of danger, the dogs moved closer. Fortunately, Stanley made a tactical withdrawal up the outside stairs, and with a fleetingly backward glance, he disappeared. Moments later he was sunbathing on the terracotta roof tiles.
The garage was full of old tools and other junk, along with two large cartons of unused catheter bags. With no authority to throw things away, I left the garage for another day. The house smelt of dried pee, but we decided not to clean it up until Anita confirmed she’d bought it. That evening I cleared my shed of the same worthless junk as in the Cala Lombards’ garage. I vowed, in future, I’d stay tidy, so when the time came, I could find my own catheter bags.
Sun 18 Oct. Sandy had Laryngitis with a fever and needed to see a doctor. On Sundays, the medical centre had an emergency service. When we arrived, the doctor wasn’t happy to be bothered with a cold, even a severe one. Sandy started crying, she wanted to explain her symptoms but couldn’t speak. The doctor raised his voice which made things worse. He stormed out and sent in a nurse. Presumably, after reciting a mantra of the Hippocratic Oath, the doctor returned and began a tech version of ‘the big syringe therapy’. With Sandy topless on the bed, the nurse connected what looked like car battery leads to metal straps on her ankles. The doctor reassured Sandy they were only electrodes. Sandy, considering herself ill enough for the treatment, stayed on the bed. I’d have been cured on the first sign of being connected to an electricity supply. The doctor told the nurse to put wired suction pads onto Sandy’s chest and abdomen and left the room. With ten of these electrodes attached, she looked like a candidate for a South American police interrogation. I expected the doctor to return with a bucket of water to throw over her. The nurse switched on a control panel, waited then pressed a button. I expected Sandy to convulse on the table, but nothing happened. A chart recorder began discharging a roll of paper. The doctor returned and read the roll like a ticker-tape. He told the nurse to remove the electrodes which left Sandy looking like she’d been attacked by an octopus. He then gave us four paracetamols and threw us out of his surgery. I have the highest regard for the Spanish National Health Service, however, on this occasion the doctor’s bedside manner was a little wanting. But, maybe his wife just left him, who knows?
That evening Tayrne phoned, she had a leaking tap in the bathroom in her apartment. Next morning I drove to Palma with my tools. Parking was a nightmare, and I had a long walk to Carrer de Francesc de Borja Moll. Tayrne had already gone with the tenants to the university on the Valldemosa road. After replacing the tap washer, I took a drive through the beautiful city of Palma.
Where I parked on the Paseo Marítimo, an old lady was trying to extricate her car that had been blocked in. Defeated, she got out of the vehicle. She must have been over ninety, so frail she was more suited to a wheelchair than the chaotic streets of Palma. I got into her car, and after shuffling it about, I got it out and lined it up to give her a fair chance of filtering into the one-way system. I watched in wonder as she jerkily slipped into the rush of drivers racing down the three-lane road on their lunch break.
When I got home, the cardboard boxes I’d scavenged from the supermarkets were blown all over the garden, soaked by rain they were now useless for packing.
Erich and Ute, from Munich, had arrived for a last stay in our annexe before we left Cana Cavea.
We were closing our holiday business and had to pay a man called José from whom we rented three houses. Erich, our bank manager, had brought us the cash.
I set off to pay José. Since I’d lectured him about paying tax and operating a legal business, he’d kept a pack of three big dogs running loose outside his house. I waited until he’d put the dogs away before getting out of the car. With all the money we’d paid him, he should have bought a better hearing aid. I’d have hated to have a misunderstanding and end up in the yard with the dogs.
On Wednesday 21 Oct, we took Cana Cavea’s deeds to the Notario’s in Felanitx to make the final arrangements for the sale. The lady clerk was concerned and asked if we were leaving Mallorca.
“No, we’re building a new house in Son Bennassar” we replied.
Relieved, she said “That’s good, I was working here the day you bought your house all those years ago”. We were now part of the fabric of the island.
I kept thinking about the house in Felanitx, so later I went to take another look. It was on a corner which meant we could build two apartments with garages on the ground floor, or we could get planning permission, and just sell it on. When I got home, Sandy agreed it was worth making an offer of 11 million Pesetas. She phoned but the daughter, Marietta, said her mother was out. The mother called back later, accepted our offer, and we arranged to meet in the morning to make a private contract. Unable to sleep thinking about the Felanitx house, I got up at 03:00. It was a clear night, and I saw five shooting stars, a prelude to the Leonids meteor shower.
Sometimes you’re unaware of how stressed you are, which can result in some odd behaviour. This probably explains the following weird episode.
At 10:00 we were ready to go to Felanitx when Sandy gave me some clean clothes to wear. Then she told me to tuck my shirt in. I said I liked it out. She said she wouldn’t go through with the deal if I didn’t tuck my shirt in. I was adamant, my shirt was staying out. Things escalated. She said she wouldn’t sell Cana Cavea if I didn’t tuck it in. My shirt was staying out. Sandy said we were finished, that I should take a good look at myself and drove off.
How had my shirttail become so pivotal in our business plan? Sandy returned and gave me one more chance, but the shirt was staying out. At almost the appointed hour, she gave me another jacket and said: “Well, are you coming?”.
In the end, we made a verbal deal with Marietta’s mother. This was risky if another buyer offered more money, but short of telling her we didn’t trust her, what else could we have done.
With little over a week to go we’d:
– closed our holiday business,
– sort of bought a house,
– probably had rental accommodation with a cat,
– almost sold Cana Cavea, and
– possibly had a builder.
Our future was a definite maybe.