We arrived back in La Gloria the second week of January. Everyone knew my Dad had died and many locals came up to say a few words, look compassionately at me and so on. The Spanish were really good at that sort of thing. I'd always been useless at it.
When I was 18 a neighbour's brother-in-law died (he'd been riding a bike while drunk and got knocked off it and killed). Because I didn't know how to react or what to say, I simply avoided the neighbour. She must have thought I was an idiot or a heartless bitch; I reckon I stayed out of her way for at least six months, terrified I'd say the wrong thing.
The Spanish were very different. They didn't shy away from death. I openly started crying in front of several of them when they made a few sympathetic noises. But my tears dried up quickly (I'd got most of them out before Dad died). Having worked in mental health I was also familiar with the theory of stages in bereavement, so I pencilled in 'nervous breakdown' for June (this would occur six months after the death).
I also took comfort in the thought that when we'd bought a plot for him, I was told there was space for one more. So I thought, 'Oh well, I'll be next and then I'll be in with Daddy.' Adrian said he'd be cremated and his ashes could be placed on the grave. So that was all sorted.
We were now once more installed in the cortijo, but not for long; we were determined to move into the casa on the 1st of February, whatever. (This was a good tactic as it encouraged the builders to crack on and at least make one room habitable.)
The battery on the two rechargeable lanterns had just run out late one night and there was nothing for it but to go to bed, when my mobile rang. I climbed out of bed, stumbled through the open archway into the cold salon and picked up the 'phone. It was my best friend from University, Fabiana, who lived in Brighton.
'How's your Dad?' was one of her first questions. When he had first been taken ill I'd 'phoned her and said that if he died I might need to come and see her, as I wouldn't know how to cope. She was brilliant at that sort of thing. Then I'd completely forgotten about her.
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she said, when I broke the news. She had loved my Dad more than she'd loved her own father. Hers had been a bastard, by all accounts. He was some high-faluting academic who toured America giving lectures. Nothing she did was ever good enough. Even getting into Cambridge wasn't enough. How come she hadn't got a First? Actually, my Dad had been a bit pushy on the academic front, but he also had an unconditional love for me, that Fabiana hadn't had from her Dad. (In fact, she'd undergone years of counselling in her 20s just to try and get over some of the psychological and emotional damage her father had inflicted on her.)
I wouldn't be visiting her now though; I was back in Spain and would just get on with things. After all the trauma of Dad's illness and death, it would have been great if we could have used the last two days of our tarjeta de cinco noches and stay in a parador, but this wasn't possible. Adrian had 'phoned them before Christmas when we knew we wouldn't be able to get back as the funeral had been delayed, and asked if we could carry the two days over, given the circumstances. They refused.
We were also expecting visitors. It had been arranged some time earlier for my friend Janice to come and visit in January. She was coming with her new partner and her teenage daughter.
'You have to hire a car,' I told her.
'No, we'll manage with public transport,' she replied.
'No, there are no trains and hardly any buses. You definitely need a car,' I insisted.
They then turned up at the bus station in the nearest town, having flown into Granada and then got a bus. I drove the 20 kilometres to pick the three of them up and bring them to the cortijo. As there were four of us and three of them, Adrian and I then had to do relays in order to go anywhere. So, the first evening, Adrian had to drive them to La Gloria (a 12 mile round trip), then come back in the car to pick up me, Avril and Tom, so that we could have a few drinks at the bar. Then, when it was time to return, there were another two round trips. The following morning, he took me and the children from the cortijo to school, then went back to pick Janice, Craig and Keira up so that they could come and see the progress at the casa and go for coffee. At lunch-time it was the same four journeys again. Thank God it was only a lightning visit, because I was bloody fed up by the time I took them back to the bus station.
Visitors often liked to disregard advice, assuming they knew better. So another couple of friends whom we'd suggested should bring warm clothes because it could be very cold in November, came only with summer gear; they felt sure we'd exaggerated. They then had to spend their second day buying fleecy pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers. They stayed in Marita's smart-looking ice-box of a house. She left a basket of firewood that would heat the area just in front of the fireplace for about an hour and they were then supposed to fend for themselves, sourcing a local supply of wood during their five-day stay in a rural village with no command of the Spanish language.
To see the end result of all the work on the casa, take a look at the house now:
http://www.homeaway.co.uk/p86636
And also another of our completed projects:
http://www.homeaway.co.uk/p475271