5
I’ve always been an early riser. Back when I was a child, our family dog used to wake me up by licking first my feet and then, if I didn’t stir at that, my face. He was a Border collie called Chewy – named not after the Star Wars character as most people assumed, but solely because of his love of chewing up anything and everything he could get his grubby little muzzle around – and I loved him with every fibre of my innocent soul. I say innocent, but in actual fact, Chewy and I used to get up to all sorts of mischief during those early morning jaunts we’d go on together. There was the time I tried to teach Chewy to climb a tree, only to fall over Mr Harding’s garden fence and destroy his prize-winning patch of strawberries. Then there was the time Chewy decided that an old lady’s bag of knitting was a toilet. That one was definitely worse.
When Chewy died very suddenly from prostate cancer when he was only eight, I roared my miserable head off for days on end. I still miss that dog.
I grew up eventually, of course, and moved to London, where the mighty volume of the capital city’s traffic replaced my licking-dog alarm clock. Everything is louder in London, and as much as I love living there, I also hate being shaken awake by a vibrating bedframe – not least because it’s a passing lorry causing it to quiver, as opposed to the naked and randy Theo from my dreams.
Here in Mojácar, however, I am pleasantly surprised to be woken by the sound of birdsong. I closed the wooden shutters across the window just before crashing out last night, but there’s still a trickle of sunlight seeping into the room around its edges. Feeling not unlike Snow White when she conjures up an entire woodland population just by whistling a mediocre song, I kick off my tangled sheet and skip happily through into the kitchen, where I decant water from the bottle in the fridge into the kettle and ready a mug for tea.
Being careful to stir in my sugar quietly so as not to disturb Claudette, I pad silently across to the balcony doors and slide them open, immediately smiling a greeting to the sun which has started to warm the terracotta tiles beneath my feet. This time of day feels so bewitching, when possibilities seem endless and my enthusiasm has been recharged, ready to fire out at full throttle. This is the best time, before anyone else has had a chance to puncture my serenity with their worries or complaints. It’s taken me twenty-eight years to know for certain, but I can say with full confidence now that I’m definitely a morning person.
Lifting up one of the beautiful wrought-iron chairs, I carry it carefully to the edge of the balcony before retrieving my tea from where I left it on the table. I put my feet up on the low painted wall and wiggle my toes, enjoying the feeling of the clean morning air tickling between them. I painted my toenails seashell pink to match one of the three new bikinis I bought specially for the trip, and the iridescent top coat I added keeps catching the light.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in, detecting the scent of pine and a hint of last night’s perfume. The tea is sweet and has reached that perfect temperature just below scorching, where you can sip it without feeling the need to gulp. The sound of more birdsong draws my attention away from the view and up into the pure blue sky above the mountains. Two birds are taking it in turns to dive down to the swimming pool right down at the base of the apartment block, presumably picking off insects that have become marooned on the surface, and each time one soars back up, the other squawks its applause. I only realise how much I’m smiling when I crash my mug against my teeth.
Last night Theo gave Tom, Claudette and me strict instructions to meet him at La Fuente, Mojácar’s public water fountain, at nine a.m. sharp this morning, but a glance at my watch tells me that it’s only just gone seven. If I get a wriggle on, I could pop down there first to check the place out, maybe pick up some breakfast bits on the way back. After her pathetic salad last night, Claudette is bound to wake up ravenous, and a hangry – a combination of hungry and angry – French presenter is not what we need on the first day of the shoot. Mind made up, I leave my empty mug in the sink, throw on a red sundress that I found languishing in the back of my wardrobe with the tags still attached, and stick my sunglasses into my nest of hair, opting for plimsolls over flip-flops at the last minute. Hazardous shoes and steep hills do not mix.
Outside, the mounting heat of the day has already strung a shimmering line across the horizon, and I have to squint when my eyes find the tinsel-like strip of the distant sea. As I walk downhill, my flat shoes making a pleasing slapping sound against the smooth pavement tiles, I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll get up even earlier and go for a swim. Hopefully this won’t be the one and only location shoot I ever get to go on, but I intend to make the most of it just in case.
I imagine that I can feel my eyeballs expanding to take in the higgledy-piggledy clutter of whitewashed buildings, the uneven landscape unfolding in front of me so unlike the comparative flatness of London. Again I experience that sensation of contentment, acute yet comforting at the same time. It makes me even happier to know that Theo feels it, too. We have so much in common, the two of us, I think, turning another corner and encountering a steep downward slope. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I already know the way to La Fuente, but clearly my body remembers exactly where to go, because I can see it now coming into view below me.
Arguably one of the most important landmarks of Mojácar and certainly the most famous, the fountain is as vital now as it was back in the fifteenth century, when the folk in this area were living solely off the land. In those days, women from the village would journey down the hillside with their large clay pots on a daily basis, making a pilgrimage to collect water for themselves and their livestock. There’s even a statue of a Mojácar water woman up in the village by the church, which I must make sure I remember to show the others.
What a life it must have been for those women, I think, smiling at a small old man who’s pulling up the shutters of his tobacco store as I pass. It seems bizarre to think of the lifestyle they must have led, living hand to mouth and balancing these vast urns of water on their heads as they trudged back up the side of the hill. I feel as if I’m hard done by when I have to struggle back from the supermarket with washing powder and orange squash, but I bet the ladies living here never complained. We really do have it so easy these days.
I can hear the sound of running water now, and as I round the last corner and finally reach La Fuente, the air around me takes on a new clarity, as if the hovering particles of liquid have washed away that ever-present dust. The fountain itself is large, rectangular, and paved in white and brown stone, each edge bordered by low stone basins. The walls are painted white and decorated intermittently by terracotta pots full of flowers, each one a vibrant splash of colour against the plain backdrop. I take the steps down into the centre, counting the spouts as I go. There are thirteen in total – unlucky for some – and clean spring water tumbles merrily out of them, filtered not by chemicals but by the insides of the very mountain that stretches up above me now. It’s pretty bloody amazing, if you think about it.
I decide to stay here for a while and drink in the atmosphere, smiling at the aptness of that description as it passes through my mind. There’s a plaque at the far end of the fountain, below which the word ‘Mojácar’ has been sculpted and fixed into the stone, and I step across the marble trough to run my finger across each of the letters in turn. The whole place is so clean and well maintained, and I feel a surge of affection for the people living here. There is clearly much pride associated with this fountain, saturated as it is by history and importance, and I love that it’s remained such a focal point of the village. It won’t be long now until Claudette is standing right where I am, talking about this legendary place, her pretty head tipped slightly to one side as she flirts effortlessly with the lens of Tom’s camera, expertly enticing the audience which I know she must always imagine are watching. Theo will be here, too, his own even prettier head also on one side as he concentrates not just on what Claudette is saying, but also how the light is falling across her face, whether the pots of flowers look right in the background and how best to frame the shot. I won’t be doing any of that; I’ll be watching him, just like I always am whenever I can get away with it.
I sit down on the low wall and take a deep breath, enjoying the sensation of the cool, moist air as it rushes into my nose and down into my lungs. I feel so awake and alive, but not agitated like I usually would – more in a measured and focused way. It’s probably this strange sense of alertness that prompts me to say good morning to the woman who has just wandered over to fill up her empty bottles. I say it in Spanish – buenos días – but when she turns and sees me, she immediately replies in English.
‘Good morning to you, too.’
‘You’re English?’ I ask needlessly, as it’s very plain from her accent that she is.
The woman nods. ‘I am. Although I’ve been here so long now, I like to think I’ve become at least a bit Spanish.’
‘Well, you look the part,’ I tell her, taking in her messy upward swirl of dark hair and bohemian-style orange kaftan. Her feet, which are encased in cracked, gold sandals, are tanned a rich dark brown.
She must have noticed me looking, because after a pause she glances down at herself and grimaces.
‘I look a right state, I know,’ she says, running a hand into her untidy stack of curls. ‘There’s never usually anyone here this early on a Sunday, so I didn’t bother getting properly dressed.’
‘I think you look great,’ I say, meaning it. I’ve always admired people who have their own style, and I suppose I must have one, too, although the majority of my outfit choices are based more on comfort than trend. Give me jeans and a checked shirt and I’m happy. Hand me anything tight-fitting that finishes above the knee and I’m instantly uncomfortable.
‘I like your dress,’ the woman says kindly. ‘Red is definitely your colour, which is actually quite a rare thing. Most people look awkward in red, but on you it looks right.’
‘Really?’ I say, automatically self-conscious. I’d never given much thought to a particular colour suiting me better than another one. I just picked up this dress on a whim because it was in the sale.
The woman nods at me, certain enough for the both of us, and in that moment, I decide that I like her very much. She’s one of those people who could be any age from around thirty-five to fifty, her clothes and hair hinting at youth but the lines around her eyes suggesting the opposite. Luckily my politeness mutes the question before I blurt it out. Instead, I comment on the weather like some sort of society bore from a Jane Austen novel, and we chat for a while like true British people about how nice it is to be somewhere with real sunshine.
‘You’ve been to Mojácar before,’ she states, setting down her now-full bottles and taking a seat beside me on the wall.
‘Yes,’ I reply, surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘You seem at home here,’ she tells me, with a genuine smile. ‘Most tourists that come to the fountain stand around making oohing and ahhing noises for a while, pose for a few photos and then bugger off, but you seem content just to sit here.’
‘I am!’ I say, delighted with my new status as a Mojácar local.
‘I like to sit here, too,’ she says, a wistful edge entering her voice. ‘If you pick just the right spot, you can watch all the rainbows dancing in mid-air.’
I must have looked intrigued by her words, because the next thing I know she’s leapt up and is reaching for my hand.
‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
I let myself be towed across the courtyard to the far corner, where the sunlight has sneaked through the trailing ivy and is bouncing buoyantly off the surface of the water. Sure enough, after a few seconds I can see what she was talking about – there are rainbows in the air, loads of them. So many that I feel like I’ve stumbled into a fairy grotto, and I beam across at the woman.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she says, her eyes lighting up as she looks at me.
‘Magical,’ I confirm, wondering to myself if there’s a way we can capture this spectacle on camera. Tom will know how.
‘I come here every morning to watch the rainbows,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been here for more than forty-two years now and I’ve never known a day pass without some sunshine. Even the rainy days are sunny in Mojácar.’
‘Forty-two years?’ I exclaim, my tact groaning with exasperation as my disbelief stomps all over it.
‘Oh yes.’ The woman is clearly more amused than offended. ‘I was sixty on my last birthday, although don’t go spreading that around, will you?’
‘You look amazing for sixty,’ I can’t help but blurt. This woman is ten years older than my mum, but she looks much younger.
‘You flatter me.’ She flushes slightly and glances down at her feet. There’s a heap of cheap-looking metal bangles on one of her slim wrists, and they clatter together as she brings up a hand to rub her eyes. More people have begun filtering into the fountain courtyard, empty water bottles of all shapes and sizes bashing against their bare legs. A rather harassed-looking man with curly grey hair smiles a greeting at my new female companion, and the two of them begin to natter away to one another in rapid Spanish. Feeling rather like I’m eavesdropping, even though I can’t understand a word of what they’re saying, I inch away towards the steps.
There’s a bakery on the opposite side of the road, and the smell drifting out is reeling me in like a fish caught on a line. Just as I’m about to push open the door, I feel a hand on my arm.
‘Sorry.’ It’s the woman again, grinning apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to ignore you back there. Josef, that’s the old man you saw, he loves a good moan of a morning.’
‘I should introduce him to my friend Claudette,’ I say, thinking as I do that it’s high time I trudged back up the hill and woke up the angry little French maniac.
The woman gestures through the window of the bakery.
‘I know it’s a bit early in the day, but the miniature doughnuts are delicious,’ she tells me. ‘If you’ve got a sweet tooth, there’s honestly nothing better.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, for some bizarre reason giving her a thumbs up.
‘Is that an Indalo Man?’ The woman has spotted the tattoo on my wrist.
‘Yes,’ I admit sheepishly. I always feel absurdly embarrassed about my little inking whenever anyone of my parents’ generation notices it, almost as if I’m bracing myself for the same telling-off that my dad gave me when he found out about it. But this woman appears to be enchanted by it.
‘So, you really know Mojácar, then?’ she exclaims, her pleasure evident.
‘I used to come here when I was a teenager,’ I explain.
‘I was barely an adult myself when I moved here,’ the woman replies, and again I detect that brush of wistfulness.
‘Hang on, you’ve lived here all that time?’ I ask, goosebumps of excited possibility popping up on my arms, despite the rising temperature.
She nods slowly, less sure of herself than she was just a few seconds ago.
‘This is going to sound mad,’ I babble, ‘but please hear me out – I’ve got a proposition for you.’
And so I tell the woman why I’m here in Mojácar, about the documentary we’re making and – most importantly – how keen we are to interview someone who remembers what the place was like during the seventies, when artists travelled from all over the world to join the colony here.
‘It would be beyond amazing if we could interview you,’ I continue, not even bothering to keep the pleading tone out of my voice. I can see that she’s not thrilled by the idea, but at least she hasn’t said no yet.
‘I’ve been trying for weeks to track down someone who would be willing to do it, and now meeting you suddenly feels like fate. You’d be perfect! And you’d look great on camera, too,’ I add. Flattery gets you everywhere, right?
‘I’m not sure,’ she mumbles, looking anywhere but at me. ‘I don’t know if I’d even have anything that interesting to say.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I urge, with perhaps a smidgen more confidence than I actually feel.
There’s a pause as she deliberates, and I rub my thumb against my Indalo Man tattoo out of habit, wishing silently in my head.
‘Okay,’ she finally agrees. ‘But I’d prefer it if it’s just you and me. And can you do that thing, you know, where you disguise someone’s face?’
This surprises me. She doesn’t come across as a particularly shy person, and it’s not as if she’s going to be telling me anything that scandalous, surely? However, at this stage she’s the closest I have to the vital Mojácar insider that Theo is insisting on for the documentary. Perhaps I can talk her into revealing her face later down the line, when there’s a bit of footage to show her.
‘That can be arranged,’ I say vaguely, smiling to reassure her. ‘We’d do it all officially and you’d never have to do anything that you weren’t comfortable with.’
‘And it’s okay that it’s just me and you?’ she asks again.
‘Of course,’ I say, wondering how long it will take Tom to teach me how to use his bizarre collection of equipment.
After I’ve answered a few more questions, we arrange to meet here at the same time in a few days, after which she’ll take me to her house or to a café to do the chat. I have no idea if this new plan will work with Theo’s rigid filming schedule, but I have to believe that he’ll be so thrilled I’ve found this woman that he won’t mind moving the odd thing around.
‘You have no idea how grateful I am to have met you,’ I gush, deciding to lay it on as thick as tarmac. I don’t want her going away and having second thoughts. Mojácar isn’t a big place, but she could easily hide from me for the next month if she so chose.
‘I don’t even know your name!’ I practically shout, delight at having good news to tell Theo making me shrill and giddy.
The woman laughs good-naturedly at this and offers me a tanned hand.
‘I’m Elaine,’ she says.
‘Hannah. Hannah Hodges at your service!’
At her service? I’m such an idiot.
After hugging Elaine far too enthusiastically and returning her kiss on each cheek with a gusto that would make even Russell Brand blush, I wave goodbye and bounce happily back up the hill to the apartment, shoving miniature doughnuts in my mouth as I go, which is a good thing, because it stops me actually singing out loud with joy.
I have found the perfect person to take this documentary to the next level, and Theo is going to love me for it. In fact, it’s such insanely great news that he might immediately insist on whisking me straight back to his villa down by the beach so he can make wild, passionate love to me.
I’m so buoyed up by the events of the morning and the seventeen or so sugar-coated nuggets of heaven that I’ve shoved in my gob between La Fuente and the apartment, that it doesn’t even faze me when I get back to find that Claudette’s hairdryer has blown a fuse, taking all the power in the block with it.
According to Tom, who was passing by at road level when the incident happened, the resulting torrent of French obscenities was loud enough to shatter all the windows in a six-mile radius.