David E Balaam - Columbus Day

George soon found that ‘lying-in’ was not an option in Spain. Although sunrise in early April is around eight a.m., the sun is very bright, and without blackout curtains, it was almost impossible to stay asleep. By the end of April sunrise would be even earlier, at around seven a.m., and gradually get earlier and earlier throughout the year.

George also found that despite Spain having a reputation of eating late, many folk in the provinces retire early. One tradition George was not sure about was the siesta, which is still observed all over Spain. Did he feel like taking a ‘nap’ at two in the afternoon? Not just now he decided - there was too much to do around the house. He did, however, find time to relax with a late lunch on the balcony, and read, or just watch the world go by - although no one was actually going by. Instead, he just appreciated the views from the balcony and the sounds of Mother Nature.

He did get into a routine of emailing the children once a week, plus a Skype call when he wanted to see them. It had only been four weeks since he had left England, and the self-denial of not expecting to miss his children was beginning to fray, but a quick chat on Skype helped to lessen his misgivings.

Although George had been into town several times to work out the geography, and find shops, he realised he had not seen Maria again to look at the jukebox as he had promised.

Maria had been getting progress reports via Senora Torres, when she called in after the morning duties at the ‘foreigner’s house’, as she called it. Not that there was a lot to gossip about. "He is typical man – not very tidy in the bedroom. Does not eat properly." Senora Torres would reel off a list of observations that everyone in El Tango was eager to hear. Maria, however, was not so interested and thought it not right for his privacy to be discussed in such a way. She made a mental note to have a quiet word with Senora Torres.

Maria was also slightly put-out that despite his apparent eagerness to revisit the cafe, even if it was to look at the jukebox, he had not been back in over three weeks.

George had not forgotten the jukebox, or Maria, or his promise. He simply had not had the time he thought he was going to have to get back there. Now four weeks later he realised he must go. However, one pressing problem had been transport. George had walked the half-mile to the village a few times to buy groceries in the local Spar store, but carrying bags of shopping back was not going to be a pleasurable pastime for long. He needed transport. A small second-hand car, for now, would suffice. He did remember however seeing a pushbike in the old barn, and with a good rubdown and some oil on the brakes, it seemed adequate for now.

George gingerly pushed open the heavy glass door of El Tango and entered the dimly lit establishment. It was eleven a.m. on Tuesday morning, and all was quiet. No customers yet. No Maria or Angel. "Hola," he called out guardedly. "Hola, anyone here?" No answer. George ventured further into the bar and stood facing the entrance to the kitchen. He considered going behind the bar and into the kitchen, but thought better of it.

"Hola," he called again with more clarity, but still no answer.

He walked over to the jukebox on the far right of the room and studied it closer than he had done on his previous visit.

It looked a lot bigger than he remembered. "How the hell am I going to get this home?" he asked himself.

The make was a Rock-Ola 1485. It played fifty 45rpm vinyl records - a total of one hundred selections. First appearances looked promising. Nothing looked out of place - just dust and dirt. George located the plug socket near the floor and hesitantly plugged in the jukebox.

Nothing happened. No lights. No noise. Nothing.

He looked around just to make sure no one had come in and was watching him – so he gently shook the box. Then shook it again. Nothing. He sighed and took up a thinking pose.

"It's going to have to come off the wall" was his conclusion. But how? The box was just over three feet high and around three feet wide. It also looked heavy. (George found out later it was actually 350lbs, and was glad he did not know that at the time).

He could see no obvious signs of fixing brackets on either side so he pressed his face to the wall and looked behind the shiny chrome box. "Ah, I see." The unit looked like it was mounted on one long facing plate which was fixed to the wall – not the box itself – making it easy to lift off for servicing. That was the theory anyway. George held the jukebox on either side and tried to lift it off the bracket. It did not move. Either it needed some lubricating, or it did not come off that way.

As George did not have any oil to hand, he decided to try and lift it again. This time he took a stronger stance – he bent his knees and gripped the underside right corner with his right hand, and the left side of the box nearer the top with the other hand, and pushed upwards. The jukebox moved. George gave a faint smile. "Not beaten yet, George," he said out loud. He took the stance again, and with much determination pushed with all his might. This time the box moved several inches, but as it had been untouched for many years, part of the fixing had seized tight on the left side of the bracket. George knew he was almost there. It just needed a final push, but he did not have the strength to budge it further, and if he let down the side that had moved, he would be back to square one.

George had not heard the glass door open a few minutes earlier. The tall man in the shadows had been looking at him with curious interest, "¿Qué le está haciendo a mi jukebox?"

George turned his head slowly towards the door squinting. He could make out someone there but they were in the shadows. "Hola," George called out, rather breathlessly. "Could you help me please?" Hoping the person in the shadows could understand him. The only reply was the same question, "¿Qué le está haciendo a mi jukebox?" The man’s voice was calm but firm.

"¿Qué le está haciendo a mi jukebox?" He repeated the question, but now his tone was sharper.

"I am sorry; I do not speak Spanish that well." George offered. He tried to look behind him to see if Maria was there. "Maria!" he called out with a slight tone of despair. "Maria, if you are there I could do with some help."

"You do not speak Spanish at all I think," the voice at the door said, in broken English.

George was taken by surprise. "Yes, err, no, not much at all – who are you – never mind, this is getting heavy, can you help please?"

The stranger moved into the room from behind the shadows, and George saw for the first time Vincente Cotrina. George froze for a second taking in the physique of the man. Vincente was over six feet tall. He had a craggy suntanned complexion under what looked like a week's stubble, and long thick wavy black hair, with a hint of grey. Probably in this late sixties, but looking very fit, George guessed, which was what he needed just now.

George blinked and returned to the situation in hand. "I’m sorry, but this is heavy."

"Papa, le ayude por favor." It was Maria's voice.

George looked around and was relieved to see Maria come out of the kitchen.

She looked at Vincente then at George. "George, what are you doing?"

"Maria, thank God. I did call out but no one heard me, and then I tried to remove the jukebox myself and got stuck. Then this gentleman came in and . . err . . here we are."