I LEFT the Farmacia of the sainted Felix and drove home, concentrating on how to remedy the slur on the House of Biggs.
As I went in the kitchen door the phone warbled. ‘Josephine? This is Felix. I think you have left something behind.’
I had!
‘Oh Felix, yes – I’ve left my husband behind! Can you look after him until I collect him? He’ll be no problem, I promise.’
Knowing that Pete was in good hands I decided to leave him until my next Albox trip, two days hence.
En route to redeem him the phone warbled once more. Like a good girl I pulled over and switched on the hazards.
‘This is the Guardia Civil.’ My mind did a couple of somersaults and came up innocent.
‘Why?’ ‘We have an urn.’ He said in sepulchral tones.
‘Oh yes, that’s my husband. I’m coming to collect him.’ ‘When?’ ‘Now.’ ‘This week?’
‘In 10 minutes.’ ‘Today?’ ‘Yes. Right now.’
End of conversation.
I ascended the Guardia Civil steps 10 minutes later to be faced with a posse of uniformed faces, all trying not to laugh, but with varying degrees of success.
No word was said. Pete was handed to me; I thanked them and departed, the suppressed laughter following me down the steps.
As I passed the Farmacia I popped my head through the door. ‘We have people leave things behind all the time.’ Felix told my head.
‘But never an urn!’ I am now known to that corner of Albox as the ‘Woman Who Forgot Her Husband.’
