The Retirement

By Adrienne Fox

On leaving the brash world of showbiz, Digby Lund discovers a tranquil retreat in the countryside of Northern Spain, to pursue his passion for painting. His new villa, situated on the perimeter of a wind farm, has everything he could wish for.

Despite hostility and protestations from his trophy wife Cecilia, a model who loathes his new home, finds his one and only newly acquired friend Frank a retired electrical engineer dull and is determined to seek a more glitzy location, Digby remains determined to pursue his new lifestyle even in the face of her antagonism.

But when the wind farm takes on a life of its own and Digby discovers that he has been duped into buying the land, the rural tranquility is abruptly shattered by the horrors of a biological experiment dating back to the Spanish Civil War.

Digby, Cecilia his wife, Frank his friend, and Juan a Spanish count are trapped as the past rises up from the Spanish soil to terrorise the four occupants of the villa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477218143

Adrienne Fox

Adrienne Fox is a retired musician who began her literary career reviewing concerts. This is her fifth novel. The other novels are the following: The Retirement, Starstruck, Tit for Tat, and IQ.

Book preview

Chapter 1

AFTER A SUCCESSFUL career as a television presenter, Digby decided that Spain was the place for his retirement.

Although he had never quite made it to the top, he’d made money, which he had squirreled away, saving as much as his flamboyant lifestyle allowed. It was no good being a showman without the razz-ma-taz to keep him in the public eye.

But now he was bored by what he cruelly self assessed as ‘mediocre stardom’ and decided that he’d had enough of the paparazzi following and photographing all his minor indiscretions.

The good side was that the publicity helped his ratings.

The bad side was that the constant scrutiny played hell with his self-esteem, his marriages, and his temper.

Any publicity is good publicity was the old saying.

It just didn’t resonate any more.

Spain was the place to go, but the Costas were not in his frame and so he researched possible locations most carefully.

Digby knew that Cecilia, his fifth wife, had expectations of living in Porto Banus where she could spend his money buying designer clothes to compete with the glamour that disembarked from the visiting yachts.

He was going to have to break the news to her very carefully that he was searching for a country retreat where he could indulge in his great passion,—oil painting.

He realized that he would need to rent a prestigious apartment for at least a month in the ‘smart season’, whenever that was, to pacify his beautiful fifth acquisition.

In the meantime he read, he Googled, he Wikipied, and he became an expert on Spanish climate and environment.

Digby was looking forward to his chosen hobby to fill the gaps left by retirement.

The sex, sun and games for retired swingers had long since palled.

He desperately wanted to paint,—not his verandahs and garden fences but oil on canvases, water-color on delicate paper, gauche, anything!

All his life he had wanted to paint, but show-business had proved to be a very good way of making a living and in his heart he knew he was no Freud or Hockney. Nonetheless wanted to paint beautiful things in beautiful colors and surround himself, plus any sympathetic friends with his beautiful creations.

His passion for Spain embraced Spanish Art, from Goya to Dali, so when he discovered a plot of land for sale at a ridiculously low price on the edge of Fuentetodos in Aragon, he knew that his problems were solved,—well, some of them.

Cecilia was not going to like living in Aragon.

It was in the North and far from the Costa del Sol.

He tried to visualize her shopping in Saragoza, and buying fine wines in Carinena, if they produced such things, whilst he would live in the same village where the cottage of his Spanish idol Goya had inhabited.

He had contemplated the Costa Brava, and the links with Dali, but he still remembered his first package tour on a bus and the commercial nature of that developing coast.

It would be too low grade for Cecilia, and the weather was often worse that the rest of Spain.

Weather, social standing and fashion were Cecilia’s preoccupation.

In Fuendetodus the land was ridiculously cheap and it was up for grabs.

Digby gave Cecilia a ticket to Paris and the Credit card he had reserved for her with a generous credit limit and armed with a phrasebook and a dictionary, he took a plane to Zaragoza and booked into the Palafox.

If Cecilia joined him from Paris there was a swimming pool and a gym to keep her beautiful body in mint condition.

He stood in front of a full-length mirror in the wardrobe door and surveyed his corpus.

He saw a fairly well—preserved middle aged fellow, slightly below average height and sadly slightly more than overweight. He turned sideways and opened the adjoining mirrored door to get a better view of his profile.

It was fine from the waist up, but the bulge below the belt was undeniably pronounced. And somehow the wardrobe’s combination of mirrors either exaggerated the convex curves of his silhouette or he had been under the delusion of loose tea-shirts and expert tailoring for longer than he had thought!

He went into the bathroom and focused on the shaving mirror.

His craggy good looks were becoming etched with lines and his mane of thick hair streaked with silver. He had sometimes hoped that advancing age made him appear more distinguished; lending more gravitas to the banalities he was scripted to offer under the all embracing term, entertainment.

He sighed as he privately acknowledged the inevitability of getting old and took refuge in a well-worn phrase.

Que sera sera. He muttered, put on his loafers and left the suite whistling the tune very quietly.

Chapter 2

THE ESTATE AGENT he had found on the Net arrived the next morning at 10 a.m.

As they drove down the A23 Digby was amazed by the landscape.

It was covered in wind farms and the closer they got to Fuentetodos the thicker the forests of wind generators became.

Before we look at the plot he said to Carlos the agent, I want to look in Goya’s house. Is it open?

Carlos, a slender thirty-year-old in an immaculate lightweight grey suit, had also done his research and had discovered Digby’s passion for painting listed on Facebook and he had anticipated the interest.

Of course he said and doors were opened to the cottage and museum.

Digby was entranced by the simple furniture.

There was one painting.

Goya had conjured a still life of a glass with little more than 3 brushstrokes.

Miraculous!

Gone were Digby’s Pre-Raphaelite pretensions.

He was instantly converted to minimalism.

The land for sale was in the shadow of the first wind turbine in a huge farm.

Digby wondered what Goya would have made of them and decided that he would possibly have painted them.

But to compensate for the proximity of the gigantic generator, the view from the hill was excellent and he figured that if the turbines were there, so must be a breeze, and a decent supply of electricity.

He asked about services and Carlos reassured him that there was no problem.

Carlos delivered him back to the Palafox and after making some jottings about builders and pool installation from the Hotel advertisement directory, Digby telephoned his solicitor who told him that their Spanish branch would check everything out if he gave them the name of the agency.

It was all so easy, so far.

In the afternoon he wandered around in Zaragoza enjoying being a tourist.

He had only just returned to his room when Cecilia telephoned.

Darling, Paris is wet and I miss you. Can I come and join you?

Get on a plane. I’ll meet you at the airport; just let me know your flight when you’ve fixed it.

He phoned reception.

Quisiera un coche he began

Yes Sir, have you any specific requirements? came the perfect English of the girl at the desk.

He was a bit disappointed at not being able to continue in Spanish which he was making an effort to learn, but decided that getting what he wanted was more important than ending up with a hearse or a van and so he asked for a large 4 door automatic.

Would you like it tomorrow? she asked.

Si. Por la manana por favor. He said, determined to say his prepared lines.

OK. It will be ready in the Hotel Parking for you at 10 o’clock. Is there anything more sir?

No, gracias.

You’re welcome.

Well, at least Cecilia will like this, he thought, no language trouble and the suite he had reserved was both comfortable and spacious.

An Audi was duly delivered and he drove to the airport using the sat-nav.

He watched Cecilia pause and pose at the top of the steps to the aircraft.

As usual she looked stunning in a midnight-blue silk trouser suit. Her thick ash blonde hair framed huge doe-like eyes, and high cheek bones. Only her mouth broke the rules of perfection by being wider and more sensuous than the plumped up rosebud or Boot bow of the standard fashion face in current vogue.

It was the mouth that gave her face its character. It was also her mouth that registered discontent and displeasure, and dispensed the verbal manifestations of her disgruntlement and ire.

Did he love her? He didn’t know because he felt that he had forgotten what true love was.

He certainly fancied her sexually and enjoyed the envy of other men.

He thought her self-centered and selfish, but he knew that he had the same faults.

The thing that bugged him most was her shallowness. It was as if she regarded every aspect of her relationship with the environment and the people around her as no more permanent or valuable than the makeup she applied to her face so expertly.

He straightened up, pulled in his stomach and went to meet her.

"Hello darling. Have you found a decent hotel? The French one wasn’t brilliant.

Streaky mirrors and a creaky bed".

He stopped himself asking how she knew that the bed creaked.

You’ll like this, it’s got a pool.

Oh good! Where’s our taxi?

I’ve hired a car. More fun.

She looked at him in horror,

You can’t mean that. You know how we get lost in Towns and how you hate changing gear with your right hand.

That’s all taken care of he said smugly. It’s an automatic with sat-nav.

Cecilia pouted. She liked taxis because she was relieved of the chore of having to help load her endless suitcases or to watch the road when Digby was driving.

But when she saw the huge new Audi shining in the sunny car park her pout tightened to a half smile.

Chapter 3

DIGBY MANAGED TO arrive at the Palafox without incident; Cecilia had visibly relaxed to the point of enjoying herself.

We’ll dump your bags and then have lunch. Do you want lunch here or would you prefer to have a snack on the road?

What road? she questioned suspiciously.

Oh, you’ll find out when we get to where we are going. Digby replied lightly, being careful to keep any hint of a serious discussion out of his voice.

Darling I’m sure I’ve put on weight and if we eat here tonight we had better have a lunchtime snack. She glanced at the leaflet that listed the Hotel’s amenities.

Oh good, there’s a gym as well as a pool, I can have a workout every day. In fact I’ll go up and change now, have a workout and then go out to wherever you are aiming for because I know lunch isn’t until 2 o’clock in Spain so I’ve got bags of time.

They took the lift to the suite and the porter unloaded baggage that would have been adequate for a world tour.

After the workout during which time Digby swatted hard on his phrase-book Spanish they climbed into the car and set off for Fuentetodos.

Cecilia spotted a Tapas bar on the edge of the town where they ate.

She had made no withering remarks about Saragoza which Digby took as a good sign.

What do you think of this lovely countryside? he asked.

Not much. Where’s the sea and the smart shops? This is supposed to be Spain you know and there should be yachts, and loads of interesting people. All I can see are trees and hills covered with those awful windy things.

Hell’s teeth Cecilia, Saragoza is miles from the coast, this is the real Spain, those bits around the coast are just rich men’s ghettos and those ‘windy things’ as you so delightfully describe them are wind turbines for generating electricity.

Well I don’t like this one bit. The pout had returned.

He changed the subject.

What was the gym like?

OK. I met a very nice Spanish gentleman who could speak English as well as me.

Not too difficult Digby thought, whilst trying to concentrate on the road and being nice. All his fears about Cecilia’s reaction had returned, but when he delved into his emotions he was happy to discover that he didn’t really care. Cecilia represented a part of his existence that belonged to the past.

His future lay in painting, learning Spanish and adapting to a new culture.

He glanced sideways; she was examining herself in the vanity mirror.

Pretty but dumb, selfish and expensive. he thought. She can’t possibly last out in this environment. I’ll just let things take their course, there’s no point in trying to pin her down or bind her to me, it will be like tearing the wings off a butterfly. I’ll be better occupied painting, but I’ll still try the idea of an apartment in Porto Banus it may even give me space to let go without too much acrimony.

He turned off the main road on to the country road leading to Fuentetodos.

Where the Hell are you going now? We’re out in the wilds; we could be mugged or even kidnapped or murdered in this wilderness.

You’ll see. It’s not far. He spoke more calmly than he felt. Her crassness made him feel angry and he knew that anger was the last emotion he needed if he was to persuade her to live in Fuendetodus.

There was silence until they reached the village.

The door to Goya’s house was locked.

Oh come on. Cecilia snapped, Let’s get out of this one-horse-village and go somewhere decent.

Shut up Cissy. He rarely called her that because she hated it, and he could see the custodian of the key arriving.

The door was duly unlocked and they went inside. He led the way to the painting of the glass.

Look at that. Isn’t it wonderful?

What’s wonderful about it? She peered closer. It’s just a few lines on a piece of wood. I could do that and Vera does lovely pictures on her computer. That’s rubbish!

He sighed. Vera, Cecilia’s sister produced garish pictures based on things she photographed and used for greetings cards. He also realized that trying to explain the simplicity and beauty of the little picture would be an impossible task.

Come and look round the house.

What for?

Because Goya lived here.

Goya the old cosmetic manufacturer?

He was sorely tempted to say, ‘yes’ but instead said,

Goya the painter.

He couldn’t have been any good if that’s an example of his stuff.

He fell silent again. What could he say to such a closed mind?

He didn’t bother to take her round the house.

I’ve got something else to show you.

Not another lousy picture.

He led her outside and took the path to the plot of land.

This is where we are building our new house.

There was a long silence then she screamed,

You must be raving mad if you think I’m coming to an uncivilized dump like this. It’s a rotten spot and look at all those windy things. I’ll NEVER live here!

They returned to the Palafox in complete silence.

The following morning Cecilia packed her many suitcases.

That Spanish gentleman I met in the gym offered me a lift to Porto Banus. You can come down when you feel like it. I’m staying at our usual Hotel. Cheerio.

Digby winced at the thought of his credit card bending under the strain of expenses, but he certainly felt more light-hearted. If she was going, he could get on with his life and his painting project unencumbered.

Chapter 4

SIX MONTHS LATER the house was finished, furnished and ready.

Cecilia had gone to America on an extended modeling trip and Digby had made his move to Fuendetodus.

The house was much too big for one person, but it had cost a fraction of what he would have paid in Porto Banus, or indeed practically any coastal resort in Europe.

At first the wind turbines had kept him awake at night, but he soon got used to the sound.

On the other hand, the telephone calls from Cecilia who was doing a modeling stint in America were more disturbing.

She never managed to call him at a reasonable hour; he suspected that she never bothered to check what the time in Spain was.

He had made one friend;—a retired electrical engineer from London called Frank.

Frank was a very pleasant man whose wife had died 3 years ago, and he had come to Spain to seek a quiet life in an environment where he could go walking every day, enjoy bird watching and classifying wild flowers.

Frank’s light brown crinkly hair had receded at the temples, leaving him with a style that could have been easily converted into a Mohican! His dress was passé and conventional;—cotton shirts, chinos and trainers with a sweater draped over his shoulders in readiness for the cool evenings. He was slightly over average height, wiry, and he had the spring of a lifelong fell-walker in his step. It was only his penetrating bright blue eyes, deep-set in his tanned face that gave any real clue about the man who dwelt inside this typically British exterior. Frank’s overall appearance gave nothing away.

They didn’t live in each others’ pockets, but were happy to meet and chat over a glass or two of wine a couple of times every week.

Digby’s painting was occupying him almost day and night, and his weekly trip to Zaragoza to re-stock his supplies was the longest excursion he made.

One night he was woken from a deep sleep by the Telephone.

I’ve finished my contract and I thought I’d come and see our house. Meet me at Zaragoza airport on Thursday. My plane arrives at 7 o’clock in the morning your time.

Digby was tempted to ask if she knew that it was 2.30 his time now, but he restrained himself to,

OK. It will be good to see you darling.

He put down the receiver hoping he didn’t sound too insincere.

It wouldn’t be at all good to see Cecilia.

He guessed she must be planning to assess the house with a view to working out what she would get in a divorce settlement.

His peace and quiet would be shattered by noisy arguments about money. He’d been through it all before. His painting would be interrupted and no doubt scoffed at.

What was worse, he dreaded it would be mauled in a fit of pique!

He turned over in bed to go back to sleep, but he could hear the wind turbines. They seemed much louder than usual. He silently cursed Cecilia for waking him in the middle of the night.

Bloody woman he muttered to himself several times before he eventually fell asleep around dawn.

The next morning Frank came round with some wild strawberries he had found on one of his walks.

They doused them in good Spanish Brandy, opened a bottle of Cava and sat down to a feast and a chat.

The alcohol soon loosened their tongues and Digby found himself telling Frank all about his desire to paint and his predicament with Cecilia.

I’ll come along with you to the airport if you like. volunteered Frank.

It may help to dilute the atmosphere.

Digby doubted it would, Cecilia was likely to take Frank as an audience and play whatever role she had chosen to the maximum effect, but he liked the idea of Frank in a supportive role and so he accepted the offer.

By the way, did you hear the turbines last night? Frank asked. "They were making a hell of a row.

The funny thing was, there was no wind, but they were turning so fast you could barely see the blades."

Some one must have pulled the wrong switch and got, ‘energy out’ instead of ‘energy in’. Digby joked, He was glad to be weaned off contemplating Cecilia’s arrival.

Well I know I’ve been retired for 7 years and I must be a bit behind the times with technology, Frank replied, But I don’t think that is possible. There are certain remote controls, but not that, as far as I know."

Digby topped up the Cava glasses.

They must have developed minds of their own. He said lightly. Perhaps they are going to march on us and make us hold our arms out and turn just like they do.

Frank laughed.

"They won’t be very pleased about our efficiency, they have 3 blades and we only have 2 arms!

And we aren’t tall enough to catch the wind."

Chapter 5

THURSDAY CAME ALL too quickly.

Digby and Frank climbed into the new Audi that Digby had bought as result of enjoying the hire car; he had bought an identical model with only a few extras like solar panels for cooling and heating, leather seats, a customized steering wheel and walnut dashboard.

What a car! I couldn’t possibly afford anything in this class. I could become very envious of this vehicle.

Would you like to drive Frank?

Well, that’s a very trusting offer, but what happens if I scrape it, or worse? It could ruin a beautiful friendship.

Oh go on. I’m sure you are a splendid driver. I’ve seen the way you drive when you come up my lane. I reckon you could park your ancient Rolls on a pin.

So Frank drove. He drove well and also a lot faster than Digby.

Where did you learn to drive like that?

My father was a racing car enthusiast and he started me driving on our farm when my legs were long enough to reach the pedals of his Classic old Humber. I used to race up and down our lane and practice hand break turns and parking in the farm yard. My dad was really tolerant. One day I backed into a barn door, but he didn’t stop me driving. What he did do, was to take the cost of the back lights from my pocket money. I never backed into anything again.

They reached the airport in time to watch Cecilia do her posing act as she disembarked.

This is my good friend Frank. Cecilia looked at Frank in his brushed cotton checked shirt and jeans and her face took on the aspect of someone who had just sniffed a bottle of vinegar whilst expecting an expensive scent.

How do you do she said lethargically in her best, ‘put you down’ voice. Where’s my luggage?

There was an awkward silence as they went to carousel to pick it up.

How much in excess baggage did you pay for this lot? Frank asked, as he unloaded the umpteenth heavy case.

I have to keep my wardrobe up to date. I’m a model

What sort of model? Frank asked innocently.

Certainly not the sort you are thinking of. She replied with a sneer.

Oh, I was thinking of my late wife who was a model for Givenchy.

What did you do? Cecilia always changed the subject when she knew she was being outclassed.

I was an electrical engineer

I suppose you are good at changing light bulbs and fixing washing machines

Digby felt his face burn with shame, but Frank had assessed the situation.

You could say that. He replied mildly.

Well let’s get back to your one horse village. I’m bursting to see the new house.

Digby’s heart sank again. She was obviously measuring up the carpets prior to suing for divorce.

When they arrived at the Audi, Frank and Digby unloaded the huge mountain of luggage from the baggage carriers whilst Cecilia spat instructions about heavy versus light, versus pigskin, versus elephant hide to achieve what she called her, Methodical stacking".

Frank got in the driving seat.

Cecilia looked at him with more interest.

This is a nice car you’ve got Frank.

Isn’t it just. He replied moving the gear shift out of automatic and pinning them to the seat as he shot through the Tectonic gearbox.

When they arrived at Fuendetodus Cecilia walked around the house assessing its merits and flaws.

Nice enough house. A bit small and where’s the pool? You’ll never sell it without a pool.

Why should Digby want to sell it just after he’s moved in? Frank’s eyes were very focused on Cecilia.

Because it’s in a one horse town and it’s a rotten spot with all these . . . she waved her hands vaguely in the direction of the wind turbines.

It’s probably the most tranquil place I’ve ever lived in. No traffic, not on an air traffic route, just nature and . . .

Digby was cut short.

Those ghastly windy things. Everyone knows they make a helluva row. They are only put in places that no one wants to go to. And certainly no one wants to come here.

I did. Frank and Digby replied simultaneously and looked at each other and laughed at their joint affirmation.

Well that’s because you are both old and over the hill.

Thanks very much. There was an icy tone in Frank’s voice that was new to Digby.

But Cecilia’s attention was drawn to something else.

Have you got a maid Digby? There’s a tatty old Rolls parked over there. She gestured with her thumb. Does that belong to the gardener or the maid?

It’s mine.

She looked at Frank.

Your second car?

No. Just my car.

Digby thought he better jump in before the situation worsened.

The Audi’s mine.

It will fetch a good price on the second hand market. The words were hardly out of Cecilia’s mouth when Frank said,

But it’s not for sale.

We’ll see about that. And Cecilia flounced into the house.

The 2 men looked at one another and again spoke in unison.

Sorry about that!

Then Digby began to laugh.

She’ll have to go, and I don’t mean the Audi.

Chapter 6

TO DIGBY’S AMUSEMENT Cecilia installed herself in one of the guest bedrooms.

Just as well he thought "I don’t think I could cope with her sexual demands as well as her material ones. It’s time I showed her exactly what my