Resurrection. The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles: Volume One.

Chapter Six

6

‘Oh good, our favourite table’s free,’ said Gerald Benson with a smile as he and his wife, Cynthia, approached La Reina de Corazones. ‘What’ll it be for you this morning, Cyn?’

‘Oh, I think I’ll have one of those little coffees to get me started.’

‘Ah yes, the same for me I think. Just the ticket. Is it a cortado or cortada? I can never remember.’

‘Cortado, Gerald,’ said Cynthia. ‘Coffee is masculine.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll try and think of it in masculine terms. I know – I’ll mentally draw on a penis in the milky head of the coffee.’

‘Oh, really, Gerald, I do wish you’d keep your technique for remembering masculine and feminine nouns to yourself. Now, I too shall be seeing willies in my coffee.’

Gerald chuckled. ‘Sorry.’

The Bensons had come out to Spain six months before to enjoy early retirement. Gerald was fifty-five years old. A yellow cotton shirt flowed over his ample belly and a white Panama hat protected his bald patch from the sun. Cynthia was fifty-two; plump, but not overweight. She wore a white cotton dress and a pair of expensive sunglasses. They stepped onto the front terrace of the pub just as the barman, Luis, was wiping down their usual table in the corner.

 ‘Morning, Luis,’ said Gerald, dropping his edition of yesterday’s Daily Mail onto the table.

‘Buenas días, Luis,’ said Cynthia. ‘Que tal?’

‘Muy bien, gracias,’ said Luis cheerfully. ‘Your Spanish is very good, Cynthia.’

‘Oh, Luis, you’re too kind,’ said Cynthia, pulling out a plastic chair. ‘I can barely say my own name in Spanish.’

Gerald sat down. ‘It’s still Cynthia, surely?’

Cynthia ignored him and focused her smile on Luis, who was as handsome as he was charming.

Luis laughed. ‘Gerald is right, there is no Spanish equivalent of Cynthia.’

‘Oh. How unfortunate,’ said Cynthia.

‘What’s “Gerald”, Luis?’ asked Gerald.

‘Geraldo,’ said Luis. ‘We pronounce the G as a H.’

‘Geraldo!’ said Gerald.

‘I could have told you that, darling,’ said Cynthia.

Luis took out his notebook and pencil. ‘What would you like this morning?’

‘Dos cortados, por favor,’ said Gerald.

Luis’s smile was dazzling. ‘Very good, Gerald.’

Gerald laughed. ‘Who’s Gerald, eh? Call me Geraldo, Luis.’

‘Okay, Geraldo,’ Luis gave a nod and went into the shadowy interior of the pub.

‘Well done, Geraldo,’ said Cynthia.

Michelle, who had seen the Bensons arrive, walked out from inside the pub shading her eyes with her hand. ‘Who’s Geraldo?’

‘I am,’ said Gerald, delighted with himself.

Michelle pulled out a chair and joined them. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it? Of course you know who I am, don’t you?’

‘You’re Michelle; Keith’s girl,’ said Gerald. ‘You live here.’

‘No, I mean in Spanish,’ said Michelle, giving his arm a little pat.