Neighbours

Nobody knows what to say on these terrible occasions. There are established formats of course, but they sound just as inadequate in Spanish as they do in English: my condolences, deepest sympathy... nothing comes close to being sufficient. Today I just said how sorry I was and did the rest by handshakes, hugs and kisses.

Eusebio, who always tries to be philosophical about life's tragedies, commented quietly 'Oh well, one neighbour less, then,' but his eyes were having none of that and he had to look away and blink for a while.

We were there to say goodbye to an elderly lady, one of the villagers, who had reached her nineties in reasonably good shape but then slowly succumbed to arthritis, poor circulation, shortness of breath and the rest of it, all those things that finally wear you away if nothing nastier gets you first.

I was genuinely very sad that she'd left us. We had known each other for a great many years, waved from across the street, chatted now and again when we called in to visit. 'You know, I think of you two as family,' she said not long ago, which is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. I'm not sure whether I had to turn away and blink like Eusebio, but I'm doing it now anyway.

All of which is not to see if I can depress you, it's just to illustrate how important is this thing called a neighbour. They're important anywhere but in a small village on a small island, the title of neighbour has particular significance. I upset one of our fellow villagers many years ago as I was introducing her to some visiting English friends: 'This is Dolores, who's a sister of María, the lady we met earlier who is the grandmother of etc etc...' - introductions can get complicated when everyone is related to everyone else.

This was in English of course, so then I had to explain in Spanish to Dolores: 'I was just telling them that you're the sister of María who is the grandmother of...' but I got no further. Dolores interrupted me with an astonished 'And I'm your neighbour!' Explanation enough in itself, what's all this rabbiting about who's related to whom? The important thing is that we're neighbours.

Lesson learned. Being a vecino, a neighbour, conveys a recognised status. You don't have to live next door or along the street - a vecino is anyone from the same village or area of town. People will greet you in the supermarket with 'Hola, vecino!' Our village association is an Asociación de Vecinos.

Mostly we neighbours all rub along happily and benefit hugely from the companionship. I have to admit here, however, that Gomerans are no more saintly than anyone else and we have our share of clashes and conflicts. Ada who lives on her own has a somewhat prickly relationship with Pilar, another widow of the village. 'She comes round here day after day,' Ada complained the other week, 'asking me for sugar. I always give it to her but do I ever get it back? Nunca jamás! Never ever! And she expects to get a cup of coffee as well. Why should I supply her with sugar and throw in free cups of coffee? Eh?'

'You could knock on her door tomorrow morning and ask for some flour and a free bun.'

Ada didn't find that amusing. 'I'm not going to ask her for anything! But if she thinks she can keep coming round to my house...'

But they get on pretty well really and Pilar still visits. They need each other. I know of a small village in the interior of the island, in a deep valley, where the entire population has drifted away to the towns except for one old lady who refuses to leave home. Her only neighbours are one or two foreigners who have bought old cottages and turn up now and again for a holiday, but half the time she has no neighbours at all. She's thrilled if a goat pops its head around the door.

She should give up and move to our village, bringing a couple of kilos of sugar to make friends with Ada and Pilar.

Illustration: detail from a watercolour by Jackie Page