The Return

by Victoria Hislop

  The sun came out through the clouds but the novelty and excitement of this adventure had worn off.These children wanted to be at home with their mothers. Many had become separated from siblings during the journey and it took time to sort them into groups but the hexagonal badges helped, and each one of them was soon allocated to a helper. Mercedes had hoped for the opportunity to get to know her charges on the journey, but the storm had stolen the moment.

  Before disembarkation the children underwent another medical examination and coloured ribbons were tied to their wrists to indicate if treatment was required: a red ribbon meant a journey to the corporation baths for delousing, a blue ribbon meant that infectious disease had been diagnosed and a visit to the isolation hospital was required, and a white ribbon showed a clean bill of health.

  All the poor mites looked bedraggled. Hair, so beautifully brushed, ribboned and carefully plaited almost two days earlier, was now matted into hard clumps. Smart knitted jumpers were stained by vomit.The señoritas did their best to make them presentable.

  Finally, the children had to be reunited with their possessions and given back the very little they had brought with them. Small girls now clutched a favourite doll and boys stood bravely, like little men. By the time they were all assembled and ready to leave the ship they had been docked for some time.

  The curiosity was mutual. Everyone stared, wide-eyed. The Spaniards looked at the English and the English gazed at the foreign children edging their way along the deck. Britain had heard so much about the barbaric behaviour of the rojos in Spain, how they had burned down churches and tortured innocent nuns, that they expected to see little savages. When these wide-eyed children, some of them still managing to look smartly dressed, came into view, they were amazed.

  Among the first English people the Spanish children saw were members of a Salvation Army band. Mercedes did not quite know what to make of them, in their dark uniforms, blasting their bright tunes from gleaming trumpets and trombones.They seemed rather military to her, but she soon learned that they meant well.

  Southampton looked like a town in fiesta. Its streets were bedecked with bunting and the Spanish children smiled, imagining this was put up to welcome them. They would discover only later that it was left over from the celebration of the recent coronation.

  Those who had been given a clean bill of health were driven in double-decker buses from Southampton for a few miles to North Stoneham, the place that was to be their temporary home. It was a huge encampment spread over three fields, with five hundred white, bell-shaped tents in neat rows. Each tent would accommodate eight to ten children, with boys and girls separated. ‘Indios!’ exclaimed some of the children with excitement when they saw them.

  ‘They think it’s all a big game of cowboys and Indians,’ said Enrique scornfully to his sister, who stood next to him clutching her doll.

  For Mercedes it immediately invited comparison with the makeshift tents that people had improvised on the road from Málaga to Almería. Here there was order, safety and, most touching of all, kindness. In these green meadows they had found sanctuary.

  The organisation was impressive. As well as the divisions between girls and boys, there were separate areas for the three groups of children, divided according to the politics of their parents. The organisers wanted to minimise the aggression between rival groups.

  The camp was its own self-contained world with its own rules and routines. Queues for food were orderly, though it did take four hours to serve the first meal. Much of what they were given tasted strange to the evacuees but they were grateful for it and acquainted themselves with new flavours and tastes like Horlicks and tea. Mercedes found some of the children in her care were hoarding food; for so long they had worried about where the next meal was coming from.

  They picnicked in the sunshine but for many days they were anxious whenever they heard the sound of aeroplanes passing over towards the nearby airfield in Eastleigh.They associated the sound so strongly with the threat of air raids. After a while they began to lie back on the soft English grass and watch the pale puffy clouds, safe in the knowledge that bombers were not going to blot out the sun.

  The children were kept busy with lessons, chores and gymnastics, but the discipline was kind, and every effort was made to ensure that this place did not feel like a prison. Each day there was a prize for the tidiest tent and Mercedes made sure that her little charges often won the competition. All of them suffered in some way from aching homesickness, but even the youngest managed to keep their tears until night-time.

  The refugees were much greater in number than originally expected, but the pressure was soon lifted when, in the first week, four hundred were taken to a Salvation Army hostel and within a month one thousand more had gone to Catholic homes. There were some food shortages, but not of the same scale that many of them had experienced in Bilbao. One mealtime, Mercedes scrutinised the old and battered knife and fork she was using and remembered that every single item in the camp was from a voluntary donation. Though they were reasonably well protected from the attitudes of the outside world, she knew that the British government had refused to fund their stay in England. Furious efforts were going on to raise money to feed and clothe them and they relied entirely on the kindness of strangers.

  Though they were protected from articles in the newspapers that were hostile to their arrival, one piece of news that was not kept from the Spanish refugees was the fall of Bilbao to the Nationalists. Only a month after they had sailed away from it, the city had fallen. It was a very black day at Stoneham. Many of the children ran amok, crying and screaming, panic-stricken at the thought that their parents could now be dead. Enrique, along with some other boys, ran out of the camp, determined to find a boat so that they could return to Spain and fight.They were soon found and brought back to camp. Mercedes spent the night comforting Enrique, assuring him that his mother would be all right. As she sat with him, she thought of Javier too and once again hoped that he had got out of the city long ago.

  News of Bilbao’s capture created a dilemma for everyone.

  ‘Surely we can’t go back now?’ said Mercedes to one of the other assistants.

  ‘No, I don’t think we can. I think the children would be in even more danger than they were before,’ replied Carmen.

  ‘So what’s going to happen to us all?’ asked Mercedes.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, but I don’t think we can camp out forever in this climate!’

  At some point soon everyone at the camp in North Stoneham would have to be moved somewhere more permanent. The Basque Children’s Committee was already working hard to find a solution. Up and down the country, they were establishing ‘colonies’ in which to house the children, and the destination for each niño could be arbitrary. For some it could be another tent, an empty hotel, or a castle. For Mercedes it was a country mansion.

  At the end of July she accompanied a group of twenty-five children, including Enrique and Paloma, to Sussex. They took the train to Haywards Heath and at the railway station they were welcomed by the town band and children who had brought gifts of sweets. It was a warm and happy day. From there a bus dropped them in a village fifteen kilometres away and after that it was a short walk from the village until they reached the gateposts of Winton Hall.

  The eagle-topped pillars were imposing if dilapidated. Some of the bricks were dislodged and one of the moss-covered eagles had lost a wing. Nevertheless, they created an intimidating impression of what was to come.The children joined hands and marched in pairs along the kilometre of rutted driveway. Mercedes walked with Carmen, the teacher in charge of the group. In the past two months the two women had become close friends.

  It was hot.The temperature made them feel as though they were back at home.The as yet unharvested fields around them were pale and parched and the sky was a clear, bright blue. Butterflies basked on the buddleia bushes that grew in profusion along the way, and the younger children squealed with delight at the
Red Admirals that fluttered around their heads.They picked buttercups and daisies from the verge and made up a song. Their walk seemed to pass in no time and they even forgot the weight of their bags.

  Mercedes was the first to reach a bend in the driveway where the house came into view. She had seen pictures of English stately homes in books, so she had some idea of what they looked like, but she would never have imagined that one would become her home. Winton Hall was built of a sandy coloured stone and had more chimneys and turrets than some of the younger children could count.

  ‘It’s a fairy castle!’ exclaimed Paloma.

  ‘Are we coming to live with the new King?’ asked her friend.

  The owners had been watching their progress along the driveway from an upstairs room and were now at the top of the steps to the entrance. Two spaniels sat at their feet.

  Sir John and Lady Greenham had all the trappings of the English landed gentry without any of the wealth. Winton Hall had been built by Sir John’s grandfather, who had been a wealthy industrialist, but over the years its fabric had begun to disintegrate around the subsequent generations who lived there.

  ‘Welcome to Winton Hall,’said the master of the house, coming down to meet the arrivals.

  Carmen was the only one of the group who spoke any English. The children had learned a few words since they arrived, but could not make conversation.

  Mercedes knew only ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you’. Both of these were useful in this situation and she managed to splutter them out.

  Lady Greenham remained at the top of the steps, eyeing them all coolly. It had not been her idea to invite the refugees here. It was her husband’s whimsical notion. He was a distant relative of the redoubtable Duchess of Atholl, who had established the Basque Children’s Committee; now that they had been dispersed from the camp she helped them to find homes around the country. Lady Greenham remembered clearly the first time she had heard of her husband’s plan to open up their home. ‘Oh, do let’s help these poor dears!’ he had exhorted. ‘It won’t be for long.’ He had just returned from a meeting in London where the ‘Red Duchess’, as she was known, had canvassed for support.

  Sir John was a kind-hearted man and could think of no reason why they should not invite a group of harmless young Spaniards to fill some of their dusty rooms. They had never had children of their own and it was a long time since the corridors of the house had been filled with any kind of life, apart from the occasional mouse.

  ‘Very well, then,’ his wife had reluctantly agreed. ‘But I’m not having boys. Only girls. And not too many of them.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that,’ he answered firmly. ‘If there are siblings, they have to stay together.’

  Lady Greenham was full of resentment right from the beginning. Though it was in a state of dusty decay, she retained a strong pride in their home. They had long since dispensed with the servants, who had kept the place immaculate, and now only had a short-sighted housekeeper who occasionally flicked a duster at the cobwebs. Even so, Lady Greenham had a strong awareness of the house’s past grandeur and her social standing as its chatelaine.

  The children filed up the steps and into the hallway, their eyes as wide as saucers. Dark portraits looked down at them. Paloma giggled.

  ‘Look at him,’ she whispered to Enrique, pointing at one of the ancestral paintings. ‘He’s so fat!’

  She won herself a disapproving look from Carmen. Even though she was sure that their hosts did not understand what she had said, it was obvious what had amused her.

  Lady Greenham’s rather fixed smile faded. ‘Now, children,’ she said, not the slightest bit perturbed that they did not have any idea what she was saying, but raising her voice in case it helped their comprehension. ‘Shall we just establish a few rules?’

  They gathered in a circle around her. For the first time Mercedes took a closer look at the Englishwoman. She seemed about the same age as her mother, perhaps forty-five. Her husband, who had strands of reddish hair brushed ineffectually across his bald head, was probably a few years older than she. His complexion was densely freckled and Mercedes tried not to stare.

  Carmen translated as Lady Greenham spoke.

  ‘There is to be no running up and down the corridors . . . Shoes will be taken off before you come in from the garden . . . The drawing room and the library are out of bounds to you . . . You must not over-excite the dogs.’

  They listened in silence.

  ‘Boys and girls, do you understand all these rules?’ said Carmen, to try to break the tension.

  ‘Sí! Sí! Sí! ’ they all agreed.

  ‘Now I shall show you where you’re going to sleep,’ said Sir John.

  The children’s feet clattered up the bare broad staircase after their hosts.

  Lady Greenham stopped and turned round.The children halted too.

  ‘I think we have already broken a rule, haven’t we?’

  Carmen flushed. ‘Yes, they have. I’m so sorry,’ she said apologetically. ‘Now, children, go back down the stairs and remove your shoes, please.’

  They all did as they were told and their dusty shoes now formed an untidy pile at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘I’ll show you where to put them later,’ said Lady Greenham. Her own court shoes hammered along the corridor now as the walk to their bedrooms continued.

  One thing Mercedes had observed was that, in spite of the temperature they had been enjoying earlier, as soon as they had stepped over the threshold of this house, all the warmth of the day was left outside.

  The boys were to be accommodated in a room on the first floor, which had high ceilings, huge sash windows, and a large faded Persian rug, and the girls were to be divided into two separate musty-smelling rooms in the attic, which had once been servants’ quarters.There were several beds in each and they were expected to share in whatever way they could. Carmen and Mercedes would sleep top to tail with the girls.

  It was suppertime. Initially the housekeeper, Mrs Williams, was as unwelcoming as her mistress. In the kitchen she gave them a series of ‘don’ts’.

  ‘Don’t leave your plate on the table. Don’t bang your cutlery. Don’t waste food. Don’t let the dogs eat any scraps. Don’t let any peelings go down the sink. Don’t forget to wash your hands before meals.’

  Each one was delivered with a mimed demonstration of what they ‘Must Not Do’.Then she smiled - a broad smile that involved every muscle in her face, including her eyes, her mouth and the dimples in her cheeks. The children could see that this woman had warmth in her heart.

  In the grand dining room, where grimy crystal chandeliers hung down from the ceiling, the long table was incongruously laid with green china from Woolworths and tin mugs. Lady Greenham was hardly going to use her finest porcelain for these little foreigners.

  Their first meal was a dish made from mince followed by tapioca pudding. Most of the children managed to force down the fatty first course but the tapioca was more of a struggle. Several of them gagged violently and Paloma was profusely sick on the floor. Carmen and Mercedes rushed to clear up the vomit. It was imperative that Lady Greenham did not get to hear of it, since this was the sort of calamity that might prove her husband’s folly in inviting these children here.

  The housekeeper, loyal as she was to her employers, did not want the new arrivals to get into trouble so she helped clear up and promised not to mention what had happened. She would serve something called semolina from now on, rather than tapioca.

  The following day, after a breakfast of bread and margarine, the children were allowed to explore outside.They were baffled as to where its limits lay. There was a formal garden with overgrown lawns and brick-edged parterres, where weeds seemed to grow in greater profusion than the roses, against whom they waged an impressive battle. Rather mystifyingly there was a huge sunken space; they deduced from the presence of a now bottomless rowing boat that was stranded in the middle, its oars sticking out of the mud like flagpoles, that it had once
been an artificial lake. Some of them walked around it, but found the pathway overgrown and impossible to negotiate. Beyond the lake in one direction was woodland and in the other there were fields, some of them grazed by cows.

  There was a little folly in the garden, which had obviously been a retreat for someone who enjoyed painting. It was circular, so that the light could come in from all sides. An easel leaned against the wall, and the old table was covered with daubs of oil paints, tubes of which still lay on the surface. Paintbrushes stood, tips down, in a cup. No one had been in here for years. Two of the older girls, Pilar and Esperanza, were entranced by this secret hideaway and found some paper and scraps of charcoal. The paper was damp but useable and they began to draw. Hours later they were still there, utterly absorbed.

  Mercedes was drawn to a wooden summerhouse by the lake and pushed open the door. It was full of old deck chairs.

  ‘Let’s put some of them out,’ said Paloma, who was exploring the estate with Mercedes. She dragged one of them into the sunshine, only to discover that the canvas had rotted.‘Never mind,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Perhaps we could mend some of them.’