Letters to Mrs Hernandez

by C S Gibbs

  “I suppose she has a point,” said Ben.

  “My young friend, you must excuse her. She is a passionate lady and the mention of children suffering strikes a chord with her. You see . . . we have never had any children of our own . . . I feel such great shame that I have not been able to give her that. Vero says that it is a curse from her father – call it what you wish, but I would do anything to change that.

  “You may have wondered what made the two of us come and take you under our wing – well, Vero saw that you were looking so lost and alone, so she decided to . . . 'adopt' you for a little while. We hope you don't mind!”

  “I'm glad of the company and conversation. It would be a very long trip without you.”

  In the meantime, Vero had sashayed to the piano and with a few kind words (and the promise of a free drink at the bar) had dislodged the pianist. She immediately set about delivering a master class of the tango – her left hand darting from bass note to syncopated chord, whilst her right shimmered up and down the keys, starting with some staccato octaves, before settling down and issuing the melody which turned the heads of all in the room, who cheered and whistled their approval before joining in with the song – some couples sprang up from their tables and made their way to the dance floor. Ben was perplexed by the smooth, languid leg movements, the assertive eye contact and the sheer exoticism of this most un-English of activities.

  “Ah, you are not familiar with 'La Cumparsita', my English chum?” Chuckled Hector, “This is the most famous of all tangos. It is something of an anthem across the whole of South America.”

  “The Compostina? I've never heard it before.”

  “The Cumparsita! It means 'the little travelling band'. It was made famous by Carlos Gardel.”

  “Carlos what? Who's he? Is he like George Formby?”

  “George Formby? Who is he?” Hector laughed and continued to admire his gifted wife's dexterity, “Carlos Gardel is the greatest singer ever to come from Argentina – he was as great as Caruso.”

  “So how come I've never heard of him?”

  “Because you English don't think that there is anything of interest beyond your precious Empire! Whilst you are busy listening to your George Formby fellow, we had Carlos.”

  “Had? Where is he now?”

  “He died in a 'plane crash a few years back. Vero was practically in mourning for weeks. But, as they say, the music lives on. There is nothing quite like it for reviving the spirits. She will feel so much better after this and I am now assured of a pleasant night!”

  Vero had, in the meantime, repeated the chorus a tone higher than before, then, egged on by the accompanying handclaps of the singing and dancing diners, increased the tempo, reaching the climax of the song with a glorious crescendo in which her arms stretched to the two extremities of the keyboard for the high pitched 'plink' and satisfying low bass thud of the emphatic final chord. She stood and took a well deserved bow to rapturous applause, whilst the pianist, his free drink now finished, retook his seat and resumed playing pieces less likely to dislodge the diners' still-undigested food.

  The now familiar grin was back in place and Vero swept back to Hector's arms.

  “I needed that, my dear!”

  “I think we all did, darling. Now, shall we take in some sea air and let you wind down after your great performance?”

  “Oh, you are a bold one, Mr Hernandez! You would think that we had only just met!”

  “It still feels that way, Mrs Hernandez. Ben, would you care to join us?”

  “I'm alright, thanks. I've got some more reading to do. I'll see you at breakfast.”

  “Sleep well, Ben,” smiled Vero, as Hector led her to the promenade.

  Ben watched them make their exit, which was every bit as elegant as their arrival on the boat. Even after years of marriage, they looked so in love and it felt wrong to join them now, despite the genuine invitation – three would have been a crowd, he felt. He liked the fact that after only a few days, he had made friends with the Hernandezes and was now so at ease in their company, especially when in conversation with a man such as Hector. Ben also felt great comfort and fortune that such warm and kind people had been placed in his path at that the very time that he had needed them.

   

   

  Chapter Ten - New Horizons

  If he had ever sailed to New York, then Ben would have been able to make a telling comparison between the skyline of Manhattan and the one of Buenos Aires, as both it and the ship slowly drew closer together. Multi-storied buildings of commerce and residence all forced their way upward from the flat earth – at this distance, the architectural influence of Paris, both Art Nouveau and Art Deco, was impossible to discern, but the young Englishman gazed across the vastness of the River Plate, quite recently the watery grave of the German battleship Graf Spee, and realised that he was approaching somewhere new.

  Unlike Lisbon, he was to set foot in this new land and become a part of the fittings. For six months, at least, this would be his home.

  “We will be arriving, soon, and leaving you for our home in Mercedes. You will, of course, come and visit us, won't you?” asked Vero, who, along with Hector, had joined Ben to take in the view of their homeland.

  “If you'll have me, I would love to visit. I hope that I can find the time to come and see you.”

  “You must make the time, Ben, and of course we will have you as our guest! Now that you are so far away from home, you will find that you need to get some friends around you – your family is not here, so you have to make your own family in your new home. Don't tell me that you are just going to devote yourself to nothing but work while you are here? What sort of adventure is that?”

  “Well . . . I am being paid to come and work here. Isn't the word 'adventure' just a fancy name for what I'm doing?”

  “All of your life needs to be an adventure! Look at that city over there. It is full of people and places for you, just let them all come your way. By all means do your job, Ben, be proud of what you do, for you have great skills, but use it as a way to enjoy yourself. Work to live, don't live to work!”

  “Point taken, Vero. That said, though, I'll need to get settled in to my lodgings and the job, first, though. I'm supposed to be lodging with some family called the Burfords.”

  “Of course, of course, but take this card – it has our address and telephone number. We love to have guests at our estancia,” offered Hector.

  “Your what?”

  “Estancia. It is our farm house – what you might call a villa, perhaps. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “Unless riding a donkey at the seaside counts, then no.”

  “Then you really must learn with us. I can teach you very well.”

  “And then,” cut in Vero, “You can learn from a real expert – me!”

  “Excuse me, Ben, whilst I humour my wife. You will most certainly become an expert. We have taught others, too.”

  “I am looking forward to it already. I shall find it hard to concentrate on my real work.”

  With that, the wind picked up and the sky darkened. Rain began to fall and it was time to retreat inside. Ben set about his packing and prepared himself to meet with the members of the English 'colony' who were to meet him at the quayside.

   

  Constitucion,

  Buenos Aires,

  Argentina

  November 29th, 1942

   

  Dear Mum,

  Here I am in Buenos Aires and it is so very hot. Would you believe that it is Summer here, in November? The world is now upside-down and everything is the other way around.

  I was greeted at the harbour by the Burfords, who are an old couple with room to spare in their house because their children have grown up and gone abroad. The house is in the Constiucion area of the city, which is not all that pretty, but it's peaceful and there are no signs of Jerry bombers, but I am told that there are a few Jerry spies prowling around this city. Of course, I s
hall try to keep out of their way!

  I have a nice, clean room at the Burford's and Mrs B. is a good cook (but not as good as you, Mum!) Mr B. works in accounts at the BA Great Southern Railway and is not far from retiring. He keeps talking about how it's all going downhill, here, and that the railways are going to be sold off to the government. He might be right, but for now, the job seems a good one after a week of working here.

  The train station at Constitucion is very impressive – I catch the train from there every day to get to the works at a place called Remidios de Escalada. The funny thing is, the station and the works are British built and owned, just like the rest of the railways, here, and it feels so strange to walk around in this heat, surrounded by foreigners, but then a piece of England pops up in front of me. I fitted in at the works, straight away, because it is just like the works at Derby. The engines are just like the ones that I am used to, whilst Mr Carruthers gave me the plans for the ones that I had not seen before.

  There are a lot of British staff here, so it is not difficult to make myself understood at work. Once I go home, though, I have to work on my Spanish, a bit.

  That Argentine couple that I told you about in my earlier letter have become good friends. They have invited me to their farm out on the Pampas (that is the countryside, by the way) and I hope to go and visit them at the weekend.

  Well, that is all the news that is fit to print for now. I shall just find the time to write to Mr Carruthers and to Tom, then get myself off to the post office.

   

  Lots of love,

  Ben

   

  Chapter Eleven - Cafe Culture

  It had been a short ride on the Subté, Buenos Aires' underground railway, to the centre of the vast city. Again, the stations and the trains themselves were pure British handiwork, reminding him of his rare trips to London, and Ben was still bewildered to find himself in such familiar surroundings but also the alien, knowing that if he needed to ask for directions, he would have to do so in Spanish.

  But find his way he had and he now sat in a restaurant on a long street called Florida (wasn't that a place in America, though?).

  With its beautiful, wooden wall and ceiling panels and gold plated chandeliers, this was a far cry from the fish and chip shop on Bath Street. The clientele were mostly elderly and engaging themselves in relaxed, considered conversation. They were well dressed and appeared to be in no hurry to be anywhere else. The meal and drinks seemed incidental to the main reason for being there, which was to socialise. Some dined alone, with reading their pursuit of choice.

  Seven Greek-style columns supported the ceiling, whilst large, rectangular mirrors on the walls were punctuated by framed paintings of Buenos Aires' old colonial architecture.

  As he people-watched, Ben noted the difference between the English approach to dining and those of the Portino locals. There was no need to bolt down one's food in order to get back to work or get down to the pub. Likewise, the drink was consumed with the intention of savouring, rather than sheer intoxication.

  The staff waited to be called, rather than prowling, ready to pounce.

  Behind the bar stood an elderly gentleman, bald, bespectacled, in a white shirt and sweater. He wandered over to a fellow senior, clearly a regular customer who was lost in a novel, to inform him that there was a telephone call for him at the bar. Clearly, the friends and acquaintances of this scholarly diner knew where to find him.

  Today's lesson, then, thought Ben: learn to slow down. This Anglo-Saxon need to hurry up and get on with things is simply not good for one's digestive system.

  Though unhurried, the waiters were proving to be efficient and the whole place was immaculately kept. There was no rush. Diners had plenty of matters on which to converse, whilst the food and drink would arrive in due course, to be consumed at no greater a pace.

  A couple at the next table appeared to be father and daughter, talking with an easy to and fro, sometimes with silences which were anything but difficult.

  There was no music playing, save for the sound of an obscured percussion ensemble of cutlery being washed and sorted from the kitchen. Otherwise, only the cash register provided any distraction. The soft lighting gave the place a feeling of perennial early evening, despite the fact that it was two in the afternoon and through the windows, a steady stream of people could be seen flowing along Florida.

  From this stream emerged two figures, gliding through the door and smiling towards him.

  Hector and Vero joined him at the table and wasted no time in making themselves comfortable and starting the conversation.

  “So, you are happy with where you are staying? Is the food good?”

  “Yes, Vero, the Burfords are just lovely, if a little on the old side!”

  “And have they made you some Argentine food?”

  “Well . . . there has been a lot of beef . . . ham and cheese sandwiches . . . and I thought that those empanada things were going to be exotic, but they look and taste like Cornish pasties! So really, it's like being at home!”

  “But a land of plenty, yes? No rationing!”

  “And you won't be able to do this in England right now,” chimed Hector, who promptly ordered two bottles of Malbec.

  The wine arrived and the waiter filled the large glasses almost to the brim. Words ebbed and flowed until Ben's hefty steak arrived, along with Hector's pasta and Vero's Waldorf salad.

  “Ben, my boy,” said Hector, “You really do not need to do that.”

  “Do what?” asked Ben through a mouth full of steak.

  “You are shovelling your food down your throat like a hungry dog! There is no need to rush and there is no rationing, here! Take your time, savour the food. Now you are with us, you know where your next meal is coming from.”

  Ben heeded the advice.

  “So you will be coming to Mercedes, this weekend?” Vero asked, “Get the train from Once Station and we will be there to collect you at Mercedes station. It will take you about two hours. We are so looking forward to teaching you to ride a horse.”

  “I really think that I should do that, my dear,” suggested Hector.

  “Oh really? Well, if Ben likes falling off horses a lot, then that would be ideal! Look, we have other things planned. I am so looking forward to it!”

  “My wife loves to organise social gatherings. I hope you are not expecting an uneventful weekend, my friend,” quipped Hector.

  Vero finished her salad and lit a cigarette.

  “Is that all you want, my darling? A salad will not get you through the day.” said Hector.

  “A salad, a glass of wine and a cigarette are all I need, right now. That is how the women of Paris keep their figures, as well as their admirers!”

  “I can remember the days when you used to eat like a horse!”

  “True, but if I still did eat like a horse, I would probably look like one, and you would not want that, would you, my darling?”

  “A horse is certainly easier to control . . .”

  “Darling, in twenty five years, you have never broken me! If I was not your wild mare, think how dull our lives would be!” Her eyes twinkled.

  Hector grinned at his wife and turned to Ben.

  “She is right – this lady was a live wire when I met her and things have not changed a great deal since. I tell you, the day I first saw her, she nearly caused a fight at the local hockey match. I warn you, she is deadly with that hockey stick!”

  “And more things, besides!”

  “So get yourself on the four o'clock train on Saturday afternoon. I will be at the station. But you can leave your hockey stick at home.”

  The trio finished their meal and with the weekend beckoning, bid each other farewell. After a week of largely English experiences in Argentina, the time was coming for an excursion of a more local nature.

   

   

  Chapter Twelve - It Takes Four to Tango

  Ben's train set off from Once Station for hi
s first journey out of Buenos Aires' urban sprawl, heading for Mercedes, on the cusp of the Pampas, but it took a while to leave the metropolis behind: the huge engine works, the football ground, poor folk by the tracks who were looking for something, all caught his eye.

  There were more engine sheds before the train pulled in to a new station. At first, Ben could not see the name of it, but then saw a sign that read 'Caballeros'. Ah, he thought, 'That's the Spanish word for 'Men'. How strange to have a station with that name.' He then realised that it was the sign for the gentleman's toilet and within an instant saw that the station was actually called Moron. Aware that he was now a caballero who had literally found his station, he allowed himself a little smile and the train rolled on.

  Despite the language difference, this was still largely a very British railway experience. The engine, the coaches and their upholstery, the stations with their sensible stone and brick architecture, were all transplanted from familiar places. Looking around him, he could see details such as door handles and ashtrays, and the wood finishing on the window frames, that he had witnessed being put in place at the works in Derby.

  What Ben had never seen before were the hawkers and traders who wandered up and down the coaches, plying their small goods from cardboard boxes and suitcases. One middle aged lady made her way along the corridor, opining the virtues of a brand of cigarettes. Following behind was a young girl of about nine years old, with a full box of said tobacco product. The older lady made plenty of eye contact and looked for a sale – there were plenty of takers. The girl dropped a packet on to Ben's lap. What was this, he thought? A free sample? Compliments of the company? He placed them to the empty seat beside him and looked out of the window – besides, he had never had the money to spare to take up smoking. Yet he need not have worried. After working the coach, the older lady returned to see if Ben and others who had been left a packet were keen on taking up the offer. All unwanted goods were duly collected and taken on to the next coach, where other eager smokers could continue their addiction for a bargain price.

  Halfway there, he had to change trains at Moreno. As he waited on the open platform, he could see across the street to the Plaza Mayor, in which a small marching drum band was preparing for some forthcoming attraction. One drummer warmed up with particular zeal, with no hint of care for any peace that he might have been disturbing.