The Spanish Gardener

by A. J. Cronin

  “Well, if you’re not too long. And see you don’t catch cold. Our heavy cases have arrived. I’m going in to unpack.”

  “Oh, thank you, Father,” Nicholas exclaimed, clapping his hands. “I haven’t in the least caught cold. I’ll join you quite soon.”

  Harrington Brande turned and went indoors. Neatly arranged in the hall, three wooden boxes stood awaiting him with the lids and surplus straw already removed. Garcia, he reflected, was proving even more useful than he had hoped. He stepped to the bell-pull and summoned the man, then, alert for the safety of his greatest treasure, cast an exploratory eye upon the contents of the boxes. Ah, here it was—carefully, he withdrew from the smallest case a thick bundle of typescript bound with red tape.

  “You rang, señor?”

  Brande swung round.

  “Ah, yes, Garcia. You’ve made an excellent beginning here. Now, will you take this? Gently, please. It is the manuscript of my book.”

  The butler widened his eyes.

  “The señor is an author?”

  Flattered by the exclamation, with its overtones of adulation, Harrington Brande inclined his head.

  “For many years now I have been occupied with a considerable work … the biography of a great man.”

  “Does the señor mean himself?”

  Brande laughed, actually laughed, with pleasure.

  “Come, come, Garcia. You go a little too far. Find some strong wrapping paper and make a neat package. I want to take it to the office. Then come back and help me with my weapons.”

  “Of course, señor.”

  When the man had gone Brande stood for a minute, then moved to the nearest crate, probing amongst the contents, wondering where he should begin. But suddenly he paused, his eye caught by a cardboard folder which lay on top of the case. His face altered. A muttered exclamation broke from his lips. The packing had been done by a firm of Havre removers and from the recesses of some drawer they had brought to light a photograph he long ago had banished from his sight. It was the likeness of his wife.

  Slowly, as though it were a snake possessing the power to strike at him, he picked up the photograph and, with an expression that was strained and strangely haunted, steeled himself to look at it. Yes, there was Marion, with her pale, charming face and soft, dark eyes, her sensuous lips parted in that shadowy smile which had always baffled him. Still holding the photograph, he sat down broodingly in the window alcove, thinking of that first fateful evening when he had met her.

  It was some ten years before at Bowdoin College, whither he had gone while on long leave from Washington to deliver a lecture to a student’s society. At the reception which followed he had observed, standing near the door, this pale, rather thin girl, dressed in black—it appeared she was in mourning for her mother—and immediately a sensation had possessed him, an overflowing emotion which, in all his exact dealings with the other sex, he had never known before. He had had himself introduced, made guarded inquiries, discovered that she was poor, that her father, a superannuated university professor, lay ill of an incurable complaint in most indifferent lodgings in the town.

  He then decided on a Maine vacation, found a good hotel in the vicinity and, in the most helpful manner imaginable, pressed his suit, not with much success, yet with a kind of precise tenacity. She told him she did not wish to marry. Twice she refused him, and though he went away, sore and rather sullen, for a month or two, still he came back, drawn by his passion and the steady ripening of her beauty. That winter, in February, her father died and she was alone. The opportunity was too favourable to miss. On the afternoon of the funeral, when she sat, solitary, silent, and wretched, watching the rain roll down the window panes, when her rented room, the slush and snow outside—when, indeed, all the circumstances of her life seemed more than usually dreary, she had, with a strange passive look, yielded and accepted him.

  And then, what had happened? God knew that he had done his utmost to prove his love—no one could have been more devoted. He was still stationed in Washington, his prospects were bright, their hotel apartment was agreeable. To the fullest extent of his means, he surrounded her with comfort, chose books and flowers for her, planned her entertainment, advised her on what people they should know, even helped her to select her dresses. He was with her everywhere, at all times—even at public functions, which he pressed her to attend, he was always at her side. And when they perforce were briefly separated, at dinner, or in the crowded reception rooms, he followed her with a deep, possessive yearning, careless of who should see how desirable, how necessary she had become to him.

  She was more silent than he could have believed, and indeed these silences grew, but as he liked to talk that did not distress him. Occasionally, when at some length he had impressed upon her his point of view, in politics perhaps, or art, or, say, personal hygiene, the look in her eyes made him uncomfortable, and her shadowy smile was always baffling. But never, never could he have anticipated that evening, some months after the birth of their child, when, with colourless face and nervously averted gaze, she had asked for a separate room. It rankled still, with the bitterness of a long-inflicted injury.

  “Why?” he had stammered with a livid face. “Aren’t you my wife?”

  She answered in a voice so low it was almost inaudible:

  “Sometimes I should like to belong a little to myself.”

  Of course, he had not consented. She was his lawful helpmate and he had his rights. But he had sensed then, for the first time, her aversion to him, a strange and incredible antipathy, a barrier which grew, despite his efforts to break it down, to possess her completely, bodily and spiritually, as his own.

  He was a virile man, capable surely of compelling desire, of fulfilling his part in the world of the senses. Yet how often, balanced upon the moment of final fulfilment, would he emerge suddenly from his own pleasure, shocked by the frightful knowledge that he was alone, that she lay with clenched teeth, rigid and motionless as a corpse, cast there by some icy sea.

  Although in his heart he knew it to be absurd, he had been goaded to suspect that she must have a lover, had watched her jealously, had gone so far—was he not her husband?—as to set an agent to spy upon her movements. All to no purpose. Could it be, simply, that she detested him?

  Then he had been transferred to Europe and the steady succession of his ‘moves’ had taken them to Stuttgart, Liege, Ancona … places which, he told her bitterly, any normal, loving woman would have found attractive in his company. Was she pining for her homeland? The thought helped him at times, salvaged in some degree his wounded pride. And when he was granted an extra leave he took her, and Nicholas, now aged three, back to America. Alas! it was there that he received the final blow. One day she had come into the rented New York apartment and, with faintly hollowed cheeks and drooping head, had said that, for the time being, she must leave him. The strain of their life together had broken her nerve—she must be alone, for some months, to readjust herself.

  He had felt himself turn cold, sick with a longing to crush her brutally in his arms. Sweeping aside her pleading, he had delivered his ultimatum coldly:

  “If you go, I’ll not take you back. With me it’s all or nothing.”

  She made no reply. But he could still see her shadowy eyes, holding the eternal enigma which had always tortured him. He went on, biting his lip until it bled:

  “You’ll have no money, no position. And no hand, none, in bringing up our child.”

  “Have I got that now?” she answered sadly and, turning, went slowly from the room.

  Here, in the embrasure of this Spanish house, with his head buried in his hands, he could still see her slender, swaying figure, dressed in grey, could still breathe in the warmth and perfume of her presence. Well, she was gone, completely eradicated from his life. When last, indirectly, he had heard of her she was rooming in a woman’s boarding-house in New York, working—for a pittance, he presumed—in a communal welfare centre. So be it, then. At least he h
ad what she had not, their son. All that love which she had spurned was now transferred, lavished upon Nicholas. He adored the boy, he would not deny it, and he would cherish him, hold him close to his heart, always … always.

  For long moments he remained there, bowed and brooding, the lines of his face drawn back in hungry longing, his lips twisted in something like a sneer. Suddenly there came the sound of laughter from without. Recalled, he raised his head, gazed heavily through the window, perceived José and his son, carrying the watering can along the garden path together, sharing a joke which apparently amused them both.

  The Consul’s cheek twitched as though, unexpectedly, he had suffered another wound. Abruptly he rose, went to the door and, controlling his voice, called out:

  “Nicholas, come in, my dear. Come in at once.”

  Chapter Four

  It was ten o’clock on Sunday morning, some three weeks later, and the Consul sat restfully at breakfast with his son in the sunlit alcove of the dining-room. Outside, the spring, exquisite as a bride, was unfolding a day so lovely that little Nicholas had longed to take his toast and honey on the open veranda. But his father, wary of the early deceitful air, had chidingly shaken his head. Instead, he had ordered Garcia to set a small table by the window. Here, at least, the boy could view the bright flashing of the scarlet tanagers amongst the mimosa shrubs and hear the tender, far-off pealing of the church bells.

  “Father.” From time to time Nicholas had been glancing at the Consul who, in his most favourable humour, was now agreeably occupied with a light Larranaga cigar and his two-day-old copy of the Echo de Paris—he judged only this journal worth his attention and had his friend Halevy send him a copy once a week. “ Father, I should like so much to go to the pelota game this afternoon.”

  Slowly the Consul lowered his paper.

  “The pelota game.” He repeated without comprehension.

  “Yes, Father.” The blood had rushed into the small boy’s cheeks, but he summoned his courage and went on: “ It is a kind of handball which they play here. Very fast and exciting. All the towns on Costa Brava are in the league. And to-day Huesca, the champions, are meeting San Jorge.”

  Harrington Brande was gazing in amazement at his son’s eager face. Gradually his expression relaxed.

  “Well, well!” he exclaimed mildly. “So Garcia has been talking to you. What nonsense goes on here when I’m at the office! Tell me, where and when is this famous game to take place?”

  “At the Recreo, Father,” Nicholas breathed, not daring to confess that Garcia was not his informant. “ Four o’clock this afternoon. Oh do let us go.”

  The suspicion of a smile hovered about the Consul’s mobile lips. It gratified him that his dear child should voluntarily seek out his companionship.

  “Well.” He appeared to consider. “ If you take your tonic now … finish your Spanish composition … and rest for an hour after lunch, then we shall see.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Father.” Nicholas jumped up, delighted.

  At half-past three that afternoon the two set off, Nicholas in the highest spirits, Mr. Brande exhibiting a mood of indulgent good humour. The Consul knew nothing of sport. Once at Ancona he had thrown the first pitch at a baseball game arranged between teams drawn from visiting United States naval forces and again, some years later at Knocke, he had presented the prizes at the local sailing club’s regatta. Now, however, in an amused fashion, he subscribed to something of his son’s expectation.

  They parked the car in the Plaza, and by traversing a network of narrow streets behind the fruit market came out at the Recreo, which, Mr. Brande noted with faint misgiving, stood in a low part of the town. It was, indeed, an indifferent enclosure, fenced by a wooden paling stuck over with bills advertising the local theatre and the forthcoming April-corridas at Barcelona. Nevertheless, the Consul willingly enough permitted himself to be tugged by Nicholas to the front row of the tribuna, a backless wooden plank which faced directly on to the concrete court, where a man in shirt-sleeves with a pot of red paint, was freshening up the lines.

  They were early. Only a few youths had gathered on the top tier of benches where, with their feet up, they were smoking, chewing dried locust pods, joking loudly, and arguing in a regrettably vulgar manner. From time to time other spectators, with hands in their pockets, strolled in, mostly young men and boys who took their places at the rear and joined in the general rowdiness. The Consul reflected that at least they were some distance from these cads and had adequate space in which to avoid contact with them. But, alas! no sooner had four o’clock struck upon the Marina clock than the real aficionados broke in upon the tribuna, a crowding, chattering mass of humanity, pushing and elbowing into every available vacant space. In no time at all, the benches were packed, the aisles full of squatting human forms. A stout little man in a battered black sombrero and shiny dark suit, with half an onion in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other, squeezed himself into position beside the Consul and with a friendly grin sharpened his clasp-knife upon his boot and began noisily to eat. Small whistles broke out all over the arena, accompanied by a slow rhythmic stamping of feet and cries of “Olé … Olé … Olé.…”

  “They’ll soon start now, Father. Shall I explain about the game?” Nicholas leaned forward and pointed eagerly across the court. “You see these two walls. They’re set exactly opposite each other, about two hundred feet apart. One’s called the frontis and the other the pareo de rebote. These red lines on them show the space where the ball must strike. And the red lines on the court itself—they call it the concha—mark out the same thing. If the ball bounces outside them it’s a fault and counts a point to the other side.”

  While the Consul stared in stiff curiosity, the boy rattled on.

  “There are two players on each side, the delantaro—that’s the forward—and the zaquero, the back. Huesca play in blue shirts, San Jorge in white. The pelota—that’s the ball—is made of india-rubber, bound with yarn and covered with sheepskin, and they throw it with the cesta. The play is fast, oh, terribly fast.…”

  At this point, in sudden interruption, there came a concerted shout from the crowd and, vaulting over the barrier on the opposite side of the concrete rectangle, the four players appeared upon the court. They wore singlets and white linen trousers, and fastened to the right hand of each, by means of a glove attachment, was a kind of light wickerwork basket. As they began a swift practice knock-up against the walls, the Consul felt Nicholas grow tense beside him.

  “Now you see, Father. You see why we came. Isn’t it a surprise for you? Isn’t it splendid?”

  At first Brande did not understand but, following the child’s glowing gaze, he saw that it was fixed magnetically upon the younger of the two San Jorge players, a tall, lithe figure, moving with graceful ease about the court. It was José.

  The Consul started, lost countenance, and for a long moment remained quite motionless. In a flash of understanding the situation became clear to him—the boy’s eagerness to come to the match, his extraordinary knowledge of the game, his undreamed-of, yet unmistakable, complicity with the young gardener.

  “Look, look, Father,” Nicholas shrilled. “They’re starting now. And José’s seen us. He just waved his hand to me.”

  Out on the court the forward of the Huesca side had taken his position at the mark and amidst a sudden stillness he bounced the pelota once, then shot it hard against the wall. Dully, Harrington Brande followed the flight of the ball, as with incredible speed it flew back and forth. He was conscious of a hurt, tight feeling in his chest, which hindered his breathing, and increased his existing sense of oppression. Had they not been wedged irremovably by the mob he would have risen and led his son from this odious enclosure. Instead, although aware that he would thus intensify his hurt, the Consul glanced sideways at the boy who, poised upon the edge of the bench, quite unmindful of any discomfort, was thrillingly absorbed in the progress of the contest. With bright eye and parted lips, his sma
ll fists clenching and unclenching, he swayed and stiffened in unison with the others, muttering intent exclamations of approval or dismay, and even, from time to time, joining his high treble shamelessly to the swelling vociferations of the crowd.

  “Olé. Olé. Come on, San Jorge. Played … oh, well played, José amigo.”

  With an effort, Harrington Brande withdrew his gaze and returned it to the court. Warmed to the game, the players were now fiercely engaged in a series of long rallies, flashing the pelota against the wall from every angle of concha. It was incredible, the skill with which they caught the ball, not holding it even for an instant in the basket, before they sped it back, fast and true, like a bullet, to the mark. The sides, Brande could see, were evenly matched indeed, and the figures on the score board at this moment showed a tally of 19 all.

  Both the Huesca men were young and agile. The San Jorge back, on the other hand, was middle-aged, a short and swarthy fellow with a cropped head and bandy legs, who played with great astuteness and experience, yet whose lack of speed prevented him from covering his proper section of the court. It fell, therefore, to his partner to offset this handicap and, as the Consul watched, in gloomy averseness, José’s flowing action, the instinctive sureness of his touch, he could not but acknowledge that the youth surpassed by far the other players on the court. And with this came a sudden desire that San Jorge should be defeated in the match.

  With an expressionless face—his chill official manner—Harrington Brande began to follow closely every stroke, every point of the game. The score was now 35 to 32 in favour of the Huesca pair who, with commendable strategy, were concentrating volley after volley upon the San Jorge back. Under this relentless attack and the weight of his years, the older player was perceptibly tiring and Brande smiled grimly within himself as the local supporters began to shout, swear and shower execrations upon his grizzled head.

  “Olé … Olé.… Use thyself, Jaime. Run, old son of a dog. Come, José amigo; for the love of God save us from disgrace.”