The Spanish Gardener

by A. J. Cronin

  José’s upbringing had been hard. When his father died he was only twelve, and a few months later he was taken from school and sent to work in the fields. He had known poverty, exacting labour, the grinding anxiety of the breadwinner. All this had made him resolute and self-contained: he was no easy prey for idle fancies or tenuous emotions. Moreover, his cheerful disposition and his prowess at pelota had made him a universal favourite, given him many friends. And he had, of course, his mother, the five sisters, even old Pedro—every one of whom he dutifully loved. Yet all this was nothing beside this new, melting affection for this little boy, which, soft as a southern air, had sprung from he knew not where, filling him with tenderness, and with a strange protective pity. He could not account for it. He only knew that it made his heart sing.

  José’s mind, although alert, was not especially subtle, yet he read, clear as day, the evidence that was written upon these nervous features which flickered, even now, in sleep. The Consul’s possessive love, raising an impassable barrier between Nicholas and the world, his dread of illness that, by its fads and fussiness, had reduced the child to a state of chronic invalidism, his morbid jealousy, so exhausting to the youthful spirit, his moods and rages, inflicted continually, his stupid pride.… José instinctively surmised them all and, with his whole soul, he wished that he might free this unsuspecting victim and restore him unburdened to a natural life.

  The sun had begun to sink towards the high rim of the hills when Nicholas opened his eyes.

  “Goodness. I’ve been asleep.” He caught sight of the river and abruptly sat up. “Are we going to fish some more?”

  José directed a speculative glance towards the sky, turning to daffodil against the peaks, now colder than before, blue as the shadows upon snow.

  “I think, amigo, that it is time for us to leave.”

  “Oh, José …!”

  Smiling, José shook his head and laid his hand lightly on Nicholas’ shoulder.

  “We must go to meet the bus. Wouldn’t do to miss it. But don’t worry, Nicco. We shall come again.”

  To come again, here, to this lovely spot, with his dear friend—a radiant satisfaction came into the boy’s eyes. He jumped to his feet with an irrepressible shout.

  They wound the reels, detached the casts, and put away the tackle. They picked up their fish. Nicholas insisted on carrying his own. Then they went up the hill, together.

  Chapter Ten

  It was rather late, almost nine o’clock that evening, when Nicholas approached the Casa Breza, but so high were his spirits he felt quite undaunted by the darkness. The journey in the crowded bus had been hilarious, with much laughter and singing—high-pitched Catalan singing—filled with queer lifts and cadences, with quivering ‘arrows’ of harmony, in which, to his own surprise, he had actually joined. He had been made much of, praised for his catch, especially by the man with the long nose, who had shot nothing, and in general treated like a brave and hardy boy. Flushed with his success, he had refused José’s offer to get off the bus and escort him to the villa entrance.

  So here he was, quite alone, marching up towards the patio steps, scarcely afraid at all of the shadows which lurked and rustled in the ilex trees. The first thing he meant to do was to go into the kitchen, display his trout to Magdalena, and ask her to cook them for his breakfast. He opened the front door, then paused, confronted by the darkness of the hall. Goodness! how dark it was, like a great black cave. Magdalena had forgotten to light the crystal gasolier which hung suspended by a metal chain from the high roof. Guided by a glimmer of starlight from behind him, he advanced a few cautious paces with outstretched hands. Suddenly a start passed over all his body. In the pantry on the left he heard sounds of a violent argument, a man’s voice, dull and thickened, and a woman’s, sharp with fear—it was Garcia and Magdalena.

  He had never expected that the butler would have returned; his blood seemed to stop circulating in his veins, all his gaiety, his new assurance, was gone. He turned cautiously on tiptoe, trying to avoid the squeaky boards, when, all at once, a gust from the sea caught the front door, which still remained half open, and slammed it shut with shattering force.

  Plunged again in complete darkness, Nicholas stood stockstill, as if stunned by the reverberating echoes which crashed about the lofty hall. At the same moment a flood of light dazzled his eyes, and Garcia came out of the pantry holding up an Argand lamp. Always, for the child, there was something dismaying in that gliding figure, but now especially, magnified by the blinding glare, swaying a little as it advanced, yet planting the feet with particular care, it was more fearful than ever before. Unable to resist, Nicholas felt himself caught by the hand and drawn into the pantry where his dilated pupils focused in blurred fashion on the form of Magdalena, sullen and swollen-eyed, seated at the white enamel table, on which stood the remnants of a meal and a bottle of aguardiente, almost empty.

  “The little master has returned.” Garcia spoke with frightening slowness, using his words with that same studious care. His smooth face was pale as bone and his mouth hung down, livid as a wound. “Where has the little master been?”

  Nicholas could not find his tongue, nor could he move his terror-stricken gaze from that awful, sneering face. At last he gasped out:

  “Fishing!”

  “Fishing,” repeated the butler in an indescribable tone. “ Then where are the fish?”

  Speechless, Nicholas held out the basket which he still clutched tight in his shaking hand. Garcia took it slowly; then with a sudden jerk threw the contents upon the table. Two of the trout shot across and fell upon the floor. The third, the smallest, remained upon the enamelled surface, its spine curled up, looking somehow pitiful and mean.

  “Bah!” Garcia sneered. “That is no way to bring me fish … unclean and unprepared.”

  While Nicholas, watched, rooted with fear, the butler seized the bread knife from the platter and with a single stroke struck off the little trout’s head. A thin trickle of pink blood oozed across the white table.

  “No one will treat me like a scullion,” he exclaimed, staring at the boy. “ You understand?”

  “Yes,” stammered Nicholas, seeing that an answer was demanded of him.

  Garcia smiled, without moving his lips.

  “Why do you shiver, little master? Because you are surprised to find me here? Don’t you know I come and go exactly as I please?”

  “Oh, yes … of course,” whispered Nicholas, convulsively.

  “It is well that you agree.” The butler drew himself up in menacing fashion. “People who are against me I stamp out like an insect.”

  Magdalena, rocking herself to and fro, began groaning under her breath:

  “Be quiet, madman … be quiet … for God’s sake be quiet.”

  Garcia took no notice of her whatsoever. He was still caressing the handle of the knife. Nicholas, pale as death, could see the cloudy film slide, like dirty oil, over his opaque eyes, as in a soft voice, he repeated:

  “Like an insect.… Some day I am going to tell you of all the things I have done. I promised you before … perhaps you have forgotten. Never mind. The day will come when you will believe me. Meantime, you must not be against me. No spying or interference. You know that I never sleep.… I am always about … in the passages … watching in your room.”

  “No … no.” The terrified cry was inarticulate, it stuck in the child’s throat, hung weakly suspended in the air.

  Again the butler smiled, as though gratified, and took a slow, balanced step nearer to Nicholas. The weight of these crazy, melancholy eyes, burning in the pallid face, filled the child with horror and disgust. His very being seemed poisoned at the source. Desperately, he tried to draw back, but his body no longer obeyed him.

  “Yes,” murmured Garcia. “You are a wretched little boy. But there are many things I can teach you.… I can teach you the great mystery.” He broke off, his gaze suddenly fixed and distant, then continued, in a low tone, as though speaking to hi
mself: “The joy of forget-fulness … the sea of oblivion … those tremendous voices.…”

  With an irrepressible start, her brow contorted, Magdalena straightened herself.

  “Be silent,” she shouted hoarsely. “You drunken swine … you crazy, drunken devil.…”

  Wrenched from his dream, Garcia turned towards her and, as she made to rise, he struck her in the face with his left hand.

  It was not a hard blow, but the shock of it seemed to liberate the boy’s paralysed muscles, gave to him the power of flight. With a shrill, high whimper, which was lost in Magdalena’s wailing, he spun round and stumbled from the pantry. Up the staircase he went, falling down, picking himself up again, feeling no hurt, feeling nothing but the overpowering desire to escape.

  At last he was in his room. He banged the door shut and, with numb fingers, turned the big key. Then he shot the bolt in the door which communicated with his father’s bedroom. The shutters were already closed. Trembling all over, his heart fluttering like a bird against the cage of his ribs, he stood in the darkness, in the centre of the room. He was afraid to light the gas. He wanted only to hide. Kicking off his shoes, he crept towards the bed and, still wearing his clothes, buried himself beneath the blankets. Yet even here he could still see Garcia as he had advanced towards him, with that expression on his face which seemed to shatter his childish universe, and the stab of shame and panic that went through him was so painful it brought scalding tears to his eyes. Oh, if only José, dear José, had been there to protect him! At the thought of José he wept as he had never wept before.

  That long, that endless night, would he ever forget it? The lamentations of Magdalena, ascending from below, the shouting, bursts of louder quarrelling, the smash of a breaking bottle, laughter, unbelievable laughter, the sounds of further blows. And then the silence, the stealthy, succeeding silence, worse by far than any tumult, the silence suffused by the anguish of uncertainty, of imagined and unidentifiable movements. What, oh, what was that? Was he dreaming or awake? Had he really locked the door? He dared not move to reassure himself, but, bathed in an icy sweat which soaked his pillow, he lay there, wide-eyed and motionless, lost in a dreadful vertigo.

  At last, when hope had almost gone, he saw faint streaks of dawn beneath the shutters. Then, for a little while, he may have drowsed. When consciousness returned he lay on his side, listening again. Not a sound, not a movement stirring in the house. He found courage to get up, to open a shutter. And there—oh, relief unbelievable—he saw José in the garden, working in his singlet, hoeing the petunia bed with sane and easy strokes, the wheelbarrow and watering can beside him, in the clear golden light of another day.

  There was no need to dress. Unlocking the door, he flew downstairs, rushed out along the gravel path and hurled himself upon his friend.

  “Oh, José … José …” For a long time he could do no more than repeat that name, but gradually, in a broken manner, but without crying, he unburdened his overloaded heart.

  Seated on the wheelbarrow, José heard him without a word, not looking at him, in fact, except for a few swift, half-frowning glanees. When Nicholas had finished, he seemed to ponder for a moment; then he stood up. Through his assumed cheerfulness a harder maturity had settled upon his face.

  “You must have some food, Nicco. Wait here while I see about it.”

  He walked slowly but resolutely past the bushes to the back door, then, after only a brief interval, he returned.

  “Magdalena has made your breakfast, amigo. Do not worry about Garcia. He is still asleep.” He paused. “I shall be near.”

  For no one but José would Nicholas have reentered the house. He obeyed without a word. In the dining-room Magdalena gave him breakfast which was as usual, except that the toast was burnt. She moved with a sluggish, apathetic tread; her hair at the back was dishevelled and her face more puffy than ever. He could smell the strong taint of brandy still on her breath. She paid no heed to him at all until he had gulped down the last of his milk, then, standing by the pantry door, hands folded limply beneath her short black apron, she turned upon him her dull yet harassed eye.

  “Garcia meant no harm last night. He had taken too much aguardiente. It will not happen again.”

  He stared at her in silence.

  “You are a good boy,” she went on. “ You will not speak of it to Señor Brande.”

  “Not unless I have to,” he answered in a strained and husky voice.

  “Very well.” She shrugged listlessly. “ Now you must go and wash.”

  Nicholas went upstairs, washed hurriedly, brushed his teeth, and changed his shirt. After that, he felt better, for his skin had been stiff and grubby, yet it was a wan and wistful face which returned his gaze from the mirror above his chest of drawers. He felt, not like himself, but like a strange boy, and could not bear to remain longer in this room which, once his cherished retreat, was now altered too, spoiled by the horror of last night, stained and sinister. He ran into the garden again.

  All the forenoon he spent close beside José, scarcely talking at all, taking no interest in the work, but throwing, from time to time, across his shoulder, a quick and furtive glance towards the pantry window which stood there, in the façade of the villa, like a blank picture frame, ready to receive that smooth and hateful countenance. José did not speak much either, and it was plain, from his bent brows and compressed lips, that he was not disposed to treat the situation lightly, and was, perhaps, concerned by the personal problem which it presented. He, too, gazed occasionally towards the house.

  At one o’clock there was still no sign of the butler. When Magdalena signed that his lunch was prepared Nicholas would have preferred not to go in, but José’s expression, which seemed to demand from him an equal firmness, permitted no evasion. He noticed, however, that while he was indoors his friend remained beside the dining-room window. And, indeed, even when he rejoined him, José kept quite close to the villa, weeding the gravel circle, on his hands and knees, silent and watchful.

  At three o’clock the front door opened and Garcia came out on the portico, bare-headed, wearing only a shirt and trousers, his bare feet thrust into rope-soled alpargatas. At the sight of his enemy, Nicholas nearly jumped from his skin. The man was pallid and sullen, and looked only half awake, with bistre shadows circling his eyes, and on his brow that brand of unspeakable malevolence. Shuffling forward, he placed an arm round one of the columns of the porch and, supporting himself, drew in short gulps of air. By this time José had risen quietly to his feet and as Garcia half turned, his gaze fell upon the gardener and Nicholas.

  He did not stir, nor did José, and while they stood motionless, staring at each other, Nicholas could feel, with a tightening of all his nerves, the silent battle waged between them. For at least a minute the duel continued. Not a word was spoken. Then the butler’s eyes fell, he muttered something under his breath, spat, like a snake extruding its venom, then swung off the portico in the direction of the coach-house. A moment later Nicholas could hear him beginning to hose the car.

  The little boy turned towards his protector, but José, if he had been the victor in this contest of wills, showed little evidence of triumph. On the contrary, his forehead was furrowed, more darkly thoughtful than before. Abruptly he demanded:

  “Amigo, will your father return today?”

  “Oh, no. He won’t come till tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “Then do you wish to stay here, in the house, tonight?”

  “Oh, no, no, José. Anything but that. You don’t want me to, do you?”

  There was a pause. José looked at the ground, then at Nicholas, with that mingling of affection and perplexity.

  “It is hard for me, Nicco. I don’t like to make trouble for myself. Yet I cannot … no, I cannot leave you here with that picaro.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, José.”

  But José, for once, was not responsive; indeed, his manner was quite abrupt as he replied:

  “Enough. No
more work for today. You are coming home with me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Nicholas had no idea where José lived. It was enough that he should be with him now, walking to the town, away from Garcia and the Casa Breza. And in the swift reversal of his mood, all that he had suffered was momentarily forgotten. He chattered a little giddily, in fact, on all sorts of topics, breaking off to point to peculiar objects which caught his eye: a black-and-yellow bird, an odd flower by the roadside, the tawny sail of a barca gleaming far out in the bay. José, however, seemed occupied with his own thoughts. As they entered the Plaza, he drew up at the broad flight of steps leading to the pink stucco church.

  “Remain here a moment, Nicco.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere I do not go often.” The corner of José’s mouth lifted. “But I think it pretty smart for me to go today.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  José hesitated; then, shrugging his shoulders, he led the way with a rather bad grace up the long flight of worn, shallow steps.

  The church appeared enormous to Nicholas, filled with a lofty darkness and with a strange, musky smell. The roof swept up in painted bulges, and at the sides were many dark alcoves where candles burned and smoked. Towards one of these José advanced and, signing himself, knelt down with his head inclined in a sudden tensity of posture before a glass case, loaded with gilt hearts, in which, against a red velvet hanging, stood a beautiful little figure, half woman, half child, dressed in blue—all real clothes, Nicholas could see—with a tiny gold, jewelled crown upon her head. Only for a few seconds did José kneel, then, advancing, he dropped a coin in the box and lit a candle in the rack of red glass cups.