Encarnita's Journey

by Joan Lingard

  The two women set to to clean the kitchen and Encarnita was given a rag so that she could dust surfaces within her reach. She wiped each ledge carefully since the lady who wrote stories sounded as if she would be very particular.

  From the stair came the sound of scurrying footsteps and Juliana, the daughter of Isabel, who had been present at Encarnita’s birth, burst into the room to cry out the news that the visitors were approaching. They’d been spotted on the lower path. Pilar and Encarnita left at once and hastened after Juliana out into the street. A few of the neighbours had already gathered.

  ‘I hope Señor Lobo doesn’t have piles, the way Señor Perdiz did,’ said Pilar. ‘Perhaps all the men from their country suffer from them.’

  ‘Don Geraldo rides a mule without trouble,’ someone pointed out. ‘He sits easily on a mule or a horse.’

  Juliana wondered if the lady would be wearing a silk or a satin dress, but Pilar thought neither. Not when riding a mule.

  Juliana, a plump nine year-old, had frizzled hair and slanting, rather sleepy eyes, but she was cheerful and good fun and Encarnita liked her. Juliana often took her along when she was going out into the campo to gather asparagus or fennel. Her family lived in Casa Narisco, the last house in the village, a poor affair in a state similar to Encarnita’s own. Juliana’s father had died in a mining accident in Linares leaving her mother to raise eight children.

  They did not have long to wait. First came Don Geraldo, followed by the lady and then her husband. They were all on mule-back and none were showing signs of being in agony, so they concluded that the gentleman could not have piles after all. He wore a tweed suit and between his clenched teeth held an unlit pipe. Encarnita’s eyes were drawn, however, to the lady’s buttoned shoes, which were level with her eyes. She wiped the back of one bare foot against the calf of the other, hoping to scuff away some of the dirt, whilst wishing that she could have shoes made of such fine leather. In the village most people wore alpargatas, rope-soled shoes.

  The muleteers helped the riders to descend and Encarnita’s eyes followed the lady’s feet until they touched the ground. Then, slowly, she began to inch towards them. She paused for a moment. High above her head the visitors were talking with Don Geraldo in their strange tongue, paying no attention to her. Stretching out a hand Encarnita touched the nearest shoe, with just one finger. The leather felt as smooth and as soft as the inside of her own arm. She let her finger slide right round the tip of the shoe, leaving a snail’s trail in the dust that had gathered during the ride. When she encountered the bump made by the lady’s big toe she stopped and looked up. The lady was looking down at her.

  ‘Encarnita!’ cried Pilar, scandalised, rushing forward to haul her back. She had not noticed what the child had been doing, she had been too busy looking at the lady’s face, such a different kind of face to the women’s faces in their village, which tended to be broader and squarer. This face was rather long, and the eyes were neither brown nor black, but an unusual shade of grey, and huge. And they were, at this moment, solemnly contemplating her daughter.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Don Geraldo, putting out a hand to bar Pilar’s way. ‘The señora says she does not mind.’

  But it was obvious that Pilar did. Encarnita could see that she did when she glanced up. Her mother was frowning and scratching the flea bites on her waist. Encarnita’s eyes were drawn back, though, to the shoes. All the onlookers were now watching her as she squatted on the ground stroking the foreign señora’s foot and some of the children were sniggering. The two Englishmen were looking on, amused.

  Don Geraldo then announced that they would have to be going inside; his guests were tired after their long ride and needed to rest. He cleared a passage so that he could escort them into the house.

  Encarnita released the señora’s foot and the señora smiled at her, again rather gravely, but not unkindly. Her husband tipped his head to acknowledge the crowd and stood back to let her enter the house before him. Another gentleman, obviously. Encarnita watched the señora’s shoes until they were gone from sight and the door of the house had closed. She wished she could go with them, through the barn and up the stairs into the house and see what the lady was wearing under her long coat and what food she liked to eat. Maria would tell them everything in due course but that would not be the same as seeing for herself. Perhaps, when she was grown up, she could get a job working in a house like Don Geraldo’s.

  ‘They have such good manners, the Englishmen,’ observed Maxima. ‘They are different from our men. Ours would have gone barging ahead.’

  ‘The lady, too, was nice,’ said Pilar. ‘She wasn’t cross at all. But you shouldn’t have done that, Encarnita! I don’t know why Maria thinks Don Geraldo is nervous about them coming.’

  When Maria had a chance to report she was able to tell them that these particular visitors were pleased with everything! They ate the food and didn’t complain, they were amused by the toilet arrangements and admired the view from the rooftop of the house. And they liked walking on the hills.

  Juliana and Encarnita had discovered that for themselves for whenever they saw the three English people setting out from the village they followed them, keeping a safe distance behind so that they would not be seen. On a couple of occasions the foreigners did spot them and waved and the children, a little uncertainly, waved back.

  ‘Don’t tell your mama we’ve been following them,’ warned Juliana. ‘That is to be our secret.’

  Juliana loved secrets. She relayed to Encarnita bits of gossip she had overheard passing between her mother and other women and Encarnita listened carefully. Paquita, the daughter of Frascillo, the mason, was mad. The priest, Don Horacio, visited the baker’s wife when the baker was not there. Don Horacio came to see them, said Encarnita.

  ‘But he is in love with her,’ said Juliana triumphantly. She liked to talk about love. ‘Paquita is in love with all the men in the village, especially when she has her mad fits. Then she is like the animals. Her father cannot stop her so he has to take her into his own bed.’

  Since many of the children slept alongside their parents Encarnita did not see that there was anything strange about that.

  The next time they saw the English visitors they were down by the stream where the women did their washing. Encarnita and Juliana were helping Pilar. Don Geraldo and his two friends stood and watched as if they had never seen women doing their laundry before. The women knelt on the bank and pummelled their clothes, their shoulders and forearms working vigorously, amid much rinsing and splashing and chatter. Today, with the visitors watching, their tongues dried and they concentrated on their work.

  ‘The señora would like to know what you’re using to make the paste,’ said Don Geraldo, bending over Pilar. ‘She is interested in your lives.’

  ‘Wood ash,’ said Pilar, embarrassed once again in the presence of the strangers. In Don Geraldo’s house they had soap. Maria liked to brag about it. Pilar could also see that Encarnita’s eyes had strayed to the señora’s shoes and her eyes were round and wide open. She looked mesmerised, as if she might be about to make a move towards them. Pilar frowned at her and shook her head.

  ‘And does it clean the clothes?’ asked Don Geraldo.

  ‘Quite well. The sun does the rest.’

  He nodded and soon the English people wandered off.

  ‘When I grow up I will live in a house where they have soap,’ declared Juliana.

  ‘You will be lucky!’ said Pilar.

  Juliana smiled.

  I, too, will have soap, thought Encarnita. And shoes, like the lady.

  With the coming of summer Pilar was able to earn a little money working in the fields and when she helped bring in the harvest Encarnita went with her. On occasions, Don Geraldo helped too. He enjoyed the work. He joked and laughed. Encarnita liked the sound of his laughter. She roamed around the field where her mother was working, watching the men and women scything the corn. Often they sang coplas, and that she l
iked, except that they were usually sad in the end, and she wondered why that should be. Sometimes a man and a woman would disappear behind a hedge and she would hear noises similar to the ones that went on when her mother had a night visitor. There would be a lot of giggling and scuffling and then the two would emerge with blotchy faces and their clothes all over the place. They had been rutting like cats on heat, said Juliana.

  ‘Don’t wander away too far,’ cautioned Pilar, but Encarnita liked to wander.

  In September, after the harvest had been gathered in, there was a bit of excitement in the village when General Miguel Primo de Rivera proclaimed himself Dictator. He had the support of the army behind him so who was going to challenge that? The king, Alfonso XIII, was not pleased since it reduced him to playing second fiddle The villagers did not know whether it was an occasion for celebration or not. The previous regime had been corrupt, as most regimes appeared to be, a fact they took for granted. Would this one be any less so? Justice and equality were words that held little meaning. Pilar and Encarnita hovered in the plaza listening to what the men had to say. Some argued that the general, being an Andalus himself, from Jerez, would understand the problems of the south better. At least he was saying that he wanted to improve the condition of the poor. And Andalucía was one of the poorest provinces in the country. Few believed, though, that the landowners would give the general their support. They were too greedy. Life in the pueblo would no doubt go on in the same old way, regardless of who was in power in Madrid. The people of the pueblo were not much interested in national politics. The mayor was more important to them. It was he who sorted out disputes and recorded births, marriages and deaths.

  Don Geraldo was showing little interest in what was happening in Madrid, either. His feet were itching. He packed a bag and took himself off.

  ‘He’s gone travelling again,’ said Maria.

  ‘He is lucky,’ sighed Pilar.

  ‘He thinks he might go across the sea to Morocco. He said he would go where the fancy takes him.’

  Encarnita liked the sound of that. One day, perhaps, she would be able to go where the fancy took her.

  It was quieter in the village with Don Geraldo away but when the days had shortened and the nights had become long he came back, his hair bleached and his skin tanned from the North African sun. Lamps glowed once more in the corner house and visitors returned. Señor Partridge and Carrington, the painter-woman, who were now man and wife, came for Christmas.

  The weather was unseasonably warm and so the señora chose to sleep on the roof, under the stars, something else that Maria could not understand since there was a proper bed for her in a proper room. Also, Señor Partridge did not sleep up there beside her. What was one to make of that?

  ‘Foreigners are odd,’ said Maria. ‘She might be married but she still encourages Don Geraldo. She’ll upset him before they leave, you’ll see! I don’t trust her.’

  During the day the men went out walking together while the señora drew and painted out in the open air, attracting the village children, among them Encarnita and Juliana, who would creep up behind her and stand gawping over her shoulder at the easel. When she looked round and caught sight of Encarnita a light dawned in her eyes.

  ‘Encarnita, si?’ she asked.

  ‘Si,’ said Encarnita.

  ‘You were just a baby when I saw you last but I recognised you by your eyes! You have such a grown-up look for a small child.’

  One day, Encarnita and Juliana saw Don Geraldo carrying Señora Partridge’s painting materials out onto the hill for her. They followed at a distance. It would be nice to have a man to do things like that for you, said Juliana, an Englishman like Don Geraldo. Spanish men did not do such things. After Don Geraldo had set up the easel he turned to look at the señora and in the next minute he had her in his arms and they were kissing. The girls squatted behind a bush but after a few kisses the señora pulled away and Don Geraldo made his way back down to the village, his shoulders drooping.

  ‘He looks sad,’ sighed Juliana. ‘He must be in love with her.’

  Maria said that at times the atmosphere in the house crackled as if an electric storm was brewing, but the thunder and lightning never arrived to clear the air.

  Don Geraldo decided to give a dance. He loved holding dances to which he invited the villagers. They came willingly, especially the girls, who sat beside their mothers casting demure glances at the young males from beneath their long dark eyelashes. Pilar took Encarnita, who liked clapping in time to the music. Don Geraldo plied the gypsy guitarists with anis, which helped to keep their fingers strumming.

  ‘Don Geraldo gives good dances,’ said Pilar. ‘The best in the village. See, Encarnita, how the English visitors are enjoying themselves.’

  Señor and Señora Partridge appeared to be, at least in the beginning. They smiled as they glanced around the room. But as the evening went on it became obvious that there was a certain amount of tension between the two Englishmen. The Partridges danced together. Don Geraldo watched. He never danced himself.

  ‘I don’t know why they don’t go out into the yard and sort it out, like men do,’ said Maria.

  A knot of men had just come in; they would have been drinking in the bar. Jaime was amongst them. He ignored Pilar at first, then he came shuffling over and stood in front of her without saying a word. She stood up.

  ‘You stay with Juliana,’ she told Encarnita.

  The children watched from the sidelines as the couple edged onto the floor. They danced sedately and without saying a word, as did most of the other dancers. Maria was different; she liked to fling herself about, wave her arms in the air and make her body writhe like a snake. Some said she went a bit crazed in the head when she danced.

  Juliana sighed. ‘One day we will dance.’

  ‘Why can’t we dance now?’

  ‘Chicas don’t dance together! Encarnita, do you think your mother is in love with Jaime?’

  Encarnita did not answer since she did not know. Sometimes her mother would say, ‘Jaime is kind. Look, he has brought us some eggs!’ Was that what Juliana meant?

  Pilar and Jaime disappeared for a while later on. Encarnita was anxious.

  ‘They’ll come back,’ said Juliana. ‘I expect they’ve just gone out to the yard.’

  They came back separately into the room. No one except the two children had noticed their absence for now the whole house was teeming with people. Don Geraldo always left the door standing open.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t go away again soon,’ said Juliana. ‘More things happen when he is here.’

  ‘I hope he stays in Yegen for ever and ever,’ said Encarnita.

  But he was restless after his guests had departed and in March he decided to make a visit to England.

  ‘Imagine,’ said Maria, ‘he is taking presents for Señora Perdiz and she a married woman now! He is actually taking four chairs. Four! And a heap of plates – why would he take plates? They’re just things to eat off. And some chintz. And he has bought her a beautiful bodice made of brocade. He is going to take all of that across the sea.’

  ‘He must love her very much,’ said Pilar wistfully and Encarnita looked anxiously at her mother.

  Maria sniffed.

  ‘Can’t they buy those things in England?’ asked Juliana.

  ‘What is England?’ asked Encarnita. She was always hearing the name, yet could not picture it. Her mother said she would ask the schoolteacher to show her on the globe in her classroom and when she did Encarnita was baffled to see that it was just a little patch on the round sphere of the world whereas Spain, where the teacher said they lived, was much bigger.

  Pilar went with Encarnita and Juliana to see Don Geraldo setting off. They loved to watch arrivals and departures, though the former, of course, were what they preferred. There was always a feeling of emptiness after they’d called out their good-byes. Hasta pronto! But would they see him soon?

  It was chilly on that March morning as the
y stood in the street watching the cart being loaded up outside Don Geraldo’s house. Maria fussed over the packing, clicking her tongue at the carter when he wasn’t careful enough and warning him not to drop the parcel of plates.

  ‘He doesn’t want to arrive in England with them in a thousand bits!’

  Don Geraldo emerged in his best clothes, his cravat neatly tied and the gold pin in place. He was ready to depart.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he promised the little group that had come to wave him off. ‘Take good care of the house for me, Maria.’

  But he was not to return for five years, by which time many things in the village would have changed.

  1929

  Don Geraldo would come back in May to find that five cherry trees had been planted in the plaza by order of General Miguel Primo de Rivera. His dictatorship, which had been relatively popular for the first three years, had, in the last three, been running into trouble. His plans for the poor, as expected, had come to nothing. His health was now failing and rumour had it that he was drinking nightly in the bars and cafés of Madrid. When he was heard issuing decrees on the bar’s spluttering radio he often came over not only as garrulous but drunk. The cherry trees were seen, by those who thought about it, to be an effort on the general’s part to get back into favour with the people. But, as the labourer doing the planting had said to Encarnita while she sat on the wall to watch, a few trees would not change anything.

  ‘He’ll not last long, Rivera. None of them ever do. Nor the monarchs either. Alfonso will go the way of the rest of them.’

  ‘What way is that?’

  ‘They abdicate. The last four kings have. Good riddance, too.’

  Encarnita had heard someone call the man an anarchist though she did not know what that meant. But she thought the plaza looked the better for the cherry trees.

  What was to matter to Don Geraldo more than the unstable political situation was the fact that Don Fernando had died in his absence and Maria was under the impression that she had inherited the house and was now his landlord.