by Joan Lingard
‘Got a lollipop for us?’ asked the guard who had eyed her and he made a slurping sound.
Averting her eyes, she forced herself to walk past them, annoyed that they had the power to spoil even the small pleasure that buying the loquats had given her. As she entered the house, she heard a familiar voice. They had a visitor.
‘Sofia!’ She put down the loquats and went forward to embrace her. She had seen Sofia only rarely since leaving Almuñecar. She had come to visit them shortly after Concepción’s birth and two or three other times since. ‘Your legs, how are they?’
‘They don’t look good but they’re still bearing me up. I thought it was time I saw your child again. Miguel gave me a lift. Arrieta tells me the little Concepción is well?’
‘She is! Where is she now, Arrieta?’
‘Down on the beach below the Balcón, with the other children.’
‘I have a letter for you, Encarnita,’ said Sofia, taking it out of her bag. ‘It came to my house a little while ago but I thought I’d wait and bring it to you.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Arrieta, lifting an envelope from the dresser. ‘You had one in the post this morning too.’
‘Two letters!’ Encarnita took them both into her hands. One bore a Spanish stamp, the other a British one. Her heart was racing so fast that she had to put a hand to it to try to still it.
‘Open them, then!’ said Sofia. The sisters never received letters themselves, since neither could read nor write.
Encarnita slit open the British one first and lifted out a sheet of thick white paper. Her eye went straight to the signature. It was not from Conal.
‘Bad news?’ asked Arrieta.
‘I don’t know.’ Encarnita frowned.
‘Who is it from?’
Encarnita looked at the signature. ‘Frank Osborne,’ she said, trying the unfamiliar name on her tongue. ‘It’s in English.’ She read the letter slowly, translating it haltingly into Spanish as she went along. Frank Osborne said that he was writing to all the friends of his aunt, Miss Hermione Osborne, listed in her address book, to inform them of her death. She had been caught in an air raid on London and after some time had died of her injuries.
‘Poor Miss Osborne!’
‘May God keep her!’ said Sofia, crossing herself. ‘She was good to you in the hotel, wasn’t she?’
Encarnita nodded. It had always been part of her plan to go to London first on her journey, and visit Miss Osborne. But that was not to be. She opened the other letter. It was from her friend Luisa. They had exchanged a couple of letters since Encarnita had come to Nerja.
Luisa was still living in the campo outside Yegen, in her childhood home. She was married to a man called Diego, whom Encarnita had known to see in passing, a surly looking fellow, or so she had always thought. The couple inhabited the house with their two young sons, as well as three of Luisa’s siblings and her mother.
Luisa wrote that her mother’s health was poor and Diego had hurt his leg and could not work so she herself was working in the fields. Two of her brothers were causing trouble, getting drunk and into brawls. Luisa feared that they would end badly. Like their father, thought Encarnita. She hoped that Diego was not like him, too.
‘Your friend is well?’ asked Arrieta.
‘Her life is not easy.’
‘Which woman’s life is?’ asked Sofia.
‘Mine is easier than Luisa’s,’ said Encarnita, smiling and touching Arrieta on the shoulder.
At the end of Luisa’s letter there was news of the sisters Maria and Rosario, the housekeepers of Don Geraldo. They had stayed on in Churriana. Antonio, Rosario’s husband, had been entrusted to rent out the house as best he could and to use the rent money to pay taxes and keep what was left over for his own family. They were hoping that Don Geraldo and Doña Gamel would return once the war in Europe was over.
‘The war’s over now.’ Encarnita folded up the letter. ‘Señor Quintana told me.’
The older women were not much interested. They had had enough of wars and that particular one had not touched them, for which they were thankful.
‘Go and find your daughter!’ said Sofia. ‘I want to see her! Tell her I’ve made a little doll for her.’
Encarnita went down to the beach to fetch Concepción. When Encarnita herself was a child she had played amongst trees and flowers where multi-coloured butterflies had whirred and insects buzzed. Her feet had kicked up dirt and enjoyed the softness of damp grass. She had picked wild flowers though had never let her fingers even graze the paper-thin red poppies. She had drunk in the smells of lavender, rosemary and thyme and watched lizards snaking over stones and birds soaring overhead. Her daughter’s childhood was different: Concepción played on gritty sand and in the waters of the Mediterranean sea and knew nothing of plants that grew in the earth. She was running now, in and out of the waves, her shift clinging to her slim body, her red-gold hair shining in the sunlight. Until she was three years old she had worn bonnets fashioned by Arrieta but now she refused to have her head covered and tossed her curls so that they floated freely in the air. Their neighbours, used to her different colouring, scarcely noticed it. In summer, her mother worried about the paleness of her skin which burned easily in the fierce rays of the sun.
Encarnita plunged into the sea to join her daughter, enjoying the cool freshness of the water as it broke over her body. She did not venture far from the shore since she could not swim. Most of the children were able to float with ease on their backs or else they floundered around on their stomachs, thrashing their arms about, showing no trace of fear. They shrieked and laughed. The older boys swam far out, their lithe brown bodies twisting and turning as they dived into the waves and resurfaced, moments later, shaking the drops from their sleek heads.
‘We have a visitor,’ Encarnita shouted to her daughter above the sound of the sea. ‘Sofia, Arrieta’s sister. She has brought you a present.’ She held out her hand for Concepción to take.
They were almost dry by the time they made their way up the steep steps from the beach and across the Balcón. The streets were busy now with carts and donkeys coming back in from the campo. An ox-cart cart had overturned and dumped its load on the ground at the entrance of Calle Generalissimo Franco, causing a furore and much shouting on behalf of other carters who were unable to pass. A municipal guard was trying to sort the problem out. The Guardia Municipal was under the control of the mayor instead of the state and was not feared in the same way as the Guardia Civil. Encarnita knew this guard, Eduardo. She was friendly with his wife, who had a crippled leg and struggled to look after their seven children.
The two civil guards she’d seen earlier were still around and she would have to pass them again. The guard she’d taken an instant dislike to was looking at Concepción and frowning. A stab of fear pierced her heart. He was leaving his companion and coming towards them.
‘Can I see your papers?’ He lifted the hand from his pistol and held it out.
‘I have them in our house.’
‘You don’t carry them?’
‘I was bathing in the sea and didn’t want to get them wet.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Calle Carabeo. Just round the corner.’
‘Right, let’s go!’
‘What is it, Mama?’ asked Concepción.
‘Nothing, love,’ said Encarnita, taking a firm hold of her hand and leading her along the street, with their bodyguard following on behind. When they reached Arrieta’s house she told Concepción to go inside, but the guard intervened.
‘No, let her be. I want to see her papers, too. You go in and fetch them.’
Encarnita briefly told the sisters what was happening, then she took their papers from a drawer and returned to the street. Concepción was standing by the door looking frightened.
Encarnita handed over the papers.
‘So you were born in Yegen? A God-forsaken place that is. I was once there.’
Encarnita said noth
ing.
‘And the child, she was born in Nerja, I see?’
‘In this house.’
‘It does not state who her father is.’
‘No.’ Encarnita felt the heat creeping up her face into the very roots of her hair.
‘It was like that, was it? Father unknown?’ The officer sniggered. ‘Where do you work? In the street?’
‘No. I work for Señor and Señora Portales.’
That caused him more amusement. ‘I see. Friendly with the señor, are you?’ He studied the top of Concepción’s head. ‘Don’t see many children round here with that colour hair.’
‘I think it is more common in the north.’
‘What, the Asturias? Galicia?’
She raised a shoulder in a half-shrug.
‘You have the look of the gypsy in you. Half of them up in the Alpujarra are, aren’t they? Live in caves like animals.’
Again, Encarnita made no response.
He shoved the papers back at her, wheeled about and marched off down the street.
‘Why do I not have a papa?’ asked Concepción.
‘You do. But I can’t tell you anything about him now. One day I will.’
‘When we go on our journey?’
‘Yes, that will be the time.’ Encarnita put away a few pesetas weekly from her paltry earnings. Concepción loved to help count it and each time would ask how much more would they need to have before they could go. ‘Come on,’ said her mother, ‘let’s go inside. Sofia is eager to see you.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Arrieta anxiously, as they came in. Encarnita closed the door behind them even though it was hot in the room, with the fire blazing. Arrieta was cooking patatas a lo pobre. The smell was mouth-watering.
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Encarnita.
Concepción, who scarcely remembered Arrieta’s sister, stood back shyly, but when Sofia opened her arms she went into them.
‘Come, little one, sit on my lap. See what I have for you!’ From her pocket Sofia produced a rag doll with yellow wool hair and a red and white striped dress. Concepción was delighted.
‘What a lucky girl,’ said Arrieta.
Encarnita found it difficult to fall asleep that night. It was very hot with four of them in the bed. She and Concepción were lying head to toe with the two sisters, both of whom were on their backs and snoring. After a while she got up and went out into the garden. The night air was welcome after the heavy atmosphere inside the house. Somewhere, close by, a jasmine tree was sending out its powerful scent, and an almost-full moon was lighting up the sea, highlighting the ripples. She thought she saw a boat out there. Yes, she was sure there was one, just faintly discernible. Her eyes were sharp. Her mother used to say she was born with eyes that could see to the other end of the world. The boat was showing no lights. Smugglers, probably. As she watched she saw something dark come cutting through the waves towards the shore. A dog. The smugglers used dogs to bring in their contraband; they strapped it in water-proof pouches on their backs.
She went to the edge of the garden and looked down into the beach, immediately drawing her head back. Two civil guards were passing below. Their headgear was unmistakable. Being high up, she had a better vantage point than they did. They might not be able to see the dog who, having spotted them, was lying low in the shallows. As soon as they had gone the dog streaked out of the water and raced off down the beach in the opposite direction. Encarnita smiled.
‘Mama!’ The cry came more as a scream. ‘Mama! Where are you, Mama?’
Encarnita hurried back into the house. The two women were awake and Arrieta was trying to comfort Concepción, who wanted only her mother. Encarnita gathered her up and carried her out into the fresh air.
‘It’s all right, my love,’ she said, rocking her as she had done when she was a baby. ‘Everything is all right. Mama would never leave you, you know that. Whatever happens, you and I will always be together.’
MAY, 1955
Encarnita was excited. She was about to make her first visit back to Yegen since leaving sixteen years before. She was taking Concepción with her and they were to stay with Luisa. Now that both Luisa’s mother and husband were dead, and her three siblings gone, there would be room for them in her house, with only herself and her four sons left. They would share the bedroom with her. The boys, who ranged in age from seventeen to five years, slept in the living room. Encarnita was not clear what had happened to their father, other than that there had been some kind of accident. The men in that family did not die natural deaths.
Over the years Encarnita had at times thought about going back to Yegen, half-wanting to go, half not, lest she stir up difficult memories, but Luisa’s letter had made up her mind. She had written to say that Don Geraldo and Doña Gamel were coming on a visit and would stay with Enrique, the brother of Maria and Rosario.
Their bag packed, the travellers were ready to go.
‘It’s a pity you can’t come with us, Arrieta,’ said Encarnita.
‘The journey would be too much for me. It’s a long way! Besides, you want to be with your friend.’
‘Come on, Mama, we’ll miss the bus!’ urged Concepción.
They were to go by bus to Almuñecar where Miguel would meet them and take them up to Órgiva.
‘Have you got the flowers for Sofia?’ asked Arrieta.
Encarnita nodded. She kissed Arrieta, told her to take care of herself while they were away and not to exert herself too much. She was having trouble with her heart.
On the way up the street they passed the house where Concepción was employed as a seamstress, something which pleased Encarnita, who regarded it as more delicate and suitable work for her daughter than scrubbing other people’s floors. The window was open and they could hear the whir of the sewing machine. There was only one machine – it was an object much admired in the village – and half a dozen girls. One used the machine while the others sewed by hand, chattering away as they did so. Concepción loved the work; she had proved to be nimble-fingered and her stitching was neat. She put her head into the window now to say ‘Hola!’ and the girls chorused in return, saying how lucky she was to have a holiday! The señora who employed them had agreed after a little persuasion from Encarnita. She was a good-natured woman who chatted and laughed with her girls and was especially fond of Concepción. ‘She has such dainty hands,’ she had said to Encarnita. ‘She is a real treasure.’ She always gave Concepción the more delicate work to do, like trimming the underwear for a bride’s trousseau. Girls, even from poor families, would save for years to buy their wedding linen. Engagements tended to be long-lasting and any magic that had existed between the couple had often worn off well before the wedding day arrived.
They stopped at one of the little shops set up in the front room of a woman’s house to buy a loaf of bread, a lump of cheese and a piece of chorizo.
‘We’re going on a journey,’ Encarnita told the woman. ‘Up to Yegen, in the Alpujarra.’
‘You’re always talking about going on a journey. So now you are actually going on one!’
‘One day we’ll go further, won’t we, Concepción?’
Concepción shrugged. She was not as interested in the idea of travelling as Encarnita had been at her age. She was happy enough in Nerja; she liked her work and she had lots of friends and admirers. Encarnita was watchful of the admirers and made sure that when Concepción went out on the paseo she walked only in the company of other girls. They flirted, of course, with words, but, as far as her mother knew, there was no physical contact except that hands might perhaps brush lightly as they passed. She was determined that her daughter should not throw herself away on an impoverished fisherman or clumsy factory worker. With her beauty and intelligence, Concepción could do much better than that. Her writing was as skilful and neat as her needlework and she had read more books than all her friends put together.
The bus was busy but Encarnita and Concepción had arrived early and managed to
get a seat at the front so that they would have a good view. Men in wide-brimmed straw hats were at work in the fields outside the village, cutting swathes through the rippling fronds of sugar cane. It was strenuous labour, hard on the hands. Some of the workers looked up at the bus and waved. Encarnita waved back, Concepción did not.
‘Francisco has managed to get a permit to work in the factory this year,’ she said. A steady procession of mules and donkeys was moving steadily westward in the direction of the sugar factory. ‘He will make good money.’
Francisco was a young fisherman who lived further along their street. He worked on a boat with his father and three brothers.
‘Only for three months,’ Encarnita pointed out. ‘It’s a short season.’
‘But better than nothing.’
Encarnita enjoyed the trip to Almuñecar. The road hugged the narrow strip of coastline, snaking around sharp bends, some so perilous that the travellers, fearing that they were about to be tipped over the edge, cried out in alarm and pleaded with the driver to take more care. He paid no attention. He went on singing. Below them, on their right-hand side, lay the sparkling, azure-coloured sea. On their left-hand side, the sierras rose steeply.
It was warm by now in the bus. Women clutching bags and baskets were headed for the market in Almuñecar. One man had a box on his knee from which a live chicken kept trying to escape. A dog belonging to another passenger was showing interest in the chicken. Encarnita’s flowers were drooping.
They arrived in La Herradura, set around the horseshoe-shaped bay which gave the pueblo its name.
‘Isn’t it beautiful, Concepción!’ exclaimed Encarnita. ‘Don’t you think the Mediterranean Sea must be one of the most beautiful seas in the whole world?’