by Joan Lingard
But Concepción was still lost in her own thoughts. Her mother did not ask what they were, knowing that she would not get an answer or, if she did, it was unlikely to be a particularly truthful one. She feared the girl was spending too much time thinking about Francisco.
More people squashed into the bus until finally the driver held up his hand. The chicken was now squawking and the dog barking and everyone was complaining about the heat. In Almuñecar they tumbled gratefully out into the open air and Encarnita led the way down to the shore.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘there’s the old hotel Mediterráneo still in business. I worked there as a girl.’
‘I know you did,’ said Concepción. ‘You told me the last time we came here.’
Encarnita lingered for a moment, remembering those days, happy days on the whole, until the war started, and wondering what had become of Jacobo and Lorenzo. She hummed Rio Rita as they moved on up the hill towards the ruined fortress. On reaching the house at the top of the street Encarnita stopped again. She could hear children’s voices. It must house a family now. She refrained from saying that that was where she used to live with her uncle Rinaldo. She felt sad when she thought about him. She had never found out what happened to him and thought that now she never would. No doubt his bones rested in some mass grave. Like many others, he seemed destined to stay a desaparecido.
They climbed up into the cemetery. The last time they had come had been to inter Sofia. At rest here, too, was the elderly couple who had sheltered Encarnita before she had left for Nerja sixteen years ago. She took a rag out of her bag and began to dust the fronts of the niches which held the remains of her dear old friend Sofia and her son Pedro.
‘It was a terrible war,’ sighed Encarnita. ‘Poor Pedro died so young. And for what?’
‘It all happened a long time ago, Mama,’ said Concepción, a trifle impatiently. She hated stories about the war and Encarnita could not blame her. The young did not want to think of that as their heritage.
Encarnita laid the flowers on the ground where they would soon wilt and then she stood for a while thinking about her old friends. Concepción was leaning against the wall, with her eyes closed against the sun. She looked so like her father that his image had remained sharp and clear for Encarnita over the years.
Concepción opened her eyes. ‘Shall we go now?’
Down at the shore, Miguel was waiting for them. His van was loaded, he was ready to take off.
Concepción sniffed. ‘Are those goats you’ve got in the back, Miguel?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They don’t smell too sweet but there’s nothing I can do about that.’
Concepción looked appealingly at her mother, who shrugged. It was either a van filled with goats or a very long walk.
The two passengers crammed into the front beside the driver, Encarnita allowing her daughter to take the seat by the window. Behind them, the goats stamped and bleated and released their pungent odours. Encarnita did not look at her daughter who had her head half hanging out of the window; she chatted to Miguel to take her mind off the smell and the jolting which she could feel travelling right up her spine into the base of her neck. Miguel drove in jaunty fashion with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. When the jolting got bad or the van swung too violently the goats became agitated. Encarnita felt anxious for the beasts but Miguel, she knew, would be unconcerned. This was his business. Some days he carried goats; on others, vegetables, which smelt better and were less trouble. He would not understand someone like herself who had regarded her goats as her companions and missed them still when she went walking in the campo.
‘I thought I was going to be sick,’ said Concepción, the moment she set her foot on the ground in Órgiva. ‘What must we smell like?’ She tugged a strand of her hair across her nose and sniffed it.
‘By the time we walk to Yegen the smell will have gone,’ her mother retorted, turning to thank Miguel and put a few pesetas into his hand. He said he could give them a lift back to Almuñecar in four days’ time, if that would be of any use? He had to bring up another delivery. Encarnita accepted gratefully.
‘I hope it won’t be goats next time,’ said Concepción, when they had waved him off. ‘I’m starving, Mama.’
They found a wall to sit on and ate some bread and sausage.
‘Is it far to Yegen?’ asked Concepción.
‘A good walk.’ Encarnita could not have said how many kilometers exactly but she did know it would take some hours to reach it by foot and the day was getting on. Also, her daughter was not as good at walking the campo as she had been as a girl, and still was. Whenever she felt restless she would turn inland from Nerja and go for a long walk.
‘Are there no buses?’ asked Concepción.
Encarnita thought that if there were they would not be frequent.
‘Couldn’t we get a lift?’
‘I don’t know anyone in Órgiva.’
‘You don’t need to know anyone. See that man over there who’s been pumping up his tyre? He looks ready to leave. I’m going to go and ask him.’
‘Concepción, come back!’
But Concepción was half way across the road, dodging an ox-cart, and was now on the other side talking to the man who stood beside a rusted grey van. It looked in even worse condition than Miguel’s but that was not what was worrying Encarnita.
Concepción returned to say they could have a lift, part way. The man was going to some place called Bubión but he could drop them on the road before he turned off.
‘We can’t take a lift from some man we don’t know.’
‘Of course we can. He doesn’t mind.’
Concepción was already on her way back to him. Encarnita could only follow.
They sat three abreast in the front again, but this time Concepción sat in the middle. It seemed to Encarnita that the man’s leg was resting disturbingly near her daughter’s but it was cramped in the van and she did not have a clear view and since there was nothing she could do about it anyway she allowed herself to enjoy the scenery. The road climbed up and up, leaving behind the wide swathes of countryside planted with fruit and olive trees; on the mountainside sprawled white houses, forming little pueblos. It all felt so familiar. Encarnita felt she was going home.
At the turn-off for Bubión and the other high villages of Pampaneira and Capileira, the driver pulled up. He glanced sideways at Concepción, who smiled at him. When she smiled her whole face lit up.
‘I could take you the rest of the way if you’d like,’ he offered. ‘I’ve got time.’
‘We can walk from here.’ Encarnita tugged at the door handle.
‘Mama, it’s kind of Alfonso.’
‘No trouble,’ said Alfonso, revving up the engine.
He took them all the way to their destination, by-passing Yegen, which lay below on the lower road. Encarnita had to make do with a glimpse of the roofs. Tomorrow, she would go and see her village.
When they arrived at Luisa’s house, Encarnita jumped out straightaway and ran to meet her friend. They held each other in a long embrace. You look just the same! You haven’t changed. They said the things that old friends do after a long separation. But Luisa had changed, physically; she looked like a woman in her mid- to late-forties, ten years older than she really was. In spite of that, it was as if the years between had not existed. Their reunion was proving to be easy; they would be able to talk to each other as they could not with anyone else. Encarnita knew she was going to tell Luisa about Concepción’s father, and that she could trust her.
‘You must meet my daughter,’ she said, looking round for her.
Concepción and Alfonso were standing together, a little way off, facing each other, with not much space between them. He was looking into her face as if he would like to devour her, reminding her of the way Don Geraldo had looked at Juliana in the beginning. Alfonso had the face of a wolf, thought Encarnita.
‘Concepción!’ she shouted, break
ing the couple’s trance.
‘I’m just coming, Mama!’ Still the girl lingered, until Encarnita made a move in her direction. Concepción murmured something to Alfonso, then drifted over to join her mother and Luisa. Encarnita wanted to tell her to walk properly and stop that silly act.
‘What a beautiful girl you have, Encarnita!’ said Luisa.
Too beautiful for her own good at times, Encarnita thought. Later, when they had a moment alone, she said to her daughter, ‘You should not encourage men the way you were doing with Alfonso.’
‘I was only flirting, Mama. There’s no harm in that. All girls like to flirt a little.’
Concepción had four more young men here with whom she could flirt. Luisa’s sons, ranging in age from seventeen down to five, buzzed about her like bees round a honeycomb. Encarnita felt there must be protection in numbers; each boy was making sure that the others did not steal a march on him and go off with her on their own.
Luisa was amused by it. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Jaime and Concepción were to marry? That would join our families together.’
‘They are very young.’ Encarnita changed the subject. ‘Have Don Geraldo and Doña Gamel arrived yet?’
‘I heard they came up from Úgijar this morning. He walked, she rode a mule. It’s their first visit back since they left Yegen. Like you.’
Don Geraldo and Doña Gamel were receiving a steady stream of visitors, old friends he had known way back from his early days in Yegen, many of whom were now white-haired and stooped. He himself was almost bald. Doña Gamel had aged but not changed greatly, in Encarnita’s opinion. She still had her rather dreamy, faraway smile.
Don Geraldo was pleased to see Encarnita and hugged her warmly. He remembered her, of course he did. How could he not! He remembered their talks about books, sitting up on the hill, and how he had started to teach her English. ‘Can you still speak some?’
‘A little. I still read the Garden of Verses.’ She did not tell him what had befallen his book about Jack Robinson.
‘That’s good. And did you ever manage to go on a journey?’
‘Only as far as Nerja.’ Over the years, at intervals, she had considered it, but every time she had scraped almost enough money together there would be some other use for it. She had paid for Sofia to have a proper funeral. Then there had been Concepción’s confirmation dress to buy and medicine for Arrieta.
Don Geraldo laughed. ‘Never mind. You’ve got time yet. What age are you now, Encarnita? I remember you as a baby in your mother’s arms.’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘I wish I could be thirty-five again! That’s young, you know.’
To her, it did not seem so very young.
She asked if he still went on journeys himself and he told her not so much as before. ‘Gamel and I are very entrenched in our Churriana house these days. We’re not inclined to leave it too often.’
‘But you’ve come back to Yegen?’
He had come to take photographs for a book he had written, based on life in Yegen as he had known it. It was to be called South From Granada. The villagers were amazed that they were about to make an appearance in a book and some wondered uneasily what he might have to say about them. It was to be published first in English and, later, he hoped it would be translated into Spanish.
‘And Miranda, your daughter,’ asked Encarnita, ‘how is Miranda?’
‘She’s well. She’s married to a French doctor and they live in Paris and they have two beautiful children, a son of three called Stefane and a daughter, Marina, born just recently, in January.’
Encarnita listened in wonder. Imagine a daughter of Juliana having such a life! She did not ask if he had seen or heard of Juliana, who was living in Granada with her ex-civil guard husband. She felt sorry for her not being able to see her daughter and beautiful grandchildren.
Don Geraldo glanced past Encarnita and saw Concepción. Luisa, who had come with them, saw how his face changed. His eyes had lit up. ‘Is this your daughter, Encarnita?’ he asked. ‘She’s a real beauty.’
Encarnita introduced them and Concepción lowered her eyes as he took her hand. He held on to it. ‘Que bonita! You will break many hearts, I fear, little one.’
But Concepción, not being so enthralled with him as he was with her – he was an old man, about sixty years old – shortly removed her hand and wandered off to rejoin Luisa’s sons, who were larking about in the street.
Don Geraldo put his back to the room. ‘Your daughter – where did you get her from? Is her father Spanish?’ When Encarnita did not answer he said, ‘I rather think he can’t be. Does he know he has this child? If he did I’m sure he’d want to give her a better chance in life. Have you never thought of that?’
‘Yes, but it’s not been possible.’ She knew that nothing would have persuaded her to part with Concepción, even if it had.
‘Some people didn’t approve of me taking Miranda to England but she’s pleased now that I did it. Think what her life would have been if she’d stayed with Juliana!’
When Encarnita repeated this to Luisa, her friend said, ‘I don’t know if Miranda’s life is all that happy. From what we’ve heard, she’s been depressed since the last baby was born. And it seems that’s not new. She’s been depressed for a long time. Imagine being taken away from your mother when you’re three years old to live in a country where you can’t understand what they’re saying! She must have spent half her life wondering about her mother. I know you’ve always admired Don Geraldo, Encarnita, but you can’t admire some of the things he’s done.’
‘That’s the same with everybody.’
‘But he still likes young girls. It can’t be very nice for a lady like Doña Gamel to be married to an old man with wandering eyes. You must have seen the way he eyed your Concepción. He could hardly keep his hands off her.’
Encarnita was tempted to say that Luisa’s sons could hardly keep their hands off Concepción, either, but did not. She knew that was different: they were young, the lads, in the springtime of their lives, with the sap rising. It was natural that they would be drawn to a young and pretty girl. She could not decide whether it was unnatural for an old man to be tempted also. She had known plenty that were. It was true that she did not like that aspect of Don Geraldo’s character, but he had opened up new worlds for her, given her books, taught her his language, put the possibility of travelling into her head, and she was grateful for all of that. She might not have travelled much yet but she had made many journeys inside her head.
Now she wanted to explore the village, to poke into every corner, meet up with her old neighbours. The houses had been whitewashed and looked neater and cleaner than before and people appeared to be a little better off, though not a great deal. Many of those she had known had gone. Black Maria was dead, having gone mad. Don Geraldo’s friend Paco, too, had died, a few months before, in Argentina. And Luisa said that quite a lot of the young people were going down to the coast to look for work.
‘Jaime would like to go. Would there be anything for him in Nerja?’
Encarnita shook her head. ‘There’s only the fishing – and you have to be born into a fishing family for that – and part-time work in the sugar cane. Like here, the cortijos round about are too small to employ people.’
Don Geraldo had said that hotels and apartments for tourists were starting to be built along the coast near where they lived on the outskirts of Málaga, in fishing villages like Torremolinos and Fuengirola. He did not care much for this new development, but locals were finding jobs there, so he supposed that was one benefit, as long as it did not get out of hand.
‘Not too many tourists come to Nerja,’ Encarnita had said.
‘Wait and see! People who live in northern countries crave the sun.’
Encarnita felt at home in the village, yet she could not imagine coming back to live here again. It would hold nothing for her, except her memories and her friendship with Luisa. In Nerja, she had work, as did
Concepción, and, what was even more important, they had Arrieta, who was like a mother and grandmother to them.
She went walking again, on her own, along old familiar paths, and afterwards went into the graveyard but stayed only briefly for the broken-down walls and sad looking mounds, one of which covered her mother, disturbed her. The church was more calming. She lit a candle for Pilar and said a prayer.
She spent hours, too, talking to Luisa. She told her about her Scotsman and swore her to secrecy, not that it might matter so much now, with the Civil War sixteen years behind them. In return, Luisa talked about her feelings for her father. She spoke bitterly of him. ‘I was glad when he died. The priest said it was a terrible sin that I should feel that way, but my father had committed worse sins himself.’
Encarnita did not tell Luisa about her father’s visit to her in the night; there was no point in it now. She had left it behind. Too much had happened in her life since then for it to be important any longer.
The young ones roamed the countryside and, although Encarnita had other preoccupations, she noticed that Concepción and Jaime were often managing to lose the three younger boys. Concepción’s laughter could be heard like the song of a lark rising. Luisa said not to worry about them, they were just young and high-spirited, and Jaime was a good lad who would know not to go too far.
On the last evening of their visit, Encarnita went outside to smell the air and look at the stars. She heard noises coming from the shed. She crossed the grass noiselessly and pushed open the door to see the bodies of Concepción and Jaime locked together on the straw-strewn floor. The family goat stood behind them, showing no interest.
1970
Luisa had come to visit her grandchildren. Encarnita thought her lucky that she saw them only for twice-yearly visits after which she could go home to the peace and quiet of her own house in the Alpujarra. All her sons had left home, and the two who had married were living with their wives’ families. It was one benefit of having sons. Daughters tended to stay close to their mothers. Perhaps Concepción would benefit eventually once her sons were grown. There were five of them, ranging from fourteen years down to fifteen months. Mario, the youngest, and eight-year old Felipe had their mother’s colouring and were finer-boned; they stood out from the rest. Shy, sensitive Felipe was his grandmother’s favourite. He liked books and was quick to learn. The two eldest, Juan and Antonio, ran wild. They stayed away from school, stole cigarettes and lounged down on the beach smoking them. Their father, who was fond enough of the boys, did little to control them but, then, he was no better himself, so what could you expect? Concepción had fulfilled her mother’s worst fears: she had thrown herself well and truly away.