by Joan Lingard
Encarnita could not understand why her daughter had not been able to do something about the constant stream of babies – there had been two miscarriages as well. She had said so each time Concepción had become pregnant and Concepción had always been indignant and demanded to know what was she supposed to have done. Jaime was like a charging bull when he came home after he’d been drinking; fighting him off was not in her power. And contraception was illegal. There were ways of getting it, said her mother. ‘Try persuading Jaime to use it,’ Concepción had retorted, ‘when he’s in a mood like that.’
Jaime, unfortunately, had turned out to be cast in the same mould as his father and grandfather and Encarnita could not argue with what her daughter said. When he drank he did so copiously and then he became aggressive and got into fights. Nada cambia. Nothing changes. Encarnita could only sigh and help her daughter in whatever way she could. It pained her to see how her lovely daughter had changed; her body had become slack with childbearing and her fine, pale skin was beginning to show lines. Even the colour of her hair had faded.
They were all crammed into Arrieta’s house. Arrieta, who was now eighty years old, and Encarnita slept in the living room, so that Concepción, her husband and children could sleep in the two remaining rooms. They had no other choice. Jaime found work only occasionally and Concepción was too busy bearing children, which left Encarnita to earn the daily bread for the household.
She had a job in a tourist urbanización called Capistrano Village, on the eastern outskirts of the town, which were steadily being pushed further and further out into the campo. It was a lovely place, with little self-catering villas and apartments set in beautiful gardens where gardeners tended the flowers and watered the grass with sprinklers in dry weather and maintenance men kept the pathways neat and clean and sorted out plumbing problems for the guests. There was even a swimming pool. Encarnita loved going there. She loved the order of it, the trees and flowers, and the spaciousness. She dreamed about living in one of the villas, with bougainvillaea climbing up the wall, and a proper kitchen, fully equipped, as they described it in the tourist brochures, and a tiled bathroom fitted with one’s choice of either a bath or a shower.
She dreamed about it as she gathered up the soiled sheets and scrubbed the baths and toilets until they gleamed. She took pride in her work. It disturbed her when she found burn marks where people had laid smouldering cigarettes. She could not understand why they would want to mess up such nice things.
‘Because some of them are pigs, that’s why,’ one of the guests, a very forthright young woman, told her. She said she believed in calling a spade a spade. Her name was Morna and she had told Encarnita to call her that, though Encarnita, finding the idea a bit embarrassing, tended not to call her anything. Morna could speak Spanish, having studied it at university, and was keen to have some practice. She was interested, too, in Encarnita’s life and when she heard that Encarnita could speak a little English she offered to give her an opportunity to practise some in return.
‘We can do intercambio,’ she said with a smile. She gave Encarnita a Pocket Spanish-English dictionary.
‘To keep?’
‘To keep.’
Encarnita tucked it into her apron pocket.
She thought Morna must be not much more than twenty years old and was surprised to find that she was thirty-one, a year older than Concepción, who looked by far the elder. Encarnita was even more surprised when she discovered that the lady was Scottish.
‘I live in Edinburgh,’ said Morna, as if that would be the most common thing in the world to do.
‘Edinburgh,’ repeated Encarnita, her heart giving a leap.
‘Do you know it?’
‘No. But I would like very much to visit it one day.’
‘You must! Before I go I’ll leave you my address. We’ll keep in touch.’
First, though, Encarnita had to save and that was proving even more difficult than before, with so many in the family. Whenever she did manage to put away a few pesetas a child would need medicine or a pair of shoes and she would have to go to her box. Morna suggested selling Carrington’s drawing, which Encarnita had brought to show her, when she had shown interest in Gerald Brenan and his friends.
‘It might be worth a bit,’ said Morna. ‘Not huge amounts – it’s not as if she’s Picasso. But I think she’s reasonably well known, with her being on the fringes of the Bloomsbury Group and a friend of Lytton Strachey.’
‘Sell my picture?’ Encarnita was horrified at the suggestion. It was akin to asking her to sell a part of her life. She had saved up until she could buy a decent frame with glass to protect it from the dust. Nerja was full of dust from all the building work that was going on and then there was the sand which snaked its way up from the beach and was impossible to keep out. The picture hung on her bedroom wall where she could see it every morning when she wakened.
During her fifteen-minute walk home Encarnita considered asking Morna to make enquiries about Conal. But she was reluctant to do that. It was too private an affair. She did not like the idea of someone – especially someone who liked to call a spade a spade – confronting Conal. She could imagine Morna doing that. No, some day she would go with Concepción and try to find him. Right now it would be impossible for Concepción to go anywhere.
While she was waiting at the kerb for the lights to change a car with a GB plate came past. She looked at the driver, she always did when she saw a GB plate. He bore no resemblance to her Scotsman. Although she had not seen him for more than twenty-one years she was certain she would still recognise him. There had not been a day in which she had not thought about him. The lights changed and she was about to step out when a motor cycle came screeching round the corner. Motor cycles ridden by youths were the bane of their lives, especially since the owners neutralised the silencers to enhance the noise. This machine was tilted dangerously to the right as it rounded the curve, and clinging to the back was Diego, her eldest grandson. He was desperate to have a bike himself but Encarnita had told him that she was not going to give him money so that he could go and kill himself.
She arrived home to find that Luisa had the fire going and was cooking a stew, comprising mostly of beans, with a few chunks of chorizo thrown in to give it flavour. The males in the house all had huge appetites. Since Encarnita had been working full-time the family had been able to eat better but, even so, the boys had to fill up with masses of potatoes and bread. Sometimes the guests at Capistrano Village would give Encarnita bits and pieces that they had left over when their holiday was finished: lumps of cheese, a quarter bottle of olive oil, half a packet of rice, a lump of butter – a real luxury – and maybe even a few rashers of bacon. All offerings were gratefully received and put to good use. Better than being wasted, the guests would say, who thought it possible that the maids would not be all that well paid. Often, too, there were tips, given in money, which would be even more appreciated. Encarnita did well there for she took more trouble than some of the younger cleaners and she had a friendly disposition. If someone wanted an extra pillow she would make sure that they got it. It mattered to her that the visitors would go home having thought well of their stay in Nerja.
She also brought home discarded English newspapers and magazines: her special treats, which she saved for when there was peace in the house. While she read, taking her time, often managing only two or three paragraphs at a time, she would think that perhaps Conal might be reading these same papers and magazines.
She sat down now on the opposite side of the fire from Luisa, glad to rest her feet for a while. She was on them all day. Arrieta was dozing in her chair and the younger children had gone out with their mother. The older ones were seldom at home, except to eat. This was a good time of day to be in the house.
‘So what is new in Yegen?’ asked Encarnita.
Luisa shrugged. ‘Not much.’
‘What about Don Geraldo? Have you heard how he is?’
‘Not recently.’
‘But the English girl, Lynda, is she still with him?’
‘Oh yes, indeed.’
Doña Gamel had died two years previously of cancer, after much suffering.
It had been a terrible time for Don Geraldo, as well as, of course, for her, but he had rallied when yet another young girl had come into his life. She had moved into his house only weeks after his wife’s death.
‘But he must have known her before?’ insisted Encarnita.
‘I would think so,’ Luisa assented.
He had brought Lynda with him on a visit to Yegen in the autumn of 1968. Luisa had told the story to Encarnita before, but they enjoyed turning over the details, so mystified were they by this turn of events. Don Geraldo would never cease to be a topic of interest for them. How could he, when he had been a part of their lives over a period of some fourteen years? Also, it was comforting, in a way, to go over old gossip. Each had their own questions and responses and it did not matter that they had been rehearsed before.
‘You say she was twenty-four?
‘When they came two years ago, she was. So she would be twenty-six now.’
‘And him?’
‘Fifty years older.’
‘And she isn’t ugly or anything like that?’
‘Not at all! The opposite. The men’s heads turned as she walked down the street. She was a lovely looking, girl, tall and slim, and she had long brown hair down to her shoulders. I liked her when Don Geraldo introduced us. She had such a nice voice and good manners.’
‘So she could have other men if she wanted them?’
‘Maybe she doesn’t want them?’
‘But why would a pretty girl of twenty-four come to live with a man aged seventy-four? He is not so rich, is he?’
‘Not so very. She likes to read books. They both like to read books.’
Encarnita nodded. She was beginning to see a possibility: it might be that the girl liked the company of Don Geraldo in the way that she herself had, learning from him, benefiting from his knowledge. She might be greedy for that.
‘We’ve heard that her health is not good,’ said Luisa, stirring the pot so that the stew would not stick. ‘It seems she has a bad back and weak lungs. Doña Gamel wasn’t strong, either, of course. And Don Geraldo’s never all that well himself – all those colds and flu he keeps getting – so they can look after each other. Maybe Don Geraldo is a kind of father for her.’
But they knew that he had never seen young girls in that light.
‘He might now that he is older,’ suggested Luisa, but neither felt convinced.
It would have to remain a mystery to them, but Encarnita felt sure that, regardless of how Lynda would feel about Don Geraldo, he would have fallen in love with her. The subject was one that they would return to many times.
The door blew open, jerking Arrieta out of sleep, and in came the children, boisterous, hungry, impatient. Concepción snapped at them, telling them to stop shoving and pushing, they were going to knock the table over. They had already bumped Arrieta’s chair. Encarnita could not blame Concepción for snapping when she had five such demanding boys to cope with but she regretted that her daughter’s once-soft voice had become high-pitched and shrill. Concepción’s life as a mother was not at all like the tranquil one that she herself had had with a young child. But boys were not like girls, willing to go and pick flowers in the campo.
The children were set down at the table to eat first. Their mother berated them, telling them not to grab, gobble, or gulp, nor to shake the table or kick each other underneath it.
‘They are just boys,’ said Luisa, who, having had four herself, was more used to such chaos and clamour. None of hers had turned out well though Encarnita held back from saying so.
When she had said it to Concepción on one fraught occasion, her daughter had turned on her. ‘If you hadn’t taken me to their house I wouldn’t be married to Jaime now! My life could have been different.’
‘So you’re blaming me?’
‘Luisa was your friend.’
‘Was it my fault that he got you pregnant? I warned you not to give yourself too easily to a man. And certainly not unless you were in love with him.’
‘I was in love with him! Well, I thought I was. How could I know whether I was or not? I was fifteen. He was good looking. He liked me very much.’
‘He turned your head.’
‘He was nice to me. What was wrong with that? But he changed.’
‘Once you were married. I suppose it’s not unusual. You changed too, didn’t you?’
‘Well, so what? How about yourself? You were sure that you were in love with my father, were you?’
‘Yes, I was sure,’ Encarnita had said simply, finishing the conversation. ‘He was a fine man.’
No one, not even his mother, could claim that for Jaime.
After the children had eaten they were sent out to play in the street, the older boys instructed to look after Mario and not to dare let him out of their sight. The four women then sat down at the table and ate their meal.
‘Have you left some for Jaime?’ Concepción asked her mother-in-law. There was no sign of him.
‘Of course,’ said Luisa. As if she would not! She knew how quickly her son could lose his temper, though when he did she took it calmly, saying that men tended to be like that and the best way to cope with it was to wait for the storm to blow over. She spoke from much experience. And she had survived, after all. Sometimes Encarnita thought her friend was wise; at others, she questioned it. She felt that she herself would not have been prepared to endure such tempests.
‘He’s late,’ said Concepción. ‘Later than usual,’ she added, drumming her fingers on the table.
On occasions Jaime had not come back until morning and, when challenged by his wife, had admitted to being with another woman. ‘Go and live with her then if you want to,’ Concepción had screamed at him and Encarnita had devoutly wished that he would, even offering up a short prayer to that effect, but he had had no intention of doing so. The woman in question had several children of her own and no money.
‘I’ve put the lid on the pot to keep the stew warm,’ said Luisa.
Jaime would be ravenous when he came in from his drinking. Encarnita did not know where he got the money from but she did not ask. He pestered her at times to give him a few pesetas and was abusive when she said she had nothing left from her wages, calling her a mean old woman, but when she looked him in the eye he would mutter and back off. She had always done her best to keep control of the money she earned and put it away in various hiding places. Sometimes, inevitably, he had found it. Or else one of his sons had. Now she had an account in a bank. On the day that she had opened it she had hardly been able to believe it. That she should have an account in a bank! What would Pilar have thought of that?
A scream reached them from the street.
‘Sounds like Mario.’ Arrieta was concerned and made to rise from her seat.
‘It’s all right, I’m going,’ groaned Concepción. ‘You can never get a minute’s peace round here.’ She went to see what was happening, returning after a couple of minutes to say it had been about nothing. ‘Somebody pushed him over, that’s all.’
‘He’s too small to be out there with the older boys,’ said Arrieta.
‘Felipe looks after him.’
‘Felipe’s too young to have the responsibility.’
‘All the kids play out.’
‘The little ones should be in bed.’ The clock on the shelf showed that it was almost eleven. Not that many children in the street went to bed before that.
‘You know they won’t go until the rest do!’
‘No sign of Jaime when you were out?’ asked Encarnita in an attempt to defuse the situation. Concepción was edgy tonight and Arrieta tended to be even more critical than usual of the children’s behaviour when Luisa was visiting. Encarnita thought that Arrieta, even though she would deny it if challenged, partially blamed Lui
sa for her son’s behaviour and treatment of his wife. If only Luisa had been more particular about how she’d brought up those sons of hers!
‘God knows where he is!’ said Concepción, going out into the garden.
She had gone to have a cigarette. She had picked up the habit from Jaime.
A little while later, the door burst open and Juan came in shouting, ‘It’s the Guardia!’
‘The Guardia?’ Encarnita got up. ‘Looking for us?’
‘They want Mama.’
‘Concepción,’ called Encarnita, ‘you’d better come.’
Encarnita went to the door with her daughter. Two civil guards were standing in the street surrounded by a gaggle of children, all of whom were quiet now.
‘We’ve come about your husband.’
‘So what’s he done this time?’ asked Concepción.
‘Can we come in?’
She let them pass and told the children to stay outside. Encarnita scooped Mario up into her arms and carried him in. He’d been sitting, half-asleep, his head slumped against the wall. She pushed the door shut behind them. Luisa was on her feet by the fire looking anxious.
‘I’m sorry to bring you bad news,’ said the guard who was the spokesman.
‘Just tell me!’ said Concepción.
‘He got into a fight.’
‘What a surprise!’
‘This time I’m afraid, Señora, it’s been more serious.’