by Joan Lingard
Close by the church lay old graves, their upstanding headstones grey and weathered. Others were in the form of tablets set into the ground. In many cases the inscriptions were indecipherable. They made out some names. Grant. Kennedy. MacPherson. Encarnita was beginning to feel a little anxious. But he must be here, somewhere!
‘He wouldn’t be amongst these, would he?’ Concepción pointed out. ‘They’re all from too long ago.’
They walked on, up to the top of the slope, went through another gate and found a new cemetery sited at the foot of the hill.
After that, they found the grave quite quickly. The very sight of his name engraved in stone – CONAL ALEXANDER RODERICK MACDONALD – gave Encarnita a shock. It felt almost as if a bolt of electricity had been shot through her.
‘Are you all right, Mama?’ Concepción slipped a hand into hers and they locked fingers.
‘I am fine,’ said Encarnita, taking a deep breath. She was calm enough now to read the rest. ‘Beloved husband of the late Margaret Edwina Cecilia MacDonald.’ And the dates of his birth and death. 1 May 1918. 1 September 2001. They stood together listening to the sigh of the wind and the cries of the birds in the tall trees. ‘He is at peace, your father. He wants us to be at peace too, Concepción.’
‘How do you know what he wants, Mama? How do you know he ever gave you another thought after he left you?’
‘I know. From the beginning I know him.’
‘But you know what men are like!’
Your men, Encarnita wanted to say, but did not.
‘My feet are frozen.’ Concepción was stamping her feet.
‘I told you to put on warmer socks. Go and sit in the church and say a prayer for your father’s soul. I’ll join you in a minute. I want to talk to him alone for a few minutes.’
Concepción trekked back up the hill, while Encarnita stayed by the grave, able to spend some time at last with Conal. She talked to him, but there was so much to say that it almost tied her tongue. She bent and tidied the plot a little, pulling out a weed here and there. To do this comforted her. Tomorrow, before they returned to Edinburgh, she would bring flowers for him.
She then went to join Concepción in the church. The interior was as simple and as peaceful as its exterior, with its white walls and mahogany-coloured pews, and the sun filtering through the clear glass window panes. On the end window, a cross, unfamiliar to the women, was etched into the glass. They found out later that it was a Celtic cross. This was a church quite different to any that they had known. There were no candles to light and no pictures or statues of Jesus or his mother Mary, which Encarnita did find strange but, in spite of that, she liked it and could imagine Conal sitting in a pew, his head bowed in prayer, even though he had told her, all those years ago, that he did not think he believed in God. No matter. He must have liked the peace to be found here.
They sat for almost an hour before returning to the shop. Then, silently, they rose and walked, hand-in-hand, back to the store. Encarnita was tiring a little.
The shopkeeper helped them to find a B&B without en-suite, which suited them, since it was cheaper than the one they’d had in Edinburgh. This B&B landlady was an elderly widow, who told them that she liked to take in boarders every now and then, for the company, mainly. She had lived for many years in the village. Over a cup of tea and shortbread biscuits, which she had offered them, Encarnita decided to confide in her, just a little.
‘You know Mr MacDonald?’ she asked.
‘Which Mr MacDonald would that be?’
‘Mr Conal Alexander Roderick.’
‘Ah, Conal! Yes, I knew him well. He and his wife came to live in Kincraig when he retired. In his youth, his family had had a house up here. He was a keen hill walker, loved the mountains. A lovely man. How do you know him?’
‘He come to Spain once.’
‘That’s interesting. I don’t ever remember them going to Spain. France and Italy, yes. Must have been before their time here. Margaret, his wife, was especially fond of Tuscany. She spoke fluent Italian. Such a nice woman. He was devastated when she died.’
Without volunteering any more information Encarnita managed to find out where Conal had lived. After they had drunk their tea she took Concepción with her and sought out the house.
It was a modern bungalow with nothing very special about it, except that it had a nice garden fringed with silver birch trees. A child’s swing hung there now so a family must have bought it. While they were standing at the gate a woman came out of the front door to ask if they were looking for someone.
‘Mr Conal MacDonald,’ said Encarnita. ‘But he dead now.’
‘I’m afraid so. We didn’t ever know him. We lived in Inverness before we came here.’
‘Who you buy the house from?’
‘It belonged to his son and daughter. It was the daughter we dealt with. She showed us round.’
‘Come on, Mama,’ muttered Concepción, tugging at her arm.
‘Do you have a special interest?’
‘Conal old friend,’ said Encarnita. ‘His daughter? You know where she live?’
‘Why, yes, I do. In Edinburgh.’
‘You have address?’
‘I should have it somewhere. Come in for a moment while I look.’
JOURNEY’S END
The three women walk past the house the first time without stopping. The second time, after making sure that no one is watching them at the window, they go more slowly, allowing themselves to take a lingering look at the façade and its tall, astragal windows. It’s Georgian, similar to the ones in Heriot Row, Effie tells them, built around 1820. By now they are getting a grasp of what Georgian New Town means. They are slowly coming to terms with the city. Conal’s city. Encarnita is conscious of that with every step she takes. Some of the buildings in this street have been divided into flats but Conal’s daughter and her husband appear to occupy the whole house since there is only one bell and one name beside the front door. Their name is inscribed on a brass plate. MARJORIBANKS. Effie tells them that it is pronounced Marshbanks. Encarnita repeats the word and Concepción hushes her, worried that they might be overheard.
‘Brass plate needs cleaning,’ observes Encarnita. ‘Bell-pull, too, and handle for door. Maybe they need cleaner.’
After the second look, they go to a café and drink insipid cups of cappuccino and discuss the way forward. Encarnita has turned down the idea of going up the step and ringing the bell and announcing to Celia Marjoribanks that Concepción is her sister and that, she, Encarnita, was once her father’s lover.
‘She probably shut door in face. Probably not believe. Think we try to get money.’
‘We could write her a letter,’ suggests Effie, ‘and say you’d like to meet her.’
‘She might not reply. Might tear up letter.’
‘It’s tricky,’ agrees Effie.
Encarnita thinks they need to find a way to get inside the house. Once they were in, it would be more difficult for Conal’s daughter to get rid of them. She would have to listen to what they had to say and, once she did, Encarnita is sure she will recognise the truth. The problem, as Effie sees it, is getting inside the house, legally. Encarnita has an idea.
‘We go as cleaners.’
‘But how that happen?’ demands Concepción.
Effie thinks about Encarnita’s proposal. She considers it to be not a bad idea for she knows that people who live in large houses have a problem finding good, reliable cleaners who don’t cost the earth, especially in central Edinburgh where parking is difficult. She has a couple of patients who are constantly bemoaning the fact. Encarnita and Concepción can get the gist of most of what Effie says, without understanding every word and phrase. They are left behind when she uses phrases like ‘cost the earth’. When she sees them looking blank, she says, ‘Cost a fortune.’
‘Ah,’ says Encarnita, ‘cuesta mucha pasta.’
They return to Effie’s flat, where she sets about constructing an advertisem
ent on her computer. She reads it out as she goes along. ‘Mother and Daughter Team. Two for the price of one.” You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you? It would be a good come-on. And you probably won’t end up doing much cleaning, anyway, once you tell her what’s what. “Mother will do dusting and cleaning of silver and brasses. Daughter, all other work. Phone Connie.”’ Effie puts down her own telephone number. She then prints the leaflet in two colours, red and blue, putting little fancy twirls at the top and bottom, and the potential cleaners examine it approvingly. After that, all that remains is to pop it through the Marjoribanks’ letter box. Effie offers to do that herself after dark.
‘If the door does open and I am confronted by Celia I shall simply tell her the truth. That I am helping to distribute flyers for two friends and that I can recommend you highly.’
Effie manages to deliver the flyer without being accosted by anyone. Encarnita senses that she is a little disappointed by this.
Encarnita and Concepción settle down to wait. They are sleeping on the pull-down double settee in Effie’s living room now. Their money was running out and Effie kindly offered. There is only one bedroom in her apartment since she uses the third room for her therapy sessions, but she says they are welcome to stay with her until Morna returns from Canada. A picture postcard of the Rocky Mountains has come from her, saying she saw a moose the day before and is having a wonderful time.
After three days pass without any phone call from Celia Marjoribanks, the two women begin to get restless. Concepción is spending some time in studying her English phrase book so that she is able to tell her mother that she frequently forgets to use the articles ‘a’ and ‘the’ in front of words. This annoys Encarnita.
‘All these years, and you wouldn’t pay any attention when I tried to teach you English! Now you think you are an expert.’
‘I want to be able to talk to my relatives, don’t I?’
They walk past the Marjoribanks’ house again and see that the brass plate, bell pull and doorknob are still in need of cleaning.
On the fourth day, Effie admits that her plan may not be working. It’s likely that a number of assorted leaflets are stuffed through the Marjoribanks’ letter box daily. ‘There is so much junk mail these days that people tend to put it straight into the bin. We may have to think of something else,’ she concedes.
Encarnita has been thinking. ‘Why not we go to door and say we are cleaners from leaflet. When she see us maybe she think we honest women and let us in.’
‘You could try,’ says Effie doubtfully. ‘I suppose I could write you a reference.’
She types it out on her computer, saying what excellent, reliable cleaners the two women are, all of which is true, since they have been cleaning her flat relentlessly since their arrival. At times she has had to come through from her therapy room to ask them to turn off the vacuum cleaner. The noise is distracting. And in such a small apartment it is not really necessary to vacuum so many hours a day. The carpets will soon be threadbare.
Armed with the reference, and a copy of the flyer, the two women set out for the Marjoribanks’ house. Encarnita goes up the steps, followed by Concepción, and pulls the bell.
The lady of the house opens the door herself. Encarnita knows straightaway that it is Celia, for the similarity between Conal MacDonald’s two daughters is striking, even though there must be several years in age between them. She wonders if they will notice it themselves, but thinks possibly not. She is inclined to believe that we do not see ourselves as others see us. She has observed that in her own daughter. Sometimes Concepción, from the way she dresses, seems to think she’s still thirty years old. When she has told her so Concepción has retaliated, saying that women of all ages can dress the same now. Encarnita, having watched tourists of every age and shape parade through Nerja in shorts, is inclined to believe it.
‘Yes?’ Celia Marjoribanks smiles politely.
‘Good morning,’ says Encarnita, equally polite. They have gone through a rehearsal with Effie, who is hovering a few doors along the street, waiting to see if they will be admitted. ‘We are the cleaners in this leaflet. I am Encarnita, and this is my daughter Concepción. You can call her Connie.’ She holds out the flyer.
Celia Marjoribanks takes it and says, ‘Oh yes, I believe you put one through my door a few days ago?’
‘We have very good references,’ Encarnita continues, handing Effie’s over. ‘This is a recent one.’
Celia reads it and nods. ‘It is very good.’
‘You would like to have something done?’
‘I daresay I could do with some help. The last woman I had vanished a few weeks ago, without a word.’
‘We can start now.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, we are free. We can offer you a free trial for today.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of letting you work for me for nothing.’
‘We can start?’
Concepción moves up a step to stand level with her mother.
‘Well, I suppose so.’ Celia’s mood appears to shift. ‘Why not, for goodness sake! The place is in a bit of a mess and we’re having visitors at the week-end and I don’t know how I’m going to cope with cleaning it myself.’
Encarnita and Concepción are admitted, and the door closes behind them. Effie goes home to await their news on their return.
Encarnita is dusting To the Lighthouse. She jabs the spine of the book with a blunt forefinger and says, ‘I know that woman.’
Celia Marjoribanks goes over to look. She frowns as she reads the title. ‘Really? You know her? Virginia Woolf? I mean, you knew her? She’s dead.’
Encarnita nods. ‘She must be dead. She older than me. She wear nice shoes with buttons. Nice leather shoes. Soft. I feel them.’
‘Did you work for her?’
‘No, not work. She come to my village.’
‘In Spain?’ A light is beginning to dawn behind Celia’s eyes. ‘In Spain. Did she by any chance come to visit Gerald Brenan?’
‘Don Geraldo, we call him. He teach me English.’
Celia says her husband will be most interested, since he teaches English Literature at the university. ‘So, remind me, the name of your village is —?’
‘Yegen.’
‘Of course! I should have remembered. In the Alpujarra. My husband and I spent a couple of weeks there a few years back.’
‘You went to Alpujarra?’
‘Yes, indeed. Marvellous far away from the world feeling. We went to Yegen to see the house where Gerald Brenan lived. We had read South from Granada.’
‘I not live in Yegen now. I move to Nerja, on coast, many years ago.’
‘We went to Nerja, too. We had a wonderful week staying in the parador.’
‘You were in Nerja? And I not see you!’
‘Even if you had seen me you wouldn’t have known me, would you?’
‘Oh, but I would! I sure I knowed you.’
‘I don’t see how,’ says Celia gently.
There is much that Celia does not yet see, thinks Encarnita.
At that moment, the telephone rings and Celia goes to answer it in the hall, leaving the drawing room door ajar. Encarnita knows that it is so that she can still see her.
Encarnita puts To the Lighthouse back in the bookcase and takes out Mrs Dalloway. As she dusts it, she hears snatches of conversation coming from the hall.
Celia is telling her friend about them. She sounds defensive. Encarnita thinks possibly her friend disapproves of her allowing two strange foreign women to come into her house.
There is a slight disruption when Concepción yells over the bannisters from upstairs, ‘No find plug for electrics in study,’ and Celia cries out in alarm, ‘Don’t touch study! It is my husband’s study. Leave, please, leave!’ She then goes back to her telephone call, to continue reassuring her friend Lilias. ‘I am sure they are absolutely fine. They will be finished, anyway, before Cuthbert gets back.’
In the warm, eleg
ant drawing room, scented with yellow freesias, delicately arranged in a shallow orange-coloured bowl, Encarnita continues with her work. The sun streaming in through the three almost floor-length windows warms her back. She moves from the bookcase to the grand piano, on top of which stand a series of photographs in silver frames. Family photographs. Groups of various kinds on days of celebration. There is Celia on her wedding day with her husband. That must be Cuthbert. Celia is wearing a white silky-looking dress with a long train that has been arranged in a swirl around her feet like a big comma. She holds a sheath of red roses against the white dress and she is smiling. The man is wearing a kilt with knee socks and a black jacket with silver buttons. He has a straight back and a small, neat moustache. He looks proud to have such a lovely bride on his arm. It is not possible from this picture to know what kind of a man he is but Encarnita will find out when she meets him for she knows that she will. The next photograph is of three small children, a boy and two girls. None of these people are familiar to her but here is a young man whom she once knew and recognises still even though he had wild tangled hair and a beard when she knew him and in this picture he is clean-shaven. He is sitting under a silver birch tree on a summer’s day, with a book on his lap. The leaves above his head are shimmering in the sunshine lighting up his golden-red hair. He is smiling directly at the camera. He is smiling directly at her. She gently slides the duster over the glass and replaces the frame on top of the shiny piano.
In the hall, Celia carries on talking to her friend in a soft, low voice, too soft and low for Encarnita to make out what she is saying. But she is content. She has made her journey and when Celia has finished talking to her friend and comes back into the room then she, Encarnita, will tell her story.
Celia listens without attempting to interrupt the flow of Encarnita’s narrative. She frowns. That is the only emotion she betrays. When finally the story ends, in this very room, silence falls. Eventually, she speaks, her voice still well modulated and polite.