by Iris Danbury
‘Have you worked in other parts of Spain on similar schemes?’ asked Caran.
‘Several. One up in the Guadarramas, fifty or so miles from Madrid. There was good skiing not far away. Now that’s something that Spain is developing. People think of Spain as sun-baked beaches, but it’s also a very mountainous country with plenty of snow. All directions, too. Up in the Pyrenees where there are some of the most beautiful mountain valleys. Cantabria and, of course, right handy here, the Sierra Nevada.’
‘Oh, yes, I saw the snow peaks there when I came to Granada.’
‘Do you ski?’ he asked abruptly.
Caran confessed that she did not. ‘Apart from Scotland, we haven’t much opportunity at home and I’m afraid I’ve always taken my holidays in the summer so that I could go to some warm place.’
‘Conventional,’ he muttered. ‘You should strike out more adventurously. Take holidays at different times and go to exciting places. If it’s sunshine you want, there are plenty of resorts that offer that in the winter, apart from Spain. All North Africa, for instance, other parts of the Mediterranean, a whole host of places.’
‘My salary was never exactly in the top bracket,’ she said sharply, ‘and I could remind you that if not exactly a holiday, I’m doing something different by being here in Spain all the winter.’
He gave her an unexpected beaming smile that yet held a hint of mockery. ‘And so you are. Goodness knows how you’ll cope when the tourists come descending on you.’
‘No doubt I shall manage,’ she assured him. ‘That reminds me, how are you getting on with your painting at the villa?’
‘You ought to know that. If you can’t tell whether my v ilia has been repainted or not, then it didn’t need labour spent on it in the first place.’
‘All I can see is the outside. I don’t know what the inside’s like,’ she retorted.
‘Same as it was last year,’ he answered. ‘If I’m not supplied with the paint and tools, I can’t do the job, can I?’
‘Not supplied with the paint?’ she echoed. ‘But I saw one of the workmen actually deliver it outside your porch. That was days ago.’
‘Maybe,’ he agreed, ‘but someone, perhaps Paul or a workman, came and took it away again.’
‘Some mistake. A workman must have misunderstood. All right, I’ll see that you have a fresh supply tomorrow,’ she declared.
‘No use giving me your instructions when I’m to do the job. I’ve no time tomorrow. I’ve other work to do. If I’m taking a day off today, I must make up some of the time tomorrow.’
She was about to answer impatiently that the repainting must be done soon, but he was approaching a small town and searching for a suitable parking place.
A confused din was in progress and she could not distinguish exactly what caused it. Bellringers, certainly, but other instruments, too.
‘I hope we’re not too late for the main happenings,’ muttered Brooke as he parked the car in a small alleyway.
She accompanied him as he hurried through the streets and now her ears received the full brunt of the noise. Men and boys ringing bells went from house to house, ostensibly to collect money. Some held guitars or metal castanets, others banged small drums, but everyone made as much clangour as possible. Brooke had a handful of small change and tossed coins into the cloth bags held out by the boys.
In the square a procession was forming outside the church and Brooke adjusted his camera.
‘Can you write shorthand?’ he asked Caran suddenly.
‘Of course.’
‘Then write down notes for me. Here’s a notebook.’
So his purpose in bringing her today had not been merely to give her an outing to a place of interest. She was expected to make herself useful. Curiously, his peremptory command did not provoke her to an angry response. In spite of herself she accepted the task with pleasure, slightly gratified to be helping him.
He began dictating quietly the scene as it happened, describing the church dignitaries in their gold or purple robes, she boys in long white trousers and short red jackets; then came the centrepiece of the procession. To Caran it looked like a giant bun in the form of a garland, and was borne on a white velvet-covered platform.
‘It’s called the Rosea, that outsize bun or cake,’ explained Brooke. ‘The women of the village make it, each one contributes part of the ingredients, Hour, eggs, sugar, so on, and we shall see it taken into the church to be blessed and laid at the feet of the patron image.’
In listening to his explanation she had forgotten to write her shorthand notes until he said impatiently, ‘Go on, write it down, or we shall both forget.’
Caran could not imagine that she would easily forget the occasion, but she realised that Brooke had seen many of these local fiestas and might easily confuse one with another.
Together they watched the brief ceremony in the crowded church where the priest blessed the huge garland, a structure some four feet tall, a beautiful shiny brown sculpture of entwined leaves and flowers. Caran wondered where such a remarkable item of cookery could be baked, but supposed that a local baker had an adequate oven.
Again the Rosea was carefully hoisted on to its white velvet plinth and carried out of the church to the square. At this point Brooke climbed some steps on the opposite side and took more photographs. Caran stayed close beside him all the time, fearing that if she lost sight of him he would afterwards scold her for not being available as his secretary.
‘Where do they take the bun now?’ she asked him as the procession moved away.
‘Just around the main streets and back again.’ He now led the way through the side street so that they could see the small procession from another point. ‘Nothing more exciting there, I think. We’ll wait for them to return to the square.’
In the square Brooke found a place on some steps where they could wait. Already a large number of women in long black dresses, red and white embroidered jackets and colourful headscarves had gathered in the centre of the square.
‘Now what happens?’ queried Caran.
‘Those who wait patiently generally manage to find out,’ he teased her.
‘Not always. You might be waiting in the wrong place or at the wrong time and the exciting experience bypass you completely.’
He turned to glance at her. ‘A penetrating snippet of philosophy! I must remember that. It could affect my whole future life.’
In her turn Caran gave him a derisive glance. ‘Am I supposed to be taking down your remarks or are these exchanges strictly off the cuff?’
But now with a great clamour of bells, tambourines, guitars and drums, the procession entered the square and halted in the centre. The crowd of women waited while two trestle tables were erected, covered with white cloths and the Rosea carefully placed down. The blue and white ribbon streamers were removed and each woman cut a small piece of the bun. When all the women moved away, this was the signal for a great rush of men, women and children to secure fragments of what was left.
Brooke was standing up, filming the ceremony with his cine-camera. ‘Those who are lucky enough to get pieces,’ he told Caran, ‘either keep them as lucky charms or else give them to their animals to ward off disease.’
She scribbled some hurried notes in her book, although she knew she was not likely to forget any single detail of today’s scenes.
When the crowds had dispersed to the boom and blare of drums and musical instruments, Brooke suggested that he would take her to lunch at a small inn a couple of miles away. ‘All the places here will be far too crowded today.’
He manoeuvred his car through the narrow streets and out on to a winding road farther into the mountains. At the inn the proprietor welcomed Brooke enthusiastically, greeting him as an old friend who had stayed away too long, but Caran was treated with an enquiring glance.
She was amused because she imagined that as Brooke was so well known here, he had probably been accompanied on previous occasions by other girls and th
e proprietor was curious about this new acquaintance, especially as Brooke had introduced her as an English senorita. Caran remembered Paul’s derisive insinuations that Brooke’s absences from the villa were accounted for by his dallying with girls of the neighbourhood.
During the meal Caran checked her notes with Brooke.
‘I’m glad to find you can read your shorthand,’ he said. ‘I must take you to other places as my amanuensis.’
She was about to retort that she would let him know her terms, but that would sound like money-grubbing and finance was far from her thoughts today, for in spite of Brooke’s occasional digs, she found she was thoroughly enjoying herself in his company.
At the end of the meal a young girl about seventeen or eighteen served coffee, but when she saw Brooke she set down the tray with a clatter.
‘Buenas tardes, Angelina,’ Brooke greeted the girl, who blushed furiously, muttered a greeting in return and promptly fled to the door, but she could not resist a backward look that took in Caran. Then she gave Brooke a nervous smile and vanished.
‘Is she the proprietor’s daughter?’ queried Caran in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘His niece.’ Brooke laughed quietly as though remembering past pleasures. ‘She’s not always so shy.’
‘She probably prefers you to be unencumbered with English companions,’ commented Caran, pouring the coffee.
When they left the inn, Caran noticed that Angelina sidled round a door in the passage and would have dodged back again, but Brooke took her wrist and held her prisoner.
Caran smiled at the girl and walked slowly towards Brooke’s car, leaving the pair to chat for a moment without her presence, but Brooke followed her, still holding Angelina’s hand.
‘This is Angelina,’ he introduced her to Caran, then turned to the Spanish girl. ‘The English senorita is Miss Ingram.’
The two girls exchanged acknowledgments and smiles. ‘Angelina tells me she’s betrothed,’ Brooke explained. ‘To some mountain brigand or other.’
Caran congratulated the girl in Spanish and Angelina was clearly delighted that an English girl could speak a foreign tongue. Her confidence restored, she babbled happily about her future husband who owned vineyards already and would soon own many more so that one day he would be rich.
Then she stopped suddenly and asked, ‘You also are now betrothed?’ Her glance took in both Brooke and Caran.
Brooke smiled and seemed in no hurry to refute this suggestion, but Caran said quickly, ‘Oh, no, indeed. That is not so.’
Brooke gave a slight shrug. ‘I could speak for myself, of course, but you understand, Angelina, that Senorita Ingram might have a fiancé in England.’
Caran smiled, aware that her face must be fiery. She gave Angelina a warm ‘Adios’ and went towards Brooke’s car.
He joined her after a few moments and drove in silence for a mile or two. Then he asked suddenly, ‘Why are you annoyed? Because I hinted you might have a man you left behind you in England?’
‘No. I’m not annoyed,’ she said smoothly.
Brooke laughed. ‘How well you parry questions you don’t want to answer! All right, I shan’t pester you or insist on knowing. Of course, if you’re going to be here for a really long time, he’d be right in jilting you.’
‘M’m, that could be,’ she agreed. She was not going to satisfy his curiosity. After all, if she dared to ask him if he were engaged or had left a hopeful girl behind him in England or elsewhere, he would probably give her a sharp answer or none at all.
A turn of the mountain road brought a wide panorama into view, the long sweeping plain dotted with one town and several villages, the distant strip of sea, and on the other side the mass of grey mountains sharply etched against the setting sun. Brooke stopped the car so that Caran could enjoy the scene. Ho lit a thin cigar and stepped out, opening the door her side so that she, too, could alight.
‘How lonely it is up here,’ she said. ‘We haven’t passed another car for miles.’
‘Pleasant change to have so little traffic, I should think, from reports I read of the shocking jams at home. Parts of the Continent are just as bad. Are you afraid of lonely places?’
Leaning against the side of the car she stared at the distant view. ‘Not in the least—unless we’re in danger of being attacked by those mountain brigands you spoke of to Angelina.’
‘Unlikely, I’d say.’ He pointed away to the right. ‘I don’t know whether you can see it, but down there is Don Ramiro’s very handsome villa.’
She could faintly glimpse a white villa partly hidden by trees.
‘Have you been there?’ she queried.
He grunted. ‘I’m not at all in the right circle for an aristocrat like Don Ramiro to invite me there.’
‘I suppose he uses that villa only in the summer?’
‘He opens it up occasionally, I believe, but most of the time he lives in Almeria in a smallish ducal palace, his ancestral home. Now that’s a handsome piece of architecture.’ He broke off to smile at her. ‘No, I haven’t been inside there, either, but the outside is charming. Have you visited Almeria yet?’
‘Well, no, I haven’t really had time,’ admitted Caran.
‘You’ll have to make time for these occasions before the summer or else you’ll be too busy then.’
Even as they watched, the sun dropped abruptly behind the shoulder of a mountain, the pink glow faded from the plain and a chilly wind sprang up.
When Brooke had finished his cigar, they re-entered the car and he drove through the dusk along the winding roads. They came to a small town where they stopped at a cafe. Caran chose coffee with Tia Maria, for the night air was chilly, but Brooke drank only a small brandy.
‘Would you like to have dinner at Matana?’ he asked. ‘Good fish restaurants there.’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ agreed Caran. Matana was the fishing village along the coast only a few miles from Albarosa, so that meant she would not be too late home. But she had reckoned without Brooke’s idea of dinner-time and without realising exactly where she was now. It was nearly nine o’clock when they reached Matana and although she was by now accustomed to Spanish meal-times and nine o’clock was the usual hour, she felt apprehensive about Paul not finding her at the villas when he returned. But of this she said nothing to Brooke. He would only jeer and taunt her with trying to please Paul at all costs.
The restaurant to which Brooke eventually took her was near the harbour. It was dim, with only small green lanterns on the walls, and the furniture was all black wood. But the food was a revelation to Caran. Brooke ordered the special zarzuela for which Matana was famous—a mixed fish dish including mussels, prawns, crayfish and whiting and several other varieties unknown to Caran. She enjoyed every succulent mouthful, but when Brooke suggested solomillo to follow, she objected that she couldn’t possibly eat one of these thick steaks, but would content herself with fruit and cheese.
It was very late when at last Brooke drove home and Caran saw that Julie was already in the bedroom.
‘Hallo, pet! We wondered where you were. Had a good day?’
‘Very good indeed,’ replied Caran.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Oh, to this little village where the fiesta was held today, then out through the mountains and back to Matana.’
‘This Brooke Eldridge must be fascinating.’
Something in Julie’s tone made Caran look across the room at her.
‘Fascinating? Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ replied Caran coolly. ‘He’s interesting, but then he’s lived here in Spain quite some time. He knows the district.’
Julie fluttered the pages of a fashion magazine.
Caran asked, ‘And you? Did you have a good day with Paul?’
The magazine was flung on the floor. ‘No, I didn’t. He’; getting rather too amorous for my liking,’ declared Julie.
‘Well, I suppose that’s because you’re here on holiday and he thinks he has to show you the sights an
d take you around to places.’ Caran was mildly surprised at Julie’s objection.
‘I’m aware of that and of course I’m pleased to be taken here and there for a spot of gaiety, but he needn’t make himself such a nuisance.’
Caran laughed. ‘Oh, come off it, Julie! With your expertise you know just how to fend off any man’s unwelcome attentions. I don’t remember that you’ve ever made these objections over any other man so far. What’s wrong with Paul?’ Julie made a grimace. She was sitting up in bed, a cream lace negligee around her shoulders, her red-gold hair brushed and shining. She hugged her knees under the bedclothes. ‘Nothing much is wrong with Paul. I don’t dislike him.’
‘He’s rather taken with you,’ remarked Caran, as she creamed her face. ‘He wanted to know if you were staying here over Christmas.’
‘Yes, he asked me this morning and, like a fool, I said yes, I was.’
‘Why like a fool? Christmas here in Spain can be very interesting, as well as all the first week in January. You’re welcome to stay, as far as I’m concerned.’
Julie smiled in that curious lop-sided way she affected sometimes. ‘Paul is doing his best to persuade me to stay on indefinitely, not only just for Christmas and New Year.’
‘Indefinitely?’ echoed Caran, more alert. ‘But your job—you couldn’t expect—’
‘Leave me to worry about my job,’ interrupted Julie with determined coolness. ‘I can go back to that any time. The truth is, Caran, my pet, I’m tired of the humdrum life I’ve been leading, just as you were. I need a change, not for a couple of weeks or so, but for quite a few months, so I might stay here with you.’