Yöst had been allotted the task of sorting through the garments and had offered a prayer for the survival of their owner, hoping it was only her belongings that had been washed overboard, despite it being a forlorn hope. Sewn into a pocket, he had discovered a few silver coins and a gold necklace.
They had offered the table and chairs to the women, and kept the chest in their hut, stuffing it full of spare clothes. When the sea was calm again, they had rowed over to the market, exchanging the coins for slices of roasted pork and chestnuts which they had eaten on the beach. And when the winds finally recovered their friendly equilibrium, they had built kites out of the pieces of clothing and climbed the cliff to fly them.
The necklace! What had happened to the necklace?
Yöst couldn’t recall and suddenly it seemed imperative that he did. Yet it made no difference, whether Willem had promised it to the first of his friends to take a lover or the last. Whatever his decision, it still lay buried among the ashes of their hut.
Oblivious to the sharp rock digging into his knees and hands, Yöst pulled himself up onto the rocky plateau, his tears tasting of salt like the briny waves responsible for washing so many boots onto shore. How they had all chuckled at Willem’s quip about one-legged sailors.
Sobbing out his grief and loss, he stumbled on, unaware of anything even the rain, the unremitting deluge plastering his hair so tightly to his skull he appeared bald, wishing he might cry until there was no more breath in his body. Then he could join the others and never be alone ever again.
Eventually exhausted, he crouched under a rock, gazing out at a world in which there was no place for him, and wondering if he even cared. A cold nose pushed against his hand and he jumped startled, staring down into the warm compassion of Tigre’s gaze. ‘They’re all gone,’ he blurted out, helpless with grief, somehow expecting the dog to understand. ‘There’s no one left to love.’
Feeling the heat from the animal’s blood coursing under its thick fur, he sniffed back his tears and cuddled close. For the longest while he didn’t move, despite the raindrops drenching his bare legs, staring blankly into the dark hole that was his future, his thoughts fixed and suspended.
Eventually a sense of calm began to push aside the dark shadows, and memories of another day crept in; a day in which there’d been neither rain nor sadness. He and his mother had walked up into the fields above town, to collect sheep’ wool from the hedgerows for spinning, and he’d become caught on the brambles, their thorns stuck in the sleeve of his wool jersey. When he’d shouted for her to rescue him, she had laughed at his plight: ‘You run around all day,’ she had teased, ‘it won’t harm you to stand still a while.’
‘However, did you clamber up here? Never mind, I’m glad you did,’ he muttered to Tigre, the steepness of the rock face suddenly registering. Affectionately, he knuckled the fur on the animal’s skull. Tigre whined and once again pushed its nose into the palm of Yöst’s hand.
‘Yes, I know,’ he said, finding its cold wetness reassuring, ‘I have to go back.’
His legs had gone to sleep, cramping as he stood up, and he rubbed at his calves to ease them, listening once again to the sound of Willem’s voice.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he replied. ‘It’s got to be all right.’
The rain had slackened and, towards the east, patchy cloud had replaced the dark grey overcoat the sky had worn since morning. Surprisingly, he hadn’t walked far, maybe he’d been wandering in circles. Leaving Tigre to find his own path down, Yöst searched the precipitous slope with his feet, testing the rock ledges were firm before placing his weight on them. Reaching the flat ground of the upper meadow, he found Léon sheltering under a fold of rock. Emerging, he bunted affectionately at Yöst’s legs.
‘You know we’re different,’ he scratched the animal’s ears, ‘but it doesn’t bother you, does it.’
Whining a reply, Léon fixed his attention on the rock face. There was no sign of Tigre, nothing apart from a faint clicking of nails on rock. With a rush, the heavy body noisily descended the steep rock face, the two dogs instantly play-fighting their reunion, their heavy jaws agape and growling out their affection.
Ramon’s sharp whistle cut through the air.
Breaking off their game, the two dogs chased down the slope towards the yard, the silhouette of the beehive house remaining a blur in the gathering twilight. Reluctantly, Yöst followed, and on reaching the yard was surprised to find both dogs had already been fed, Léon licking the edges of his bowl. Barone and Duchesse were in their stalls, their noses buried in their feed bags, which meant Ramon had returned from market early.
Knowing an apology for his long absence would be demanded, he hastened across the yard to make it, catching the sound of Ramon’s voice through the open kitchen window. He was talking with Pascual in the dialect they used when alone, the musical cadences of their language pitted with aggressive consonants that in French would have signified an argument.
French was the language of the house, although the older girls and Rico spoke both. No one had broached the subject with Yöst and despite not speaking the dialect Ramon and Pascual often used, he understood it – Adelita and Maestro frequently bandying words in their native tongue. Even Ramon sometimes forgot, most often after a couple of glasses of wine, chatting to Pepe in the language of their childhood.
Partially concealed by the iron frame of the pump, he stayed where he was. If he tried to enter through the back door, Ramon would hear him, even if he was barefoot, the walnut-shell curtain would make sure of that. They had no need of a burglar alarm, not when the faintest movement set the shells cackling like a posse of witches.
The words Ramon was speaking flowed through the open window, reverberating against the delicate canals in Yöst’s ears. He didn’t intend to listen, nevertheless, with his sensitive hearing it proved impossible not to, becoming party to even the most intimate of conversations. For him the house was never quiet, not even at night, the whispers of the siblings in their beds on the ground floor, as clear as if they had raised their voices on purpose for him to hear. Even Ramon murmuring soft endearments to his wife, way up on the first floor, was audible, his voice quite the opposite of the hectoring tones he so often employed with others; and Katarina wishing her girls a soft goodnight, her voice lost in the shadows. For that particular family, though, it was never a simple goodnight. One or other of the twins would ask a question about their old home, and Katarina would reply with descriptions of sunlight beaming down on whitewashed walls and scarlet roof tiles, and a home surrounded by shrubs and flowers, that shed their perfume at night.
He always felt a greater sense of reluctance about eavesdropping on Katarina’s memories than those of anyone else, aware if she had wished for other people to learn about her former life, she would have spoken out at dinner. He wished he might have confessed about his hearing, except that would have provoked questions, questions he dared not answer. Yet, despite his misgivings, he looked forward to the nightly reminiscences, fascinated by their regulated existence, the girls’ lives revolving around school and church, quite the opposite of his own haphazard upbringing. In talking about the people in their village, whom she had known since childhood, Katarina drew a picture of a community that also favoured men over women. Yet, it was to her husband she devoted most evenings, her anecdotes about him as teasing and light-hearted as their lives must once have been. As the stories continued, Yöst began to wish he had also known this kindly man, who had obviously cared deeply for his wife and daughters, and for whom summer had never come.
‘It’s his second fight in a week.’
‘Don’t tell Yöst, Ramon, he’s miserable enough as it is.’
‘Miserable? What’s he got to be miserable about – he has a good home here, doesn’t he? Besides, I don’t need to – the damage is in plain sight. Lucky Pepe was there. Stupid kid won’t say what it was about. Still, I can guess; the town’s full of rumours. I didn’t even clear the cart. There were
plenty of customers buying … just not from me.’ Ramon’s bitter tones flew through the open window. ‘We’re gypsies and foreigners, who speak French with a bad accent – as if that was a crime.’
‘Shush! Things will settle again, Ramon, they always do. Maybe it’s fortunate this is happening now in the winter, rather than summer when we need to sell our fruit.’
‘You mean we’re lucky?’
Yöst heard movement as if Pascual had placed her hand on her husband’s arm.
‘Yes, all right,’ he replied irritably. ‘If we have to stay away a few weeks, we won’t starve. We’ve done it before. But not yet, I need to speak with Monsieur and Madame Meijer first, ask them some questions. Neither he nor his wife was in the market today. Not that I blame them.’
Yöst froze, his feet riveted to the mud of the yard.
‘What happened?’
‘One of the fishermen got drunk. He had broken his arm, otherwise he’d have been at sea with the rest. Instead, he was capering about in the rain, shouting that God had sent the rain as a reward for killing the vermin on the island … all of them, he said … down to the very last one.’
The silence from the kitchen sounded to Yöst like thunder. He flinched away, jamming his fists over his ears.
‘You believe the children came from the island?’
‘Where else?’
‘Yöst said …’
‘What?’
‘That their village was burned.’
Pascual’s soft tones were in direct contrast to her husband’s rough cadences; nevertheless, they penetrated the shield covering his ears, Pascual’s evident reluctance at betraying his confidence very apparent.
‘He told you?’
‘No, I saw his arm and asked.’
‘And you never thought to say anything? You’re my wife; how could you?’
Her voice rose, matching his for anger. ‘Ramon, if I came to you with every little thing, the children would soon stop confiding in me.’
‘This wasn’t a little thing. Did he tell you what happened?’
‘No, apart from the village being burned and people killed. It hurt him even to admit that. I gave him my word not to talk about it because he’d given his to someone else. It was eating him up, poor child. No wonder he has nightmares.’
‘Poor child! What if the fisherman was speaking the truth and the islanders were dangerous?’ Footsteps sounded back and forth, as Ramon paced across the kitchen. ‘And I have brought them into my home!’
‘Ramon!’
‘You want me to ignore my cousin, that sweet boy?’ Ramon’s voice bulldozed his wife’s protest into silence. No longer peremptory and demanding, yet still with bitter overtones as if he was chewing on a mouthful of tin-tacks. ‘The one my mother brought up, his education paid for by my father. And how did he repay their kindness? By siding with the fascists who murdered my brothers.’
‘Ramon, we can’t keep reliving those days. They’re over and done with, and we survived. Not again. That’s what we swore, when we fled our country. Here, we are safe. And the children are just children. Ask Léon. He may be a dog but he recognises good when he sees it. Rico said when Yöst’s not about, the animal follows TaTa everywhere. He’s convinced it wants to make sure the child comes to no harm.’
His voice quieted. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘My dear!’ He caught the sound of a kiss. ‘There’s so much you don’t know because you are never about to see it. Look at Rico, he’s been a different child since Yöst and Zande got here. On occasions, he’s even nice to Clara. On your way in, please ask Adelita to rub some of this on Rico’s bruises.’ A cupboard door creaked open.
‘She spoils him,’ Ramon growled.
‘Yes, and you know why. Because you’re too hard on him.’
‘If you’re going to survive in this world, you need to be tough.’ The angry tone had risen again. ‘Where is Yöst?’
‘No idea. He went out before lunch; no one’s seen him since. If you find him, please tell him I’m fed up with drying his clothes. Ramon?’
Yöst caught the questioning silence, resounding as loudly as a drum beating along the route to the scaffold. Taking to his heels, he raced over to the barn, flinging himself down on the straw bales to stop himself running and running and running … anything to escape the interrogation he was convinced must follow.
Questions he dared not answer.
Yet they had to be answered; Ramon would give him no peace, otherwise.
His head spun, myriad voices shouting out, all of them offering advice: run, brazen it out, pretend you know nothing; every voice shouting something different.
He ignored them, aware there was no choice; not really. He couldn’t run because there was nowhere to run to. Perhaps if he were cheap enough and worked hard, Ramon would permit them to stay, grateful for an extra pair of hands.
Abruptly, both dogs rose to their feet, their tails thumping out a greeting as the tall, black-clad figure appeared in the open doorway.
‘Planning to stay out here until you dry off?’
Yöst leapt to his feet, his mouth dry with fear. ‘I …’
‘No need to be scared,’ Ramon grunted out.
Yöst tucked his hands behind his back to conceal their trembling, summoning up his courage to speak. ‘Is it the lessons?’ he prevaricated, ‘I am trying.’
Ramon flicked his excuse away with his fingers. ‘You’ve not done anything wrong, not as far as I’m concerned. I can’t blame you for something I once did! When I first arrived in this country, it was also autumn and I was lonely.’ He stared around the barn as if counting up the bales of hay, the dark angles of his face brooding, ‘I missed my country, and my friends.’
Yöst listened intently, conscious Pascual’s influence was determining both the subject and measure of Ramon’s rebuke, scarcely daring to hope that the guillotine he feared about to descend and sever his head from his body, had stalled.
‘I also walked. And while I walked, I shouted at the gods for killing my family and my friends.’ He stared down at his mangled fingers. ‘It made things worse. In order to sleep nights, I’d walk myself to a standstill and fall into bed. Next morning, the pain was back. I was so caught up in my own anger and sadness, I nearly lost Pascual. She told me she was going and she didn’t care where, as long as she never saw my long face again. Now I work and care for my family.’ He stopped, his gaze lingering on the beehive shape of the house, beams of light seeping through its shutters. ‘I see their faces, happy and smiling, and that eases my pain … It never quite goes, but it has become bearable. Today those memories of death have been replaced by others more cheerful.’
Yöst viewed his words with caution. There was scant kindness or sympathy behind them. If Pascual or Katarina, even Adelita, had spoken them, they would have been accompanied by a smile or shrug of the shoulders, even a raised eyebrow. With Ramon, his brusque tone was unchanged. Uncertain if relief was an appropriate emotion, he waited.
Ramon reached down to pat Léon, the rigid planes of his face softening. Instantly Tigre rose, arching its back and stretching. The dog pushed its nose into his hand, looking for attention. ‘These two are like children,’ he mumbled, ‘jealous if I favour one over the other.’ His tone changed. ‘I know you lost friends on the island, Yöst.’
Yöst froze, sensing the blade positioned over his neck quiver, its sharp edges easily capable of slicing through both skin and bone, although Ramon’s words were quietly spoken, a casual remark, nothing judgemental or damning about them at all.
‘You are quite right, boy,’ he continued, misinterpreting Yöst’s desperate silence. ‘My wife insists I tell you. She considers the burden you are carrying too heavy for a child.’
With total disbelief, Yöst listened to Ramon’s follow-up sentence, as far from a beheading as one side of the barn was from the other: ‘If your friends were with you now, they’d tell you to buck your ideas up. You have family back there who need you. Now go in a
nd tell Pascual you won’t do it again.’
With a graceful movement, the tall man rose to his feet. ‘Pepe used to cry. Now he cuts down trees. Adelita – sometimes her comments are cruel and hurtful, only because her own life was cruelly snatched away. Nevertheless, she possesses a kind heart and is always willing to help anyone.’ Leaning down, he patted Tigre, smoothing his hand down the length of spine. ‘I’m a hard taskmaster, Yöst. You won’t get an easy ride. Still, you give me a fair day’s work and I’ll be satisfied.’ Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins. ‘Here, you earned these. Not a lot, but then you have three mouths to feed.’
Yöst retraced his steps across the yard, the cheerful clink of coins in his pocket barely registering. The relief was overwhelming, although it wasn’t over, he knew that, merely suspended for another day. If Ramon was anything like the Black, his suspicions may have been lulled, but not dismissed, at least not completely; not until he was totally satisfied.
He heard his grandmother calling to him: you can argue ’til you’re blue in the face. When Robert says something is right; it is right … and not a second before.
Leaving his boots by the back door, he hurried in, hanging his wet jacket on a peg. Pascual and Ana were standing by the open oven door, pans of fresh dough in their hands. They glanced up as the curtain rattled in the draught from the yard door, the strings of walnut shells swinging back and forth.
‘Thank you, Ana.’ Pascual closed the oven door. ‘Next time, you can do it by yourself. Run along now and check on the babies, there’s a good girl.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he burst out, feeling uncomfortable and awkward, wishing Pascual really was his mother and he could run to her for a hug.
‘Sit a minute.’ Passing Yöst a piece of towelling, she pulled out a stool. ‘I gather by your doleful face, Ramon has had a word.’
The Click of a Pebble Page 19