‘I have not decided yet,’ she said, looking steadily at the other woman in an effort not to appear shifty.
Mariana was surprised. ‘You haven’t decided yet?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you must call him something!’
‘I call him Angelito. My little angel,’ she said quickly.
Mariana smiled. ‘Angel. That’s a nice name,’ she said, but her intuition told her that something wasn’t quite right.
‘I’m glad things turned out well for you. Last summer I was very worried.’
‘Me too.’
‘But you have a lovely house, a little boy and’ - she hesitated but then threw aside her reservations and continued without inhibition - ‘you have a man to take care of you.’ She watched as Estella’s face burned again and her eyes shone awkwardly. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I’m not prying,’ she reassured her quickly, thinking of Gertrude and wishing that she hadn’t gone so far. ‘I don’t need to know who he is, it just makes me happy that you’re happy. I am very fond of you, Estella, and it gave me much grief to see you suffering. You’re a good girl and you didn’t deserve to be treated with such callousness. There are plenty of girls who deserve that sort of treatment, but not you, you’re a cut above them. I wanted to tell you that if you ever need anything to come and see me. I’ll always try to help you in any way that I can. A reference perhaps or
advice. I’m here to talk to if ever you need someone who’s detached from your family. An outsider. I would only be too happy.’
She watched Estella’s face relax and the colour drain away again as her embarrassment was replaced with gratitude. ‘You’re very kind, Señora Mariana. A girl like me is very lucky to have a protector like yourself. I’m very privileged and I thank you,’ she said, wondering how Mariana would feel if she knew they were Ramon’s shoes in the doorway and Ramon’s shirt that had hung over the back of the chair. Estella doubted she would offer her protection if she knew her son was committing adultery with a lowly maid.
Mariana rose to leave. She swallowed her curiosity and restrained herself from asking to see inside the house. But before she left she felt it wasn’t unreasonable to ask for one thing. ‘Estella, I would dearly love to see Angelito,’ she said.
Estella went pale. ‘Angelito,’ she repeated.
‘Yes. If it’s not too much bother. He’s obviously a good baby as he hasn’t made a squeak.’
‘He is a good baby. But he might be asleep,’ said Estella, trying to make excuses.
Then I can come and take a peek. I won’t wake him,’ she insisted.
Estella had no choice. If Mariana came into the house she would no doubt recognize her son’s belongings. ‘No, I’ll go and get him and bring him out here,’ she replied quickly, retreating into the house. Mariana thought her behaviour most strange. If her child had really been a monkey she would have reacted in the same way. For a brief moment Mariana wondered whether there was perhaps something wrong with the child. If the child was in some way deformed it was quite wrong of her to insist on seeing it. But before she had time to tell Estella not to worry, the young woman appeared out of the shadows carrying a small bundle in her arms. Mariana felt an itchy heat crawl about the skin on her neck and prepared herself for the worst.
Estella hoped that Mariana wouldn’t recognize her son in Ramoncito’s conker eyes and languid smile. But when she saw the baby blinking up at her sweetly Mariana’s face opened like a flower and a wide, genuine smile swept across it expressing her delight.
‘He is quite the most beautiful baby, Estella. Can I hold him?’ she enthused, pressing her hands against her cheeks in wonder. ‘Adorable, completely adorable,’ she sighed, taking the child from his mother and pressing him
against her bosom. Estella smiled too, relieved that grandmother hadn’t recognized grandson and she was able to breathe again.
Mariana sat back down in her chair while the baby smiled happily up at his grandmother. Estella brought out a tray of iced lemon and the two women sat under the plumbago and talked about the baby. ‘He is so like you, Estella. Such a pretty baby. Look at his long eyelashes and dark eyes. He’ll be breaking hearts all over Chile. Won’t you, Angelito?’ she clucked, gently rocking him.
‘He’s a good baby. He rarely cries,’ said Estella proudly.
‘I bet he eats well, too.’
‘He does. He’s growing so quickly.’
‘I can see.’
‘I love being a mother. I have a purpose in my life now. I feel needed,’ said Estella thoughtfully.
‘Motherhood is a wonderful thing. It changes your life for ever. Suddenly there’s this little person who needs you more than anyone else in the world. He’s from your own body. Imagine that bond, how strong it is. He’s a part of you and even when he’s grown up and gone he’s still connected to you, because you made him, gave birth to him and suckled him.’
‘You’re so right,’ agreed Estella and she told Mariana about how she felt when he was growing inside her.
The two women began to talk as equals about the duties of a mother, the joys and the sorrows that were the two sides of the privilege of motherhood.
‘We feel their pain and their pleasure. We can’t help it. It’s our lot,’ said Mariana, remembering Ramon and the breakup of his marriage. ‘But they are individuals and have to make their own choices. We can only advise and be there when things go wrong. But I would never change any of it for a second. Motherhood is the most wonderful gift of life, and I’m very fortunate to be a woman,’ she said and smiled at Estella.
‘Me too,’ Estella replied, smiling back.
When Mariana finally got up to leave the midday sun was high in the sky. She looked at her watch and realized that she had been there for well over an hour and a half. ‘Goodness me, look at the time!’ she exclaimed, handing the child back to his mother. ‘Angelito must be hungry.’
‘He’s always hungry. I think he’s going to be a big boy,’ she said, kissing his forehead tenderly.
‘Thank you for letting me see him,’ said Mariana gratefully. ‘He really is very
dear.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ Estella replied. Thank you for coming.’
Mariana was no more than ten steps from the house, reflecting on the delightful baby Angel, when she put her hand in her pocket and felt the silver necklace she had bought for Estella. She sighed in frustration at her own forgetfulness and turned back. Estella had disappeared inside, leaving only the wings of the plumbago flowers to flutter about the walls of the beach house in the cool sea breeze. Mariana stood once again in the frame of the door, uncertain whether to knock or walk straight in. She smiled with tenderness as she heard the excited tones of Estella playing with her child.
‘Ramoncito, my little angel. Ramoncito,' she laughed as the baby squeaked and gurgled back.
Mariana’s smile slowly slipped off her face. She held her breath as the blood drained from her head to her feet, fixing her to the ground when all she wanted to do was run away as fast as her old legs could carry her. When Estella repeated his name Mariana was left in no doubt that she had heard correctly and arrived at the right conclusion. With great effort she turned as quickly and as quietly as she could and hastily made her way back to the car, her temples
throbbing with the sudden sporadic appearance of thousands of unpleasant images.
Once inside she sat behind the wheel with her heart thumping like a maddened bat inside her breathless chest, as if she had just witnessed a murder. With a trembling hand she turned the key in the ignition. It was only when she was on the open road that she began to breathe again. The father of Estella’s child was none other than her own son, Ramon. There was no doubt about it. It all made complete sense. The camera in her mind had at once been turned into focus and she could see clearly the events of the summer before. Estella’s lover had been Ramon. He had seduced her, impregnated her then left her. That sort of callous, irresponsible behaviour was not limited to the lowe
r classes, as Ignacio had maintained, but to their own flesh and blood. Mariana was repelled by the thought of adultery. They were clearly living together; Estella couldn’t afford a house like that. Now she understood the girl’s reluctance to show her the baby and her unease. Ramon’s possessions littered the house. Mariana thought of Helena and her children and suddenly felt consumed with resentment and regret. When her old eyes welled with unhappiness she was forced to pull the car up on the side of the road and give way to her tears. She
couldn’t understand Ramon. But she loved him and tried desperately to justify his actions. She blamed Helena for driving him into Estella’s arms and Estella for being too beautiful for him to resist. But her arguments paled in the light of her reasoning, which told her Ramon was guilty. He was a victim of his own selfishness. He wilfully sacrificed everything he loved for a vacuous freedom, which would inevitably leave him lonely and full of regret. He would leave Estella too.
By the time Mariana returned home she had decided not to tell Ignacio. She had also decided to look out for Estella. The girl didn’t know it yet, but she would need support.
Mariana knew her son better than anyone.
PART TWO
Chapter 20
Polperro, Spring 1989
Federica bicycled up the hill, her breaths staggered and short as she sobbed and pedalled, barely able to see the road for the tears in her eyes. The warm May sunshine had tempted the trees and bushes into blossom and bud, the unlikely snowfalls in April were now over for good. But Federica didn’t care for the beauty of nature. She didn’t even notice the armies of bluebells in the woods or the sweet smell of fertility as the ground woke up from her winter sleep. Fler heart felt as if someone had wrenched it from her chest, beaten it about, then carelessly put it back again.
The ride up the lane to Pickthistle Manor seemed much longer than normal. Her face was red and sweaty from exertion and her eyes swollen like two baked apples. When she cycled into the driveway she was greeted by Trotsky, the rather arrogant Great Dane that Inigo had given Ingrid to console her after the death of her favourite dog, Pushkin. Trotsky was honey-brown with skin like velvet and the intelligent face of a Cambridge scholar, his eyes surrounded by dark circles which gave the impression that he was wearing little round
glasses, much to everyone’s amusement. Hence the name Trotsky, which he lived up to with great pride and dignity. Federica patted him absentmindedly as she passed. He sensed her distress and bounded after her with long, leisurely strides.
She threw down her bicycle on the gravel then rushed inside shouting for Hester. She held her breath and listened for a reply, but none came. Only the sound of Inigo’s classical music escaped under his study door and floated through the house. She didn’t want to disturb Inigo who was obviously working so she wandered through the rooms hoping to find one of the girls. She was mortified to discover that the house was completely empty except for Sam who sat at the kitchen table eating a large peanut-butter sandwich, reading the Saturday papers. When he saw her standing awkwardly in the doorway he put down his paper and asked her what was wrong.
‘I’m looking for Hester,’ she said quietly, wiping her face with her hands and hoping he wouldn’t notice she was crying. She took a deep breath and forced a smile.
But Sam wasn’t fooled. The girls have gone shopping with Mum and the boys are having a picnic tea on the beach,’ he said, then smiled
sympathetically.
‘Oh,’ said Federica, not knowing what else to say. She had always felt suffocated when alone with Sam. He was too handsome to look at, too clever to talk to and much too grown up to be interested in her. So she began to back away through the door, mumbling that she’d find Hester later.
‘Why don’t you have a peanut-butter sandwich?’ he asked, holding up the jar. ‘They’re extremely good. Mum calls this type of food “comfort food” and you look as though you need some of that.’
‘No, really, I’m not hungry,’ she stammered, embarrassed by her own incompetence.
‘I know. But you’re unhappy,’ he said and smiled again. ‘At least have some to make you feel better.’ He pulled out a couple of slices of bread and began to prepare a sandwich for her. She had no choice. She walked up to the table and sat down on the chair that he had pulled out for her. ‘I'm afraid I can’t resist a weeping woman,’ he said. Federica laughed as the tears blurred her vision again. A month off thirteen she could hardly be considered a woman, not even by a long stretch of the imagination. She lowered her eyes and took a timid bite of her sandwich. ‘You know,’ Sam continued, ‘women’s tears are their secret
weapon. I know I’m not alone. Most men go weak at the sight of them, or they don’t know how to handle them so they leave themselves vulnerable to every sort of manipulation. They’ll do anything to bring a smile to the lady’s face. What can I do to bring a smile to your face?’
‘There’s nothing you can do. I’ll be fine,’ she replied, staring down at her sandwich, anything rather than look at him.
‘Well, there’s nothing worse than sitting about inside on a sunny day like this feeling miserable. Why don’t you join me for a walk? The bluebells will cheer you up and by the time we get back the girls will probably have returned. How does that sound?’
‘You must have better things to do,’ she said, not wanting to be a bore.
‘Now you’re sounding like Eeyore. Try and be more like Pooh, or Tigger. Actually,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘you’re more like Piglet.’
‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’
‘Definitely. Piglet is a fine fellow. So how about a stroll in the hundred acre wood?’
Federica rarely saw Sam. He had left school and travelled for a year before
taking up his scholarship at Cambridge. The long holidays were usually spent travelling, weekends up in London at parties. When he came home he’d only stay for a couple of days, locked in Nuno’s library or in heavy discussion with his father. Federica would bicycle up the drive, her heart in a state of quivering expectation, hoping that his green and white Deux Chevaux would be parked outside the house indicating that he was at home. When the space on the gravel was empty she’d still keep her ears open and hope that perhaps during the course of her visit he might very well turn up and surprise them all. But he rarely did.
During the previous seven years Federica’s crush on Sam had neither waned nor tempered. If anything it had grown more intense, teased by the fact that she so rarely saw him. She knew he was too old, she knew he would never look at her as anything other than his little sister’s friend, but still she fantasized about him. Molly and Flester knew of her crush. The whole family did and they all found it charming, even Sam, whose ego wasn’t immune to the blushes of a twelve-year-old child. But no one ever spoke of it in front of Federica. She was shy and ill-equipped for their type of humour.
It was warm. The bluebells flooded the ground like a violet river, drowning
the disintegrating winter foliage beneath them, shimmering in the breeze and heralding the return of spring. Sam pulled off his sweater, tying it about his waist and walking in his shirtsleeves, leaving the cuffs undone to flap carelessly about his hands. Trotsky trotted along behind them, sniffing the bushes and cocking his leg everywhere because the scent of spring excited him. ‘I do love this time of year. The smells are rich, the trees in bud. Just look at that green, it’s unreal, isn’t it?’ he said, pulling a piece of blossom off a tree and smelling it.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she replied, following him up the path that wound its way through the trees.
‘I remember when you first moved here,’ he said.
‘Me too. I nearly died in the lake.’
‘Not a very auspicious start,’ he chuckled.
‘It’s got better, though,’ she replied. It had got better, but now it had all gone wrong.
‘Do you miss Chile?’ he asked, slowing down for her to catch up as the path widened to allow them both to walk side by si
de.
‘I miss my father,’ she said truthfully, swallowing a sob. ‘Chile is little more
than a faded memory. If I think of Chile I think of my father.’
Sam pulled a sympathetic smile. He was very aware that she never spoke about her father. Nuno had condemned him as heartless, Inigo irresponsible. Only Ingrid took Ramon’s side and believed there was more to it than the superficial actuality of a father deserting his family.
When Ramon had left Polperro seven years before, everyone had remained electrified by his sudden visit. Federica had talked proudly about him at every opportunity, clearly expecting him to return every once in a while to see her, perhaps one day coming to stay for good. She had written to him. Long letters in her childish hand, signed with love and sealed with hope. He had written poems for her and a novel which he had dedicated ‘to my daughter’ about a little girl called Topahuay who lived in Peru but which none of the Applebys understood except for Nuno who had a basic knowledge of Spanish because of his ability to speak Italian. Then the letters had begun to arrive with less frequency until they had almost dried up altogether. There was no surprise visit, no telephone call. Federica kept his letters in the butterfly box, which she hid under her bed. Without knowing why she began to shroud Ramon in secrecy.
She stopped talking about him. She showed no one her butterfly box. She possessively protected his memory in the silent halls of her mind where she alone could visit him. The only person she allowed into these halls was Hester. And Hester loyally kept all Federica’s secrets. She even managed to keep them from Molly who had attempted to force them out of her sister with both manipulation and force. But Hester had never given in and took great pride in her loyalty.
As the years passed Federica’s shame grew. Everyone else had a father. The other schoolchildren wondered why Federica didn’t have one and whispered about it behind her back. Deep in her subconscious she couldn’t help but wonder whether she had done something wrong, for he couldn’t love her. If he loved her he would want to see her. If he loved her he’d miss her like she missed him. She remembered his words about Señora Baraca because she remembered everything he had ever said to her. ‘Sometimes it’s better to move on, rather than dwell on the past. One should learn things from the past and then let them go.’ He had chosen to stay away, would he prefer them to let him
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