The Summer of the Spanish Woman

by Catherine Gaskin

  Then I turned and looked at my mother. Silent tears streamed down the face that now looked so much older than its years, still a beautiful face, but so terribly altered. I went and knelt beside her. ‘Mother … Mother …!’

  ‘He said I would have to go to that … that place.’ I knew what she meant. We had once visited Nuestra Señora de Mercedes together, with our small annual donation. I could remember the frightened silence which had descended on my mother when the Mother Superior had insisted on showing us about the institution. ‘You see,’ she had said quietly, ‘it is quite a beautiful place. The Marquesa de Pontevedra has been most generous in helping us. The restoration of the cloisters ‒ the ceiling in the chapel. All done through her kindness. And she sends linen each year for the inmates.’ There was no doubt that our connection with the Marquesa was the reason for her cordiality. Our donation would never rate such special attention. ‘Come, let me show you.’

  There had been a long white room, with bare tables, where women clothed in shapeless grey garments worked at sewing linen sheets. ‘These are the more fortunate ones. The quiet ones. Unhappily, some are rather more violent, and must be kept under close watch. Would you like …?’

  My mother shrank back. ‘Please, Mother Superior … I have promised my little grandson I shall take him to a birthday party. Perhaps some other time. I wish there was more we could do …’ She was hurrying towards the great outer door that led from the cloister; the last steps were almost at a run. When we were back in the landau I saw that she was trembling violently. ‘That place … the terrible place,’ she murmured.

  Now she repeated the words. ‘That terrible place. He wants to shut me up in that terrible place.’ She grasped my arm with astonishing strength. ‘Promise me, Charlie ‒ promise me on your oath that you’ll never let me be sent to that place. Or any place like it. Promise me you’ll kill me before you’d let that happen. Do you swear it, Charlie? Do you swear it?’

  I brushed the tears from her anguished face. ‘I swear it, Mother. Never – never.’

  I remained kneeling beside her, rocking her like one of my children. The room was still save for the sound of her harsh sobs. ‘That terrible place …’

  That night, after I had seen my mother to bed, and Maria Luisa had arranged the cot to her liking, I went to the room next door, the room that had become my own.

  There, at what hour in the morning I do not know, Carlos appeared. Pepita’s low growl told me of his presence. Automatically I silenced her, thinking of my mother sleeping so close, and Maria Luisa.

  ‘Well, mother of my brave bulls, shall I get another on you?’ He was drunk.

  And then he raped me.

  Chapter Five

  I

  Spring came, as it does in Andalucia, with a blanket of wild flowers that grew in all the places which during the heat of the summer seemed to be a desert. Along the sides of the roads and in the fields they grew, the small purple iris, the scarlet poppy, the sun flower; the violet flowers of the periwinkle appeared shyly in odd places. A white magnolia bloomed in our courtyard, the Judas trees displayed their pink against the soft blue sky, the jacaranda dropped its petals into the stable-yard, jasmine appeared against old walls and scented the night air. The vines began to put out shoots.

  ‘It is heaven,’ Edwin Fletcher said. He was forever stopping to bend and smell some blossom. ‘Things smell different here.’ It was as if he was trying to overcome the lingering smell of the gas that had nearly destroyed his lungs. He might revel in it all, but his health seemed little improved. He was still unnaturally thin, and fits of coughing still shook him. ‘You should drink more sherry,’ Maria Luisa advised. ‘This town is full of healthy old people who’ve taken their copitas all their lives as they have taken their religion.’ Edwin had enough regard for Maria Luisa’s intelligence to be able to laugh at her ambiguity. So we moved a table into the courtyard where the sun would be warmest in the half-hour before lunch; we sat and drank our copitas and Edwin talked with the children, as the Marquesa had bidden him, but he did not talk of going home. Martin had now become his pupil for a few hours each day. Books suitable for their ages kept arriving from London. In spite of his efforts to remain true to his promise to the Marquesa, Edwin was learning Spanish. It was impossible not to. When he received the primers in reading from England, he went to Seville to secure similar ones in Spanish. ‘I’m no schoolmaster,’ he confessed. ‘I don’t know how to teach them to read in one language and not in their own.’ It was strange to see this man who had that unusual double first from Cambridge sitting in the sun-warmed courtyard studying the primers with the large type-face and the childish pictures. He made his own vocabulary list, and studied it each day. It amused Juan to give him tests in spelling ‒ Juan not realising that he himself was learning the English translations of the words at the same time.

  When we were alone, out of hearing of my mother, Edwin and I discussed the events of that spring in Ireland. The Easter Rebellion had sent a wave of shock and fear through England. The story of Roger Casement landing by German submarine had re-awakened the old fear of invasion through Ireland. There was public clamour for the execution of the leaders of the rebellion. ‘They will make martyrs for Ireland,’ Edwin said, ‘and the Irish have always loved and fought for their saints. This insurrection has been put down, but I think it has not ended this phase of the Irish struggle. I think this time it will go on … and on. Your homeland could be ravaged. Once the war is over, if England has any strength left she will turn her attention to Ireland, and then God knows … I wonder how Lord Blodmore feels about it. It must be an uneasy position to be part of the English Ascendancy now.’

  ‘The people will remember my grandfather,’ I said. ‘They will remember that he stood with Parnell and the Land Leaguers. There is a fund of goodwill for the Blodmores that Richard may draw on …’

  He nodded. ‘It could be so. Of necessity, the Irish have developed long memories.’

  The spring also brought further advance in my mother’s recovery. Balthasar, after the accident, had been sent to stay permanently on Luis’s hacienda. My mother went one day to visit Half Moon’s new foal, which promised to be even better than the last. Her delight in the sight of her beloved horses imbued me with a sense of new hope. I was almost about to put a question to her when she forestalled me.

  ‘Why, Charlie, is there a saddle I could borrow? I do believe I’d like just to try a little canter on Balthasar.’

  Andy, who was hovering nearby, nodded. He went out every day to the hacienda to exercise Balthasar. The stallion was neither too fresh, nor was he dangerous. He had greeted his mistress, and the sugar she brought, with whinnies of delight.

  So she had a short canter through Luis’s spring-greened pastures, through the flowers, through the fragrant scent which the eucalyptus have at that time of the year. When she returned to the paddock to unsaddle, her face wore the sort of radiance which belonged to the old days. After that, Luis sent his trap every morning to collect her from the Plaza de Asturias, and she had her ride on Balthasar, Andy at her side. Never again did she attempt the exercises of the High School. She lacked the concentration and the ambition for that. Perhaps the memories of that dreadful morning could not be faced. But occasionally, from sheer exhilaration and perhaps a desire to demonstrate his own skill, Balthasar, without urging, would fall into the step of the Passage, or the extended trot. I saw him once or twice simply stop, and begin the Piaffe, the trot on the spot, that marvellous movement when all four feet seemed simply to float above the ground. My mother showed no sign of fear when this happened, just pleasure in the intelligence and beauty of her beloved animal. She appeared to remember only the good things of the time before the accident. There was praise and sugar for Balthasar, and apparently no black memories. Her pleasure reminded me of a little girl with her first pony.

  That spring Andy’s first son was born. He had had his wish of a healthy child, and an easy time for Manuela. The child was not,
however, called after me. That would have meant he would be called Carlos, and we did not even discuss the possibility. Instead he was called Patrick John, after my mother and grandfather. Andy always called him his full name in English, but for his mother and her family he was Patricio.

  And that spring I also became certain that I was going to have another child, a child which would be the hurtful fruit of the night Carlos had forced himself upon me. This time I did not tell anyone, but kept the bitter knowledge within me, turning sour like wine in an unclean butt.

  To forget about the child, whose coming I would disguise as long as possible, I turned my attention once more to the vineyards. Neglected through the worst period of my mother’s illness I turned to them for the kind of pleasure and comfort she had from Balthasar. I stared out over the greening sweep of the slopes, and knew, momentarily, a little peace.

  II

  During the winter the last of the land my grandfather had bought was planted out in vines. It was the first time I had not watched every part of it, known each plant, almost, and grieved when some of them failed, as some always did. So it was the time of the golpe-lleno, the third tilling of the vineyards in May before I was able to visit Las Ventanas Verdes for more than a few hours. I planned to spend some days there with only Pepita for company. The house in the Plaza de Asturias could carry on without me; Maria Luisa would keep a watch on my mother, Edwin Fletcher would be there to teach, and in a sense, to entertain the children. Carlos would go about his own pursuits, as he always did.

  I was received with affection by Conceptión, with a mixture of pleasure and concern by Antonio. Since the time of my mother’s illness he had been left virtually alone in the running of the vineyards, and although Mateo was ever-present with advice, the responsibility had borne heavily on Antonio. We both seemed to have aged in those few months I told him. We laughed together, I drank a glass of wine with them both, and I told Antonio I would walk with him to inspect the vines the next day. I had my dinner of stewed chicken, sat by the fire with Pepita for a time, and went to bed to sleep the sleep of restfulness which had not been possible since that terrible day in December. The silence and sweet air of the vineyards was all about me. I lay in those moments before sleep in the big brass bed which had been my marriage bed, and tried to give my thoughts to my baby, the child whose coming I did not want, but for which I must somehow find love. I told myself that I must spend as much time as possible during this pregnancy at the vineyard. The child, I reasoned, would grow like the young plants. A grafting would take place, as it did with the vines. The native stock would be grafted to the foreign roots. The soil would give character, the sun would give sweetness. I would think of this child as the one who had been transformed by the soil, as the plants were. It would be the child of the vineyards. In this way I could forget Carlos.

  The next day was one of pure pleasure. The sun was warm, but not too hot. Antonio had done his work well. Everything seemed well-tended, the vines looked healthy. I ate my late lunch at a table in the courtyard, and Conceptión's children played about me. They played fearlessly with Pepita, and she took their pats and the occasional tug at her ears with good-natured tolerance. She looked at me as if to indicate that children, like the flies of summer, were just something to be put up with. ‘You will soon have another one to guard, Pepita,’ I said softly to her in English.

  Conceptión and I exchanged gossip. I talked about my mother and how well she did, how she went every day to ride Balthasar. I found Conceptión knew almost as many details of her illness as I knew myself, and had a few embellishments to add. It was always the way. Nothing could be kept hidden. She was as careful to avoid the mention of Carlos’s name as I was.

  ‘The señora looks tired. It has been a great strain. You should rest here for some days. It must be difficult to have that very clever man, Don Edwin, always at the table and have to talk to him. But they say he still reads books for little children. But how fortunate the señora is to have him. The Marquesa provides well. How fortunate to have an education … No doubt the Marquesa will see that they all go to school in England. It is the custom …’ Then she bustled to clear the dishes, perhaps to cover a faint note of wistfulness which had appeared. I watched the merry, tumbling children in the courtyard, their number almost one for each year Conceptión had been married. Like their parents they would be lucky if they managed to write their own name, and, very slowly, read the headlines of a newspaper. I understood the wistfulness; I knew it from Ireland.

  After the siesta I brought out the books, the books I had meant to study carefully during these few days at the vineyard, the books that told my story of profit and loss, debt and solvency. I had many new figures to enter, and I was fearful of the final tally. Then I realised my mistake. What I had brought with me were the household books Maria Luisa kept at the Plaza de Asturias. The vineyard books remained back there. I shrugged, and then I smiled. The thought of profit and loss could be postponed for a few days. I could blame the magnificence of the fine Spanish leather binding, which demanded that major enterprise as well as petty household accounts, should be posted in equal state.

  I smiled and called to Conceptión to bring me some tea. It would be a holiday ‒ a holiday away from the dreaded books, away from the cares of my family. It would be a holiday among the beloved vines, and time in which to learn to know my new child. I took down one of Amelia’s books of poetry, and began, painstakingly, to try to translate it with a sense of its rhythms. Much of it still evaded me, so I read just for the beauty of the Spanish words.

  Along with tea, Luis appeared. He bowed over my hand, and his eyes lighted with pleasure as he saw the book. ‘I was visiting the vineyard, and Mateo told me you had come. Things are better at home, then?’

  ‘Better, yes. My mother seems happy, though ‒ well, you understand. She may never be any different. But thanks to your goodness, she has a daily source of happiness in riding Balthasar.’

  ‘My dear Carlota! ‒ I have nothing to do with it. I merely stand on the sidelines, and wish I could help.’

  I got out of my chair, and went and called to Conceptión to bring our best fino. Then I took my friend’s hand. ‘My dear Luis. Please don’t think us unaware, or ungrateful. My mother rides each day out of your goodness. We have Balthasar and Half Moon on your land, and although we pretend to pay for a stable-boy to look after them, we know that is mostly a pretence. They use your fields, your stables. Half Moon’s first foal is still there, and now the second one. We had planned to sell both of them ‒ the yearling is splendid, and so is the new colt. They would have brought a good price. A price that might at least have paid our feed bills with you, the stable-boy ‒ all the rest of it. But since my mother’s … since my mother’s injury, she seems to need them. She sees them as a hold on the past. I cannot imagine what it would do to her if the two young ones were sold just at this time.’

  ‘Sell them! ‒ you are mad, Carlota! They represent the sort of capital that the vineyards do. They are the beginning, possibly, of a great blood-line. After all, Balthasar is descended from our great Andalucian-Arab, Tabal. Half Moon comes from the finest Irish strain. You would not, in the bodega, sell your wine before it matures. So don’t sell your stud before it is begun.’

  ‘But I owe you ‒’

  He gestured me into silence. ‘Owe! What is it to owe a friend? In friendship we are all in debt. But let me convince you about Balthasar and Half Moon. About the importance of breeding. We have a charming, fanciful legend here in Andalucia …’

  Conceptión brought the decanter and the glasses. I poured our copitas. The shadows had fallen across the vineyard slopes and a small cool wind blew from the east. I went and lighted the fire, watching the small dry sticks burn, then the solid logs catch. I returned to my chair and leaned back, longing to hear the story, ready to be entertained.

  ‘A fanciful legend,’ Luis repeated, ‘that the five main branches of the Andalucian-Arab are descended from the mares of Maho
mmet. The tale goes that the mares were all kept from water for four days, and then taken to a river and released. All rushed to the water except five, who obeyed the command to halt. From these five mares our great horses are bred.’

  I laughed with him. ‘I must remember to tell my mother. She will be enchanted.’ I listened as he talked seriously about leasing land from him for a stud. We did not talk about where the money would come from. It must, of course, come from him.

  ‘Think of what interest and occupation it would give your mother. Think of her pleasure in her beautiful foals. With her knowledge and eye for a horse and its temperament, the best would be kept for breeding, and the rest sold to support the stud. It could be a life for her, Carlota. A life that will be denied if she just shuts herself up at the Plaza de Asturias.’ Another thing, which we did not mention, was the hope that it would distract her from drinking; it would keep her busy for many hours of the day, and when she was busy and interested, she didn’t think about wine and brandy. Luis knew this as well as I. But still I held back. Studs were a notoriously precarious business. A broken leg and the destruction of a great sire or dam could mean the end of a whole year’s profits, and the future hope of profits. Sickness could run through the whole stable. The tasks and costs of feeding and caring for horses were as endless as the tasks of the vineyard. But Luis was right when he reminded me that Andalucia was recognised as one of the world’s great breeding places of horses, and the Carthusian strain was famous and valuable. The thought excited me. Ireland had spawned so many horse-breeders, successes and failures. The challenge and the taste for the risk of it were in my blood.