‘Irun? But that’s almost San Sebastian, and you said—’
‘Yes, I said it, but I changed my mind.’
‘That’s for women.’ She reminded him with a little laugh how he had said that to Mrs. Fenton.
‘Well,’ he amended, ‘shall I say the children changed my mind? Water is for children, and I will not have ours deprived. We will slip through San Sebastian to some smaller coastal resort, remain there in safety and relaxation ... for if San Sebastian is not my favourite then its surrounding watering-places are both charming and refreshingly simple ... while our coach travellers bathe in luxury pools instead of the sea at one of the many fabulous hotels, the Londres, perhaps, the Continental, the Maria Cristina. But fabulous hotels and pequenos do not mix. I will find a small posada ... inn, Senorita Zoe. Or a simple pension.’
‘You will like that?’ She was openly amazed, he seemed such a luxurious man, a man for the rich sophisticated things in life, she simply could not picture him in a posada ... an inn. In a pension. And yet, she recalled, he had linked arms with the others. Linked hers.
‘Si,’ he said, a little annoyed and showing it, ‘I will like that.’
‘Because of the children?’
‘You are very curious this morning. Yes, because of the children. Otherwise most certainly I would not choose what I will choose now.’
‘Are you a parent, Senor Raphaelina?’
‘Your pardon?’
‘Are you a father?’ she explained.
‘I am not a married man,’ he said stiffly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she hastened, ‘I really meant that you were so family-wise that for a moment I believed you must have a family.’
‘I have not.’
‘Then certainly you are excellent material.’ At his inquiring look: ‘Father material.’
‘In our country,’ and he said it stiffly again, ‘the husband comes prior to the father.’
‘I’ve annoyed you again,’ sighed Zoe.
‘No,’ he said, and he flashed her an unexpected smile, ‘you have deprived me of the sweetness of a different sort that comes before the family state, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She lowered her head.
He looked at her a while, then asked, ‘Are you laughing at me down there? Are you scorning “These romantic Spanish fools!”?’
‘Senor, no!’ Zoe was shocked and her head, flung up, was very erect.
‘But we are romantic,’ he admitted honestly.
‘So are other races.’
‘But they do not show it as we show it. It is, I think, our more languorous climate. The spirit floats in such a balmy world. It is easier’—a shrug—’to welcome love when everything is golden.’ Another glance at Zoe. ‘You live in a golden country, too. Is love so enfolding there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Zoe said slowly. ‘I don’t know love. Yet.’
‘So,’ he said, and said it thoughtfully. Almost in satisfaction, she puzzled. Satisfaction?
‘But,’ she went on, ‘I would want a love that would stand a cold climate.’
‘Senorita?’
‘I really mean it mustn’t matter, that a background mustn’t matter, that all that must matter is that it’s there.’ She was aware by a burning in her cheeks that she had gone a deep pink.
‘I’m making no sense,’ she said hastily.
He said back, ‘I understand every word.’
They went a mile in silence, then he added, ‘Apart from the attraction of sand and water for a few days there are fiestas, which children adore. Yes, indeed, our pequenos must have what other pequenos have ... and, by the look of those little bird beaks now opening hungrily on the back seat, it is something to eat.’
‘Ice-cream?’ asked Henri, waking up.
‘Citron presse?’ asked Fleurette.
‘Milk,’ said the senor. ‘Eggs. Toast and honey.’
They evidently were hungry, for they did not think to grimace and pronounce ‘Ugh’ at the wholesome suggestion in comparison to ice-cream and squash.
‘When?’ they asked.
‘Soon. Very soon. Look, I see a little place now on the crest of the hill. We shall wash, comb our hair, then meet at that table on the terrace. The boy will go with the lady, the girl with the man. Is that right? Where’—at screams of derision—’am I wrong, then?’
‘The girls to Dames, the boys to Hommes. Didn’t you know?’ they giggled.
‘I’m a Spaniard.’
‘What is it there?’
‘You will see in Spain. Now then, last back to the table is a monkey, but mind you, no leaving out the creases in your haste. I will inspect every dimple.’
‘Zoe’s, too?’
‘Senorita Zoe’s as well.’ With a laugh he pulled up the car at the small white stucco cafe, took Henri’s hand in his and let the way to the wash-room. Zoe took Fleurette’s and they ran off.
Back at the table there was no dimple inspecting, for already the breakfasts had arrived, orange juice for four, four omelettes, toast and jam, two milks and two coffees. So evidently it was to be more than continental breakfast when the senor was present.
‘It is very necessary,’ Senor Raphaelina explained of the laden table, ‘when there are little ones on hand; little ones have a habit of inflicting wear and tear, I find.’ He gave a mock-weary sigh.
‘I agree, and I will eat to gather strength,’ Zoe assured him hungrily.
‘Do you know what?’ he asked, buttering toast for Fleurette.
‘What?’ Zoe asked, buttering toast for Henri.
‘You, too, have that material, that parent material you spoke of.’
‘Now you are being depriving!’
‘Oh, no, Senorita Zoe.’ All at once his voice had dropped several notes. ‘Spaniards are never like that.’
Suddenly absurdly abashed, Zoe diverted, ‘What is omelette in your country?’
‘Eggs, of course.’ His eyes were still holding hers, holding them relentlessly.
‘I—I meant the name.’
‘Tortilla.’
‘Do you hear that, children? Your first Spanish lesson. Tortilla is omelette in Spain,’ babbled Zoe.
But they were not listening. They were eating ravenously. Vividly aware of her embarrassment, Zoe put down her fork.
‘Eat, pequeno.’ the Spaniard smiled and took up his own fork.
After a moment, Zoe smiled at him and joined in the meal.
Breakfast over, they walked round the cafe garden for a while, then settled in the car for the run to the border.
The children sang, told childish jokes, played ‘I Spy’ in French and then in English and occasionally dozed throughout the morning so that the senor did not stop for a coffee break but ran right through until at Hendaye he woke the catnapping small ones to say adios to France and buenas dias to Spain.
‘Au revoir. Bon jour,’ they complied gravely.
‘Good-bye. Good morning,’ said Zoe in her turn. ‘Though,’ she added, ‘it’s almost afternoon.’
‘Your watch or your stomach?’ Ramon teased.
‘Both. My watch tells my stomach it is some hours since tortilla.’ She remembered the word.
‘Good girl,’ he awarded. ‘But now you are in Spain you must do as the Spaniards do, and that is, have later meals.’
‘Do you, senor?’
‘Breakfast from nine to ten, lunch from two to three, dinner nine to even eleven or after.’
‘What about children?’ put in the twins hopefully.
‘Seven, twelve, five.’ Senor Raphaelina dashed their hopes. ‘Children are the same the world over. But’—cheerily—’the beach we are going to is for children only. No grown-ups allowed.’ He smiled at their glee.
‘Is that right, senor?’ asked Zoe in a soft voice.
‘Not strictly, but only children will be seen there, for it is one of what we call our wading beaches, much too shallow and gentle for adults, but certainly a joy to parents, for there they can relax. I am hopi
ng you will relax also after your ordeal.’
‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘And content yourself ... he brushed aside her interruption ... ‘for several days with the children while I hurry down on business to Oporto.’
She tried to feel that Di and Di’s concerns were too urgent for her to relax for several days as he kindly suggested, but found ... lazily ... that she couldn’t. Diana had always exaggerated, and who was to say she had changed now? Why, even the report that Celestina was urging marriage on her was probably a far-fetched story.
‘I really should begin to see Spain for myself,’ she endeavoured weakly.
‘By all means see it from the inn that I feel sure will find accommodation for us, and which is situated, senorita, very favourably for local tours. Then when I return we will see the rest together.’
Zoe paused. ‘You mean the children and—’
He paused. Then: ‘Yes.’ He added, quite firmly: ‘Upon my return from Oporto.’
‘Oporto is Portuguese, isn’t it, senor?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Portugal is very different from Spain.’
‘Not so different as the world outside seems to see us. We speak almost similarly, eat similar meals, enjoy similar diversions.’
‘Bullfights?’
His face clouded, but he did not evade her question. ‘Every man in every country has something that he does not take to his heart.’
‘I’m sorry, senor.’ She said it sincerely; she should not have spoken as she had.
He replied simply, ‘So am I.’
‘What other differences?’
‘Physically, we are five times larger than Portugal, which makes a big difference on its own, but on the other hand our neighbour, though taking all our mountains and nearly all our rivers secondhand, has the advantage that there and there only do they become both useful and navigable.’ A rueful sigh.
‘What else?’ Zoe found the comparisons interesting.
‘A more vivid approach to life in the Spaniard, I do believe. One could almost say a flamenco spirit.’
‘Black mantillas?’ she asked.
‘Yes. They could undoubtedly be found in Portugal. But’—a pause—’only in Spain is there Spanish lace.’
Zoe said almost dreamily, ‘Spanish lace.’
They had by-passed San Sebastian, but the secondary road they were on still kept sight of the sea. Then Ramon turned the car inward for a few miles to emerge at a charming crescent of a beach, safe and shallow for the children, yet with good swimming, Zoe anticipated, at that little island some hundred yards out.
Beside the beach, in fact so near, delighted Zoe, that at night you would hear the eager rush and soft withdrawal of the tide, was a delightful little inn, to judge by its friendly appearance run more on the pension or family lines. It was painted white to match the wide clean sands, and had a windbreak of trees.
‘Myrtles,’ said the senor, ‘and this posada has the name of the Court of the Myrtles. Wait here, little ones all, while I see if they have room.’
He was back almost at once with a long string of porters.—Zoe was to discover that in Spain large numbers to render service was the general rule, that waiters at meals were many more than one would see in Australia. She was also to notice how they seemed to do boring humdrum things with gusto. Now they seized on the bags almost with relish and cheerfully bore them off.
‘As you see,’ indicated Ramon, equally cheerful, ‘there is room. Quite a lot of room. In fact a capacious suite.’
Zoe asked a little dubiously, ‘How many rooms?’
‘Besides the sitting room and balcony, three bedrooms.’
‘Three?’ she queried.
‘The girl child, the boy child, you yourself.’
‘Then you are going on to Oporto at once, senor?’ She felt a disappointment beyond all proportion, at least she considered it beyond all proportion.
‘Tomorrow, perhaps. But tonight I sleep at the hotel in my own room in the other wing.’ He was taking out his smaller cheroots; evidently he kept the larger more aromatic type for his leisure. ‘That arrangement does not suit you?’ he inquired.
‘Senor?’ she asked at once.
‘I really meant,’ he almost stammered ... the senor stammer? ... ‘you consider I should have the boy with me?’—Zoe was rather wickedly delighted to see red in his cheeks now instead of in hers.—‘But because the children are twins,’ he went on, ‘and obviously very close, I asked for the largest suite on that account. ‘But’—a little uncertainly; uncertainty, Zoe disbelieved, in the senor!—‘if you think—’
‘Of course I don’t think.’ Her glee had dispersed now. How could she have felt triumphant at discountenancing him? He was so grave, so correct, so proper. ‘I consider you have selected very well. Come along, my pets, the sooner we get settled the sooner you can go down to the beach.’
They needed no second prompting.
The rooms were delightful and almost ridiculously large, so much so that in each case the bed seemed toy size in comparison. There were two adjoining showers and one full bath enclosure. The furnishings were in the earthy colours that the senor had told her were favoured by the Spanish, but there was always somewhere that bold flamenco touch, perhaps a scarlet rug, a tangerine cushion, actually a bell pull in rich purple. Zoe had to keep little hands from it, but the senor shrugged. ‘Let them get it over, it will rid it from their systems. Also, it will inform the kitchen that we are ready for luncheon. A Spanish lunch, senorita. You will like that?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see it.’
‘It is very simple,’ he warned.
It was. Beside the salad, there was only cheese, black bread, sardines and a bowl of tangerines. But the children loved it, and the senor explained that the meal in the day was always on fairly frugal lines.
‘That’s wise,’ approved Zoe, ‘otherwise I would have to keep Fleurette and Henri out of the water for an hour in case of cramp, whereas now—’ She paused. Between the time of the pulling of the bell cord and the arrival of the meal she had unpacked the little portmanteaux, but now she recalled that she had unpacked no bathers.
‘What about bathing suits?’ she asked. ‘There were none in the bags.’
‘We took none to the Pension Danoise,’ explained Henri, ‘there is no swimming there.’
‘Then how do you expect—Oh!’ Zoe clapped her hand over her mouth.
‘You, too,’ laughed the senor. ‘Finish your meals, little ones, and we will run into San Sebastian for four—what do you call it, senorita from Australia?’
‘Togs. But—four, senor?’
‘I, too, forgot mine.’
Now they all laughed.
As they drove the few miles into the popular resort, Zoe hoped fervently aloud that they did not encounter the coach.
‘It would be quite some miles behind us. I drove all night, remember, and drove fast. But what difference does it make, child? You are certainly sufficiently chaperoned for a thousand Mrs. Fentons.’
‘What is this chap-er-one?’ inquired Henri again.
‘When in Spain you learn Spanish,’ declared the senor, ‘so we will leave English for later on. This, I think’—pulling up at a very smart beach-side boutique—’seems a likely place.’
It seemed an expensive place, too, and Zoe hesitated. She still had only that very small sum in her purse.
‘This, of course,’ declared the senor, ‘is my responsibility. I bring you to the water, so naturally I must provide you with the clothes to wear in the water.’
The twins’ airy acceptance drowned Zoe’s reluctance, and she followed the children into the smart shop.
‘You will find, senorita ‘warned the senor a little apologetically, ‘that the Spanish prefer the one-piece, and not very décolleté at that. In fact I doubt if there will be one bikini.’
There were many, of course, but the saleslady made no attempt to bring one down. She found small green trunks with a dolph
in motif for Henri, a pretty ballerina style for Fleurette, plain navy trunks for the senor and a dark blue sheath for Zoe.
‘Also most certainly large beach towels,’ ordered the senor. ‘An umbrella. The things children take into the water, rubber ducks, is it? Big balls?’ The children, to whom Ramon was already an idol, looked at him more adoringly still.
‘Buckets and spades still seem to be in fashion,’ Zoe reminded him.
‘Then buckets and spades to empty out the ocean, cream for noses, a cap for a head of peeled sticks.’
‘What, senor?’ asked the saleslady, astounded. The children, too, were floored.
But Zoe only smiled and said, ‘You are absurd.’
‘To wish to keep that silver as soft and shining as Spanish lace demands?’
‘I have no Spanish lace.’
‘Not yet.’ He selected a plain white rubber cap.
While they were in San Sebastian they visited the Museo Oceanografico, then had ices later at an adjoining cafe.
Coming out of the cafe Zoe stopped abruptly ... there was someone crossing the street whom she remembered on her trip from Australia. David Glenner had been good fun on the ship.
Ordinarily she would have liked to have met up again with him, exchanged notes on what had happened to their young group who had shared expenses in ports and the cost of drinks on board. But David had known that she and Di had disembarked at Lisbon, he had waved goodbye, and his first words would be either ‘Back again’ or ‘Still here’ and after what she had let the senor believe ... Grabbing Fleurette’s hand, she fairly ran to the car.
Spanish Lace Page 6