Mad Dogs and an English Girl

by Caroline Waterman

  It was nearly the end of August and I knew that all Spanish families return from their holidays promptly by the first of September. I therefore tried to avail myself as much as possible of the sun and sea although a lot of my time was spent giving the children lessons. In the afternoons I was instructed to go for walks with Tomasín and ‘converse with him in English’ which, of course, was easier said than done. We would walk along the cliffs and I would try him with a few simple sentences but Tomasín did not want to practise English. He much preferred to ogle the girls sunbathing on the beach below. I asked him questions but he would answer in Spanish and I realised I was wasting my time. One afternoon I became so exasperated that I suddenly turned on him and yelled in English: “you cheeky, lazy little brat! I’ve had enough. I’m fed up with trying to teach you.At this rate you’ll never learn English – not in a million years.” He stared at me in surprise. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand anything you say.”

  “Perhaps that’s just as well!” I muttered.

  The following Sunday, our last day in Santander, was a fiesta celebrated in true Spanish style with religious processions and dancing in the streets. In the afternoon,Vázquez, his wife and the older children went to the bullfight and I was left with Josefina and the monsters.They were being particularly boisterous and difficult and Josefina was beginning to flag so I suggested she should leave them with me that afternoon and have a couple of hours off.“You look as though you need it! I’ll take them to the fun fair.” Her face lit up.

  “That would be wonderful! I could go and see Pepe. He’s a boy I met here, but don’t tell the Mistress!”

  So I took the boys to the fun fair and spent a thoroughly exhausting afternoon chasing after them for they were here, there and everywhere, into everything and constantly demanding sweets, ices or rides. They were not used to being denied anything and threw terrible tantrums when they didn’t get their own way. Poor Josefina! She certainly deserved her afternoon off and I hoped she was enjoying her secret rendez-vous with Pepe. For my part, somehow I managed to survive the afternoon and, even more miraculously, so did Paquito and Miguel.

  When we got back to the pensión, Josefina had returned and was setting out clean clothes for the children. She was singing a little tune and looked flushed and happy.

  “Had a good afternoon?” I enquired casually as I stripped the boys of their ice cream-covered shirts and shorts. She turned and smiled at me.

  “Very good, señorita. Yes, it was very, very good. But please don’t tell the Mistress!”

  That evening we were joined at dinner by a friend ofVázquez, another doctor who worked at the same clinic. His name was Raúl García, a tall, handsome man in his thirties with gentle, brown eyes and a pleasant manner. He spoke quite good English and we chatted together during the meal. He asked me if I liked being in Spain, if I was happy with the job, etc. and I responded with all the expected polite answers. I could see, however, that he was not fooled and at the end of the meal he leaned over to me and said quietly:“I think you may be a little bored.Would you like to come out with me tonight? We could go dancing.”

  I looked across atVázquez and his wife who were glaring at us, unable to understand our conversation, and I thought to myself, why not? Raúl García seemed courteous and pleasant and I had nothing else to do, so I agreed.

  He took me to an open-air night club. The night was warm, the air full of the salty smell of the sea mixed with the perfume of flowers. Coloured lights twinkled in the trees and below them, people were dancing or sitting at tables drinking. On a small, raised dais a Latin-American band was playing a samba. We sat down at one of the tables and Raúl ordered manzanilla, a strong, white wine which I knew from my outings with Don Federico, had to be treated with respect.

  “To our last night in Santander!” smiled Raúl, clinking his glass against mine. “And this is a pleasant way to spend it – is it not?” I agreed that it was and he replenished my half-empty glass.

  A cabaret was now in progress. It consisted of a group of rather incompetent flamenco dancers and an unshaven guitarist. They strummed and clicked away and Raúl leaned back in his chair to watch them, tapping his foot and puffing at his cigarette. I finished my glass of manzanilla and he immediately re-filled it, ignoring my protests. By the time the cabaret ended I was beginning to feel slightly light-headed but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Through a pleasant haze I saw the dancers leave the dais and the band return. They struck up a lively cha-cha-cha and Raúl took me by the hand and led me onto the dance floor. For the first time since my arrival in Spain I was feeling quite relaxed and all my problems with the Vázquez family seemed to fade into insignificance. Between the dances my companion made sure my glass was never empty. By this time I had thrown caution to the winds because it was such a relief to find that I no longer cared whether or not Tomasín learnt English. I could not care less about the wretched boy, nor Don Tomás, nor Doña Constanza. I only knew that I was enjoying myself and that Raúl was a good dancer. As the night wore on I lost all sense of time. It was like being in a dreamy world of wine and music and Raúl. He was saying something to me but my bemused head couldn’t take it in, being only aware that we were dancing a slow beguine and that I liked the smell of his after-shave. Then I realised that I was treading on his feet and finding it difficult to remain upright! The time had come to leave, I thought vaguely, as my head lolled against his shoulder.

  “I think you have had a few glasses too many, little English girl,” he was saying. I looked up at him. He smiled and I felt his lips touch my forehead.

  “It’s about time I took you home. I don’t know what Tomás would think!”

  “I wonder what your wife would think?” I said with sudden inspiration. We stopped dancing and walked back to the table in silence.Then he said:“How did you know? – that I’m married?”

  “Call it feminine intuition,” I yawned.

  “Wake up señorita! We have to get up early this morning.”

  Josefina’s voice seemed unnaturally loud and grating. Surely it couldn’t be time to get up already? I had only just gone to bed! Admittedly it had been three o’clock that morning when I had groped my way through the darkness between the sleeping children and fallen onto my bed in a drunken stupor. It was too cruel that now we had to get up early! I sat up and was immediately aware of my throbbing head and churning stomach. The room spun round and I sank back again on the pillow with a groan.

  The thought of beginning another day was appalling but already there was feverish activity all around. Josefina was packing the children’s things while Miguel and Paquito jumped on the beds and rushed screaming round the room. I looked at my watch. Six thirty.

  After a cup of very strong coffee I could see more clearly but my head still ached as we drove to the bus station. As there was no room in Vázquez’s car for all of us, it was decided that Josefina, Tomasín and I should return to Burgos by bus. It promised to be a hot day and already the early morning sun felt strong. At the bus stationVázquez gave me the tickets and money for our lunches and then departed. There were a lot of people milling around but I could not see anything resembling a bus.

  “Hurry señorita or we shall not get a seat!” said Josefina. Following the direction of her waving hand I then noticed a heap of rusting metal in the shape of a large, ancient vehicle. It was probably older than the buses of the Hotel España and the Hotel Ávila and certainly in worse condition than either. I estimated that our chances of reaching Burgos in this contraption were, to say the least, remote.

  We clambered up into our rickety seats with difficulty as all around us our fellow passengers were pushing and squeezing us back in their eagerness to find places.There were country folk with their inevitable crates of chickens, scruffy soldiers and spruce business men smelling of after-shave and cigars: an odd mixture of humanity. Still they kept pouring in and when all seats were filled, they just squeezed themselves into any remaining space until it was literal
ly impossible for anyone to move. Last in was a civil guard, bristling with weapons and wearing the three-cornered hat that inspired such fear in my Basque friends. He sat on the floor by the door staring vacantly into space.

  A few minutes later the driver arrived, a great hefty fellow with a red face and few teeth. He was wielding an enormous handle with which, after a series of unsuccessful attempts, he eventually succeeded in bringing the reluctant engine spluttering to life. Then he clambered over the passengers and shoe-horned himself into his seat.

  Now, incredibly, we were moving, rocking to and fro, jolting and back-firing but at least moving. Once out on the open road the driver relaxed completely. With hands off the wheel, he lit endless cigarettes and chatted incessantly to the passengers around him, gesticulating enthusiastically as he did so. Above his head a large notice sternly reminded passengers that it was ‘strictly forbidden to talk to the driver’ and another forbade ‘smoking and spitting in the coach’. From where I was sitting I could observe the speedometer and noticed that the top speed achieved was twenty kilometres per hour. By the time we started to climb into the hills it was incredibly hot and stuffy in the bus and we were all streaming with perspiration.Also the engine was over-heating and this meant that the driver had to stop every so often to lift the bonnet, inspect the engine, allow the radiator to cool and then pour in more water. This all took time. In addition, the driver seemed plagued by an unquenchable thirst and not a single wayside inn escaped his eagle eye.At every one we stopped and waited while he refreshed himself and by lunch time he was steering a somewhat erratic course. This was even worse than driving with Vázquez so I was thankful when at last we stopped to eat.

  A mountain fonda provided us with a good meal but I was not hungry as my head was still pounding and my stomach protesting at the excesses of the night before. The combination of a hang-over and a long, hot journey in a rickety bus was hardly conducive to good appetite. However, Josefina and Tomasín tucked in heartily and were surprised at my indifference to the food.

  Our journey was resumed but again progress was infuriatingly slow. It dawned on me that yet another reason for our all too frequent stops was that the bus carried mail. At every hamlet packets of letters were exchanged and this provided the driver with an excuse to chat with his many friends along the route. The procedure never varied. The bus would stop at a village and the driver sounded his horn. In the distance a figure would appear running towards us across the fields, bearing a packet of letters. He and the driver, after greeting each other like long-lost brothers, would exchange all the latest news and frequently retire to the local fonda for a drink.

  In the meantime we, the passengers, had to remain suffering in the sweltering heat of the bus. The policeman guarding the doorway made sure that none of us alighted to stretch our legs. Here the driver was king and, of course, time for him was of no importance. None of the passengers complained. On the contrary, they seemed not in a hurry either and were quite contented gossiping and smoking. Apart from me, only the chickens, wilting in the sun, their beaks gaping open, their eyes glazed, seemed unhappy with the situation.

  As we left the mountains the heat intensified and crossing the Castilian plateau was a nightmare. All around threshing was in progress and the choking dust hung like a cloud over the whole plain. By this time I was half fainting with heat and exhaustion and even Tomasín didn’t look too well.

  It was evening when we finally rattled into Burgos and we crawled out of the bus and staggered home. My head was splitting and I felt sick.Vázquez and the rest of the family had arrived home several hours earlier and were fresh and lively. By contrast all three of us were dusty, exhausted and in low spirits but Vázquez was far from sympathetic and Josefina was put to work immediately bathing and changing the children.Tomasín was sent to study until supper time and I was told to take the two younger boys for a walk when Josefina had prepared them. I told Vázquez that I was not feeling well, was going to bed and would not be having any supper. He was furious.

  “There is nothing the matter with you.” he shouted.“You will do as I say and take the children out!”

  I replied firmly that I was tired after the journey, had a headache and was going to bed. Then I retired to my room ignoring his protests.A fine doctor! I thought, I wouldn’t like to be one of his patients.

  I undressed, had a shower, and got into bed, shivering with fever.A moment later there was a tap at the door and Rosa entered with a cup of cold camomile tea and an aspirin. She looked at me with some concern.“You are ill, señorita?”

  I accepted the tea gratefully and gulped it down. “You have saved my life, Rosa.That journey nearly killed me.”

  “It’s the heat,” she assured me comfortingly.

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s right – the heat.You see we English just aren’t used to it.”

  Rosa smiled understandingly and left the room. I was thankful that once again I had been able to use this excuse to cover up the ill effects of alcohol!

  CHAPTER THREE

  FRIENDS

  Dr.Vázquez’s wife, Doña Constanza, ruled her domestic staff with a rod of iron. All day long her raucous voice could be heard up and down the flat shrieking at the servants. “Rosa! Have you cleaned this room yet? Rosa! Where are my black shoes? Josefina! Why aren’t the children ready? Rosa! Rooooosa!”

  A cook had recently joined the household. Her name was Mercedes and she was a plump, motherly woman whose meals were delicious but Doña Constanza was always finding fault with her. She was late with the dinner, she had not gone shopping at the right time and no! That was not the fish that had been ordered. Rosa and Josefina were seemingly resigned to this bullying but the cook did not take to it so kindly. Although always respectful, she would sometimes attempt to defend herself and this would infuriate her mistress.Terrible rows ensued.

  It was a relief to escape to the relative quiet of the conservatory where I gave Tomasín his lessons, but even there we could not always be free of Doña Constanza. Often, during the lessons, she would come in to dust her plants. As she polished each leaf she would watch me closely with a mixture of hostility and suspicion.This was unnerving, but I tried to take no notice of her. Vázquez also liked to watch the lessons when he could. One morning he came home early from the clinic. He was in a jovial mood for a change and stood observing us for some minutes.Then he sat down beside his son and remained there for the rest of the lesson.

  “I see Tomasín is learning English well,” he commented.“Now I wish you to give me lessons too.”

  From then on he insisted on having a class to himself every day before lunch. I rather resented this as it was not in our contract, but decided to put up with it for the sake of peace.

  He was a more enthusiastic student than Tomasín but that did not make him any easier to teach. While above the table we were engaged in the idiosyncrasies of the English language, below it I was struggling to keep my knees away from his. His hands and feet also were often in an exploratory mood and this made concentration very difficult for both of us. On one memorable occasion we had just finished with the future tense and were about to start on the conditional when suddenly, and with the deftness of a magician, he produced a condom and dangled it before my astonished eyes.

  “Do you know what this is?” he grinned. I nodded dumbly, too taken aback to say anything.

  “I expect you thought you couldn’t get them in Spain?” he enquired, chuckling under his breath. I looked at him coldly. “I hadn’t thought about it,” I replied truthfully.

  “You see you can get them if you know where to go,” he persisted,“on the black mark–”

  “Lunch is ready,” I interrupted him hastily.“Don’t you hear the gong? We mustn’t keep Doña Constanza waiting.”The mention of his wife irritated him. He scowled and muttered: “Never mind her!”

  I stood up and gathered the books together, anxious to get away from him.

  “I think we ought to go,” I insisted. “Oh, and perh
aps you’d better put that away. I can hear Doña Constanza coming to fetch us for lunch.”

  Vázquez frowned ever more darkly and replaced the offending object in his pocket.

  “Damn her!” he growled.“I’m the one who gives the orders in this house.”

  Vázquez and his wife always ate alone at one end of the long table in the dining room. The servants ate in the kitchen and I had my meals with Josefina and the younger children in the nursery. This would have been a good arrangement but for the fact that the children’s behaviour was appalling. If a meal met with their disapproval or they wanted the sweet course instead of the main one, they would fling their food on the floor in disgust and Josefina would then have to clear up the mess. I asked her why she put up with it but she only smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I was often tempted to try my hand at disciplining them and had to remind myself that, thankfully, this was not part of my job. However, I found a way of encouraging them to behave themselves for short periods by telling a story at every mealtime to be continued only if they were good. Most of the time this worked (to Josefina’s delight) but not always.

  Now that I had to teach Vázquez during the hour before lunch, I could no longer accompany Don Federico on his round of the bars. The family, particularly Doña Constanza, clearly disapproved of our innocent friendship. She hinted darkly that he was not a respectable person to be seen out with; he was an alcoholic with a bad reputation. “He has a wife in Navarre you know,” she would say, “and a mistress in Burgos. Everyone knows that he has a mistress.” I ignored her warnings, preferring to judge people by the way they treated me, and I had always found Don Federico both agreeable and kind. Moreover, what he did with his private life did not concern me and was certainly no business of theirs! I continued to see him in the evenings or on Sundays.