My father looked very tired and pale at breakfast and coughed a lot. But he seemed cheerful and suggested we take a bus down the coast to the southernmost tip of Spain, where I could see the Rock of Gibraltar and the coast of North Africa, and I could have a swim. I was thrilled, for I loved doing things with my father. He was such good company and knew so much about everything. I grabbed my bathing suit and we went to the bus stop and bought a picnic in the market while we waited.
I shall never forget that day, and yet I didn't know at the time that it was a very special day because nothing very special happened. We were just happy together. The bus rolled along the coast road with the sea on one side and the vineyards and olive groves on the other and sometimes a field of sunflowers facing east. No one could tell stories like my father, and he kept me spellbound telling me about the Spanish Civil War until the rattling bus lurched around a corner and I gave a gasp. There in front of me lay the sapphire blue Straits of Gibraltar and the Rock, like a grand old lion sitting in the sea. Across the Straits, misty but visible, were the high mountains of the North African coast. As the bus rattled into town, Dad started telling me about the habits of the rock apes of Gibraltar and the snake charmers of Tangier.
It was very, very hot down in the town, so we stopped for ice cream outside a little café where about half the customers had dark skin and spoke Arabic instead of Spanish. Then we looked at the shops, and I spent a long time choosing presents for Gran and Grandpa. My father sat on a chair in the shop, smoking and half-asleep, and did not hurry me at all.
Then we sauntered along the water's edge to the beach and I slipped into my bathing suit and raced toward the sea, dashing into the small waves, falling headlong, and striking out toward the deep water. I thought that first cool plunge was the most wonderful feeling on earth.
“Don't go too far,” shouted my father, and I turned and swam back toward him. I wished he would come in, too, but he didn't seem to have the energy. When at last I finished swimming, he had found a shady corner and unpacked the picnic, and I flung myself down beside him, feeling happy and glad to be alive.
“Tell me more about that old woman yesterday,” said my father suddenly. “She interests me.”
I looked up eagerly. “She's a nice old woman. She lives in a tiny house on the other side of the eucalyptus trees. She's got a cat and a goat and a whole basket of kittens and a little granddaughter and a Bible, and I've visited her twice.”
“But how do you communicate? Surely she doesn't know English.”
“Oh no. But I told you, she's got a Bible and we read it together. She pointed to the word Jesus, and it's the same word in English and Spanish.”
“I see. And what happened next?”
“She said Jesus is her Amigo and I know that word too. Rosita calls me her amiga. It means friend.”
“Go on,” said my father, “tell me more.”
I munched my sandwich thoughtfully. “Well,” I began rather shyly, “I wanted Him to be my Friend too. So I went to the cross—”
“The cross? What do you mean?”
“Along the path by the vineyards. There's a farm with a little white pig loose outside and some hens, and near the gate there's a stone cross. And I sat there until I was too hot, and then I sat under a tree.”
“And what did you do under the tree?”
“Well … I said I was sorry. And then … well, I said thank You. And after that … well, I asked Him to be my Friend too.”
“And what happened?”
“I walked home. The cross was behind me, and everything in front was sort of shining from the sunset. And I was happy, because now I've got a Friend and I can tell Him all my troubles.”
“Your troubles, Lucy? I should like to know your troubles too. What are they?”
I turned and faced him steadily. “I asked Him to make you and Gran and Grandpa like each other, so we can all be one family,” I said. “That's my biggest trouble. It's horrible having to choose. Can I have a banana, please?”
He did not ask any more questions. He lay back on the sand and closed his eyes, and I thought he was asleep. Only when I got up to run back in the sea did he speak. “The time's getting on,” he said. “Run and have a last swim and then we must get back.”
We got on the bus in the cobbled square. I sensed that my father was very tired, and we traveled home almost in silence. I leaned my head against his shoulder and gazed for the last time at the Rock, the Straits, and the North African ranges across the sea. Then the bus swung around a corner and they were gone.
My father went straight to bed when we got home, and I went into the kitchen and sat with Rosita under some dried fish hanging from a beam and ate a tortilla. There was great excitement because Lola's brother had come from Barcelona and brought a little rubber boat that one could blow up and float on the waves. Pepito and Pedro couldn't wait for the next morning. Their uncle was a large man with shiny black hair who laughed a lot and drank a lot, and we all got very warm and merry. It was quite late when I left them, still celebrating, and slipped into our own apartment. The moon was shining right over the patio, and I could hear my father's rather fast breathing. I tried to tiptoe in without waking him, but he called to me.
I'd kissed him good night and was leaving the room when he spoke again.
“Lucy,” he said, “if what that old woman told you makes you happy, hang onto it. That sort of thing cheered your mother up when she was expecting you. You may need it … one of these days.”
I asked him to explain, but he said it was time to sleep. I climbed into bed and lay awake for a long time, watching the moonlight on the white wall and wondering what he meant.
An Unforgettable Day
The next day, Pedro and Pepito came knocking at our door in a great state of excitement, inviting me to join them and their uncle from Barcelona. He was taking the rubber boat down to the sea, and they were all taking a picnic to the little lonely beach with white sands and were leaving right away.
I hesitated. I wanted to go, but it would mean leaving my father for hours. “Couldn’t you come too Daddy?” I asked.
“Not now,” he replied. “I must do some writing this morning, but I may stroll along and join you after lunch.”
So we all set off in our swimming things, dancing along at the edge of the waves. The uncle from Barcelona kept the children in fits of laughter with his jokes and stories, but since I couldn’t understand what he was saying, I tripped along in front, enjoying the beach with its smells and sounds. I walked slowly, looking for shells and running in and out of the water and wishing this walk could last forever. But it was not so far after all, and we reached our special bay long before lunchtime.
The rubber boat was a great success, and we all had rides in turns, with Uncle splashing along behind like an enormous porpoise. Pedro and Pepito loved it and climbed in and out at least fifty times. Then, exhausted from swimming, laughing, and shouting, we pulled the boat onto the beach and settled down to our picnic—bread, olives, sardines, gherkins, and tomatoes, followed by slice after slice of watermelon.
Uncle made his way toward a beach café for a drink. He said he wouldn’t be long, and until he came back no one was to go into the sea or play with the boat.
Rosita, Pedro, and Pepito nodded vigorously, but Conchita was not listening. She sat with her back to us, busy making a sand castle, and no one took any notice of her.
Uncle left us, and Rosita and I searched for treasures in the rock pools while the boys went off to roll down the sand dunes. It was very peaceful in this small bay, and since by now it was lunchtime we were the only people there.
Suddenly, Pedro and Pepito started screaming—loud, raucous screams that shocked the sleepy silence. Rosita and I whirled around to see them running across the sand, pointing and screaming.
Pointing at what? We turned and saw. Some way out to sea the rubber boat bobbed on the sparkling water, and in it sat Conchita, quite enjoying the ride.
We a
ll ran and screamed and hurled ourselves in the sea, but Rosita realized at once that we could never reach her. The boat, carried by the wind, was moving out to sea much more quickly than we could swim, tipping dangerously. She hauled in her brothers and gave frantic directions. They were to run like the wind to the café and fetch Uncle, and I was to run like the wind in the opposite direction, to where we had seen the fishermen painting their boats and mending their nets. She would stay and watch in case Conchita got frightened and fell into the sea.
Never before had I run as I ran that day, unseeing, blinded with horror, for it was all our fault. And how would I explain in Spanish? And would they still be there, and would they come? Conchita was only a baby. Supposing, when we got back, there was just an empty boat bobbing on the waves? “Please, please, God!” I cried as I sped across the sand, then suddenly remembered He was not far away at all. He was the Friend close beside me who had once walked on the waves. He could still walk on the waves and reach that bobbing little boat with the precious baby in it.
“Lucy, Lucy, are you practicing for the Olympics?”
With great relief, I realized that I’d bumped into my father strolling along to join us. I flung my arms around his waist, too breathless to speak, looked up at him, and pointed backward.
He saw by my expression that something was seriously wrong, and shaded his eyes to see where I was pointing. Then he shouted, “Go and fetch those fishermen behind the rock, and a boat.” Pushing me away from him, he began to run as I’d never dreamed he could.
Exhausted and panting, I somehow managed to stumble on and found the two fishermen stretched out asleep on the sand in the shade of their boat. I jumped on them and shook them, and they sprang up, swearing fiercely in Spanish, but somehow I managed to let them know that I was in trouble and persuaded them to come and see. As soon as we came in sight of the little rubber boat, we realized that help was no longer needed. It had already arrived.
My father had reached the boat and was swimming slowly back, propelling it with his hand, while Conchita sat smiling and enjoying her little trip. Uncle and the boys had just arrived with a great many other people, all talking excitedly. Only Rosita stood tense and rigid, her black eyes looking enormous in her white face. I ran to comfort her, but she did not seem to notice me.
Soon they were in shallow water, and my father gave the boat a little shove. It was carried in on the breaking waves, and Conchita came running in through the spray straight into the arms of Rosita, who had hysterics and sank down on the beach laughing and crying and clasping her frightened little sister.
Everyone pushed and jostled around the children, and no one, except me, turned to welcome the man walking in from the sea.
How slowly he walked! He seemed to be staring at me without seeing me, and his face was a strange, blue-grey color. I ran into the water and held out my hands, and he reached blindly toward me and stumbled. Then he swayed and fell face down on the sand, taking great, gasping breaths.
He was instantly surrounded by the noisy, excited crowd, and for a time I could not see what was happening. I think one of the fishermen was trying to do artificial respiration, and Uncle was running up the beach. I heard the words policia and ambulancia repeated many times, and more and more people arrived. I tried to push my way through the crowd, but I was held back, for they needed room at the center. Then the noise died away, and quietness seemed to gather around the still figure in the center. People began shaking their heads and sighing deeply. At last we heard the siren wail of the ambulance, and some men in uniform came running down the beach, followed by two policemen.
My father was carried away on a stretcher. I struggled loose from the crowd and ran after them, pleading to be allowed to go with him, but the door was slammed in my face and he was taken away.
We wandered home in a sorry procession. Rosita walked beside me, loving and consoling, but I shook my head and refused to be comforted.
When we reached the inn, the children poured out the story to Lola, who wept and scolded Conchita and hugged her, and scolded the family and wept some more. But when she heard about my father, she dumped Conchita on the bed and folded me in her arms. Then she sent her brother immediately to the hospital to ask for news.
He was away a long time, and we sat huddled in the kitchen. Rosita would not take her eyes off Conchita. Lola tried to tempt me to eat, but I could do nothing but wait anxiously. At last we heard fast, heavy footsteps in the street, and Uncle came in and they all gathered around him and started talking very fast while I watched their faces and gathered that my father was still alive. Then Lola threw a shawl over her head, held out her hand to me, and pointed up the hill, so I supposed we were going to the hospital.
We twisted our way up many sloping, cobbled streets before we reached its iron gates. An old nun let us in, and she and Lola talked rapidly in low voices while I sat on a bench. The afternoon sun was shut out, and I gazed around the cool corridor and wondered where my father was and what he looked like now. Opposite me on the wall hung a crucifix—not a stone cross like the one by the farm, but a cross with a figure on it.
I suddenly remembered that the Crucifixion was something that had happened nearly two thousand years ago. It was all over, and death had not been the end. Jesus had come back, and was alive and strong and able to help me. I turned my face away from the figure on the cross and thought of my father, that last desperate swim, and little Conchita safe and alive and singing in the kitchen, while Daddy had nearly died instead. He’d got there just in time to save her. Perhaps if I could see him and tell him, he’d understand.
The nun came over to me. She was a gentle old woman, and thankfully she knew a few words of English. “Your father,” she said, “very ill … bad heart … come, but no much talk.” She laid her fingers on her lips, and I followed her up a staircase and into a small private ward where my father sat in bed, propped upright with pillows. He had a rubber tube in each nostril attached to a cylinder. His face was still a strange color, but the loud breathing had stopped, and his eyes were open and fixed on me. I kissed him very gently and sat down as close as possible beside him. The nun waited by the door.
“Lucy, darling,” my father spoke in a whisper, and his words came haltingly, “are you all right?”
“Yes, Daddy. Are you? You’re better, aren’t you?”
“A little. Is Lola here?”
“Yes, she’s downstairs. Shall I fetch her?”
“In a minute. Stay a little longer. Then I want to tell her to send a telegram to your grandfather. He must come at once.”
My face lit up. “And when he comes, will you see him and talk to him?”
“Yes, yes. I want to talk to him. Is Conchita all right?”
“Yes, quite all right. She’s singing and they’re all so glad she’s alive.” I hesitated, not quite knowing how to say what I so much wanted to say. “Daddy, you nearly died, didn’t you, so that Conchita would be rescued and not drown. And Daddy, I was thinking, it was rather like Jesus on the cross, wasn’t it, dying instead of us, to save us. If you hadn’t swum out and nearly died, she’d have been carried right away or fallen out. You got there just in time, didn’t you?”
He closed his eyes and the nun came forward and laid her hand on my shoulder.
“Little girl, come,” she said. “Your father very ill so you go now. Tomorrow he better. Tomorrow come.”
She waited while I kissed him and he held my hand in both of his and opened his eyes again. “Yes, just in time,” he whispered. “Wasn’t it a good thing, Lucy, that I got there just in time?”
“Jesus in My Heart”
The next day seemed very long, and I wasn’t allowed to see my father until 5:00 P.M. I was not very worried about him because he had come around, and I thought he would just keep on getting better. The nun had said, “Tomorrow he better,” and she ought to know if anyone did.
Besides, if it hadn’t been for his illness, my prayer would never have been answered. Now
all that I longed for was going to happen. Grandpa was coming—at least, I was pretty sure it would be Grandpa, for he would not want Gran to come alone, and one of them would have to stay with the chickens. He and my father would talk and be friends—I was quite sure of that. Everyone liked Grandpa, and he would see at once that Daddy was a good man now. How could he think anything else when Daddy had nearly died saving Conchita? And then, of course, Daddy would come back to Pheasant Cottage when he was better and we’d all be one happy family at last!
The time seemed to pass very slowly while we waited for the reply to the telegram. It was lonely in our apartment without Daddy, and I longed for someone to talk to. I suddenly remembered the old woman. I’d never been to tell her what happened, and I knew she’d be interested. I waited until siesta time, and then I slipped out and crossed the main road into the shade of the eucalyptus trees.
I had thought the old woman might be asleep, too, but she wasn’t. She was over on the rough grass near the olive grove with her goat. I trotted along the dirt track and joined her under the trees, and her wrinkled old face lit up when she saw me, as though I was a very dear friend. She started talking rapidly, and, although I could not understand, I knew she was saying nice things. I looked up at her.
“Mi padre,” I said, “muy malo.”
I had heard those words many times—on the beach, at the inn, and in the hospital, and I knew they meant “my father—very ill.” Now those words had a tremendous effect. The old lady was very upset and invited me in for pan and leche, which I knew meant bread and milk. I had felt too restless for dinner, so now I was hungry. I smiled and nodded and slipped my hand into hers, and we wandered back to the hut, with the goat following behind, occasionally butting me in the back in quite a friendly way.
Patricia St John Series Page 30