The hut was bare and clean as before, but there was no sign of the grandchild. I was glad about this, for I wanted to be alone with the old woman. But I said nothing at first, for she was busy heating goat’s milk on a little stove and cutting slices of bread. I looked around the simply furnished room while I enjoyed my meal. On an upturned box covered with a clean cloth lay the Bible. She sat watching me as I ate, smiling at me, and I wondered why she seemed to love me so, because I was quite an ordinary-looking child. But whatever the reason, I felt very welcome in her home, and as soon as I’d finished eating and drinking, I went over to the Bible and put my hand on it and repeated, slowly and clearly, the words she had said to me: “Jesus es mi Amigo.”
She smiled even more, and then she pointed upward, laid her hand over her heart, and said, “Jesus en mi corazón.”
I stared, for once again I had understood. Corazón meant “heart,” and I’d heard it at least twenty times in the last few hours. My father had had a heart attack. I’d heard about them before, because I once asked him why he swallowed so many pills, and why he walked so slowly, and why he didn’t come swimming, and he’d told me that he had a weak heart and had to be careful. But when he’d seen little Conchita sailing off toward the ocean, he had not been careful. That was why he was in the hospital, and that was why Grandpa was coming.
Jesus en mi corazón. This seemed to describe what I’d been feeling. I suddenly remembered my Bible at home and the picture in the front of it—Jesus knocking at a door with weeds growing all over it. One day I’d asked Gran what door it was, and who He was trying to visit, and she’d told me that it was a famous picture of Jesus knocking at the door of the human heart.* I hadn’t been very interested, but now I suddenly felt that a light had shone on that picture.
“Come in,” I whispered. “Oh, please, please come in!” Then I realized that He’d been there ever since I’d asked Him to be my Friend, teaching me to care more about other people, making me want to know more about God, and making me happier. He hadn’t waited for me to put it into words; He’d just come to me as soon as I’d wanted Him and cried out to Him. I suddenly felt strong and glad and alive. I sat listening quietly while the old woman murmured on in Spanish, and though I couldn’t understand a word, it all sounded very peaceful and reassuring. After a while I kissed her and went home, for perhaps the telegram would have arrived and it would soon be time to visit Daddy.
The telegram had arrived. All the children were running in all directions looking for me. Pepito saw me first and ran to meet me, his black eyes sparkling. He seized my hand and dragged me to the kitchen, where Lola produced the envelope and they all gathered around while I opened it.
“STARTING IMMEDIATELY STOP ARRIVING MALAGA 10:15 THURSDAY STOP GRANDPA.”
I read it over and over. Tomorrow by midday Grandpa would be here. With much talk and waving of hands, Lola made me understand that she had an amigo in Malaga who would meet him and put him on the bus, and we would all go wait for him in the market square.
I could not wait to show my father the telegram. Lola had already been to the hospital to inquire, and they had said that he was better, so I set out alone, clutching the precious paper and counting the hours. It was nearly 5:00; Grandpa would be here by lunchtime—about nineteen hours—and I’d be asleep for about nine of them. I climbed the cobbled streets to the hospital and found the kind old nun who said, “Come now. Your father—he better.”
He really did look a little better, although he still got tired quickly if he talked too much, so I talked to him instead and showed him the telegram. I told him how lonely I was without him, and that I’d been to see the old woman and feasted on goat’s milk and hot brown bread.
He smiled. “You do know how to look after yourself, don’t you, Lucita?” he said. “What did you and the old lady talk about this time?”
I looked down shyly.
“Tell me, Lucy. I like hearing about the old lady.”
I looked up at him. “She said, ‘Jesus en mi corazón.’ I knew what that meant, because they all talk about your corazón. It means ‘heart,’ doesn’t it?”
“Well, yes. But perhaps not quite the same kind of heart.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant but he seemed rather breathless, so I talked about Grandpa’s arrival the next day. He seemed really glad that he’d be seeing him, and when the nun came to take me away I skipped home without a care in the world because everything was going to be all right. I ran on the beach before going in for supper at the inn and sat on a rock watching the colors on the sea while the sun went down behind the hills. I prayed that my father’s heart would get better quickly, and that he and my grandfather would become friends so we could all live happily ever after like one family.
It took me a long time to get to sleep that night. There was so much to think about—Daddy at the hospital, Grandpa probably already in London, and Jesus in my heart. I knew He had lifted me to the safe shelter of His love, just as Lola would lift Conchita to the safety and comfort of her arms whenever she was frightened or upset.
______________________________
* “The Light of the World” by W. Holman Hunt.
Grandpa Arrives in Spain
Grandpa had never been out of England before, and I felt that anything might happen to him on his own in Spain, so we all went down to the market square much too early to meet him as he got off the bus. At long last, it swept around the corner and stopped in front of us. There was Grandpa in his black Sunday suit and a big hat, peering shortsightedly into the crowd in every direction except the right one. He looked very English and out of place in Spain. I was in his arms before he’d even seen me, and Lola and the children were pressing around us, smiling and shaking hands, escorting him down the street that led to the inn, all talking Spanish at once. Grandpa followed, smiling and nodding and not understanding a word.
Only when he was comfortably seated on the patio under the vine did we really greet each other. He had taken off his hat and coat and washed up, and Lola had brought him a mug of chilled beer. He was feeling better and took a good look around.
“It’s very warm here, isn’t it, Lucy?” he remarked. “And I must say you are looking well, though perhaps a little thinner. And how brown you are! And how’s your poor father?”
I sat down beside him and talked and talked about Daddy—his kindness, his goodness, and his courage, and how he had nearly given his life for Conchita. And Grandpa sat watching me, his blue eyes rather troubled and anxious, but he did not interrupt me until I paused for breath.
“Your Gran, Lucy is quite well, but she finds it hard to relax when you’re not there. She’s counting the days until you come home.”
“Well, I won’t be long,” I replied. “Dad’s getting better, and it’s not long now until school. Tell me about home, Grandpa. How’s the garden, and how’s Shadow?”
He chatted on while I sat on the rug at his feet. I had not realized how much I’d missed home because there had been so much to think about, but now it was all coming back. I thought of all the sights and sounds around Pheasant Cottage, and Spain suddenly seemed very parched and hot.
Pepito and Pedro kept peeping through a crack in the door and being chased away by Lola and coming back again, but I hardly noticed them. Grandpa did, though, and called them in. He opened his case and presented them with a big bag of mixed sweets. They thanked him joyfully, and we could hear them for a long time talking excitedly in the kitchen. Then Lola came in with lunch and insisted that Grandpa and I should eat alone together that first day. He pecked rather doubtfully at the spicy, oily food, but I ate an enormous meal and thoroughly enjoyed myself.
After lunch Grandpa had a long sleep, for he said he had not slept a wink in his noisy London hotel room, and he was feeling the heat. At 5:00 we set out and walked up to the hospital almost in silence. Grandpa was obviously nervous and kept clearing his throat and mopping his brow. I was quiet because I was approaching the great moment of my lif
e: Daddy and Grandpa were going to meet.
I hoped the old nun wouldn’t take us up to the ward, for I wanted to take Grandpa myself, and to my relief she wasn’t there. The doorkeeper let us in and nodded to the stairs. Grandpa was walking very slowly now, almost as though he was afraid, but I just could not wait. I ran ahead, slipped into the room without knocking, and ran to my father.
“He’s coming, Daddy,” I announced. “Grandpa’s coming up the stairs now. Are you ready?”
Grandpa’s head came cautiously around the door and I wondered, for a moment, just what sort of a monster he expected to see! But at the sight of my father, so pale and weak, propped against pillows, his expression changed suddenly to one of great concern and compassion. He hurried across the room, both hands outstretched.
“Mr. Martin,” he cried, “how very, very sorry I am to see you like this. Lucy has been telling me about your … er … great courage in saving that child.” He clasped Daddy’s free hand, and Daddy was smiling his gentle, pleased smile, not the twisty one that meant he was making fun of someone. It was all going really well.
“Pull up that chair, Mr. Ferguson,” said my father. “I can’t talk too much … get a bit breathless … but it’s good to see you. Lucy, wait downstairs, I want to talk to Grandpa. Come back and say goodbye later.”
I trotted away and wandered around the old walled garden, which smelled of thyme and lemon verbena. I felt very happy because everything was coming right. Daddy and I would soon go home together, and he would get better at Pheasant Cottage where it was cool and green. He could sit and write his books in the garden, and I would take him cups of coffee. And next summer we’d come back to Spain to visit Lola and Rosita and the children and the sea and the fishing boats and the old woman—
“Lucy, your father’s waiting to say good-bye.” Grandpa was standing on the steps, and I ran to him joyfully. “Did you like him, Grandpa?” I asked. “I told you he was a good man, didn’t I?”
“Yes, yes, Lucy, he’s a good, brave man. Go to him now, but don’t stay long. He’s very tired.”
I obeyed but wondered why Grandpa seemed so distressed. And why were there tears in his eyes? Perhaps my father would tell me. I slipped into his room and hesitated. He lay so still, and his face was a strange color.
“Lucy, darling, come here.” He managed to lift his arm and put it around me. “I wish I could explain, but I’ve been talking too long. I’ll just have to tell you. I want you to go home with Grandpa tomorrow. You can’t stay here alone. But I shall miss you. Hasn’t it been a lovely holiday?”
My face flushed red. Leave him alone? It was impossible! I’d stay with Lola and visit him every day, and pack for him when he came home.
He pressed my hand. “Lucy, darling, I’m too tired to argue,” he said. “It’s just got to be. Come in the morning and say good-bye. I’ll explain then. And Lucy … never, never hate! What a stupid waste of time it all was. What a good old man he is!”
There was nothing more to be said. He kissed me and closed his eyes. I leaned against him for a moment or two, gulping back my tears, and then slipped away. As I came downstairs, I could see Grandpa sitting on the bench in the hall waiting for me, but he did not hear my footsteps for he was thinking hard with his head bowed. He looked like such a sad old man. I suddenly felt afraid. What had gone wrong? They’d met and liked each other, and Daddy would get better and come home. I put my hand softly on Grandpa’s shoulder and he jumped.
“Grandpa,” I whispered tearfully, “couldn’t I wait until he’s better? He’ll need someone to carry his suitcase when he comes home. He’s not allowed to carry anything heavy.”
“You must do what he says, Lucy,” said Grandpa, and his voice was sorrowful. “He told me in his telegram to book return seats. It’s all for the best, my dear, but he’ll find it hard to say good-bye in the morning, so you must help him by being brave and obedient.”
We walked home almost in silence, and I left him resting and went into the kitchen to tell Lola and Rosita that I had to go home. Lola clasped me in her arms and burst into tears, Rosita wrung her hands, and the little boys both cried together. We wiped our eyes and fried potatoes and had a party. Uncle played the guitar, Rosita danced, and we all sang. Grandpa was too tired to come so we took him his supper on a tray. He was still feeling miserable.
“Grandpa,” I whispered, “what’s the matter? Why are you so sad? He’ll come soon, won’t he? And he can come to the cottage, can’t he? You did like him, didn’t you, Grandpa?”
“Oh yes, yes. Oh, dear, yes,” said Grandpa, very upset. “But what a lot of time we waste, Lucy, when we won’t forgive! I’ve been sitting here thinking. I wasn’t much good at book learning, and your Gran could say it a lot better than I could, but it seems to me that every hour when we won’t love and forgive is an hour of life wasted. And to think of all those years when we could have done so much for him!”
“But you can do it now, Grandpa,” I insisted. “We’ll all do lots for him when he comes home. And do you think, Grandpa, that when he comes we could go to the plane and meet him, you and me? He shouldn’t carry his suitcase himself, you know.”
But Grandpa only said, “Please, God, we’ll do all we can for him, my dear,” and went sadly to bed. I did the same but not to sleep. For this was the last night I would watch the moonlight on my white wall, or hear the break of small waves on the beach or the muffled noises of the street in front of the inn, the footsteps and the chattering, the strumming of guitars from the cafés—all the sounds of Spain I had come to know so well. I had spent my last happy evening with Rosita and her family, and tomorrow I would pay my last visit to the hospital. I buried my face in the pillow and felt miserable, but soon fell asleep. Then I woke to my last sunny morning in Spain.
I had lots to do before we left in the afternoon. I had to pack all my Spanish treasures and visit my father and say good-bye to the old woman and have a farewell dinner with the family. I went with Rosita to fetch bread for the last time, but we kept wiping our eyes and sniffing, so it wasn’t a very cheerful trip.
We had special permission to visit my father in the morning—me first and Grandpa later. But I did not hurry on my way there. I walked slowly because I was dreading leaving him. I knew it was too late to change anything, and the best way to help him was to obey as cheerfully as possible.
He had just had his morning wash and shave, and he looked fresher and brighter than he had the evening before. The room faced east and was full of sunshine, and a pleasant-looking young nun was bringing him a drink. I felt a bit more cheerful as I drew up a chair and leaned against the pillows.
“Daddy,” I began, “I do wish I didn’t have to leave you. Who’ll visit you and look after you when I go?”
“Lola will visit me,” he replied, “and I couldn’t be better looked after anywhere. These nuns are wonderful, and that old one who comes in the afternoon tells me she goes to chapel and prays for me every day. I’m sure you’d approve of that.”
I turned to see if he was laughing, but his expression was quite serious and rather sad.
“That’s two of us, then, Daddy,” I said, “because I do too.”
“Then keep right on, Lucita,” he said gently, and we were silent for a few moments. He seemed tired with talking, so I talked instead. I told him all my wonderful plans for when he came home, and I described the summerhouse where he could sit and write with the clematis and honeysuckle climbing in at the window, and the robin who flew in and out of the spare bedroom that would be his. Grandpa had said so.
“So you see, they are longing for you to come,” I finished. “You won’t be long, will you?”
“I should love to come,” he said, “only I can’t be quite sure when. But remember, whatever happens in the future, nothing can ever take away this holiday. It’s been the happiest time for me since your mother died. You’ve been such a perfect little companion, Lucy, it was like having her all over again. She didn’t seem much older than y
ou when I married her. You’re so alike!”
“It’s been a lovely holiday,” I whispered because my lips were trembling. “But … but … it’s been rather a sad ending, hasn’t it?”
He held me as close as he could. “Not really,” he said. “In fact, I sometimes think it’s the happiest ending possible. You see, I’ve often felt sad about those years when we could have been together … and all my own stupid fault. So I’m glad I could give another little girl back to her parents. I often wake in the night and feel so thankful I got there just in time. And if I hadn’t been ill I’d never have known your grandfather. It all came right, Lucy; such a happy ending!”
He was breathless with too much talking, and the young nun, who had been waiting outside, came over and put one hand gently on my shoulder and the other on my father’s wrist. I gave him a last kiss and she led me away, but at the door I turned and smiled through my tears.
“It was a lovely holiday,” I said in a voice that trembled slightly. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you so much!”
“And thank you, too, Lucy. Thank you so, so much,” he whispered, and then the door was closed softly behind me. I had said good-bye.
I did not want to go straight back to the house. Why, oh, why did I have to leave him just when he needed me so much to visit him and to fetch things and to pack his suitcase when he got better? Almost without knowing it, my feet carried me across the marketplace toward the vineyards and the olive trees. Each time I’d gone there I’d found comfort, and now I needed it more than ever.
The grape harvest had begun, and my old woman was there among the vines working hard, her little granddaughter beside her. There were other people there, too, and they stared curiously at me as I slipped toward her through the bushes. When she saw me, she threw up her hands in delight and pressed a grape into my mouth. Then she looked at me more closely and knew that I was in trouble. She squatted on the warm soil by her loaded basket and drew me down beside her. The vines made a private shelter around us, and I tried to tell her my sad story. My father, I explained, was still in the hospital. Pointing up to the sky, I said I was going to England in an avión. I’d come to say adiós. My eyes filled with tears again.
Patricia St John Series Page 31