by A. J. Cronin
Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered
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Contents
A. J. Cronin
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
A. J. Cronin
The Spanish Gardener
Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the war’s end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book, Hatter’s Castle, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include: The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, Three Loves, The Green Years, Beyond This Place, and The Keys of the Kingdom.
Chapter One
The overnight journey from Paris had been unusually wearisome. An exasperating delay at the junction of Port Bou on the Spanish frontier had made them forty minutes late and, because of a dilatory porter, they had missed the morning connection at Barcelona. Now, towards five o’clock in the afternoon as they bounced and rattled to their destination on the light railway of the Costa Brava, they were tired and travel-stained. The shortcomings of men, or of machines, always irked the Consul and his mood was not propitious. Seated erect in his corner, he frowned with concern at his little son who, bundled up on the wooden seat opposite, in the long, littered coach redolent of dust, garlic and stale country odours, had been stealing glances of affectionate timidity towards him. And for the third time in the past hour, he inquired:
“You are all right, Nicholas?”
“Quite all right, Father.”
The curvetting engine, in final indignity, threw them round a vertiginous curve and, with a shrill whistle, drew into the deserted station of San Jorge. Leaving the rug and the two valises, the Consul took Nicholas’s hand and stepped to the platform, a deserted strip inch-deep in red dust, fringed by a string of palmettos so ravaged by the wind they drooped like spavined horses. At first, with a darkening of his brow, he thought they had not been met, then his eye cleared. A young man in a neat linen suit, rather shrunk by washing, a bow tie and yellow straw hat, stood at the entrance beside a grey automobile with a miniature American flag on the radiator cap, and at the sight of the two passengers he hurried nervously forward, followed by the driver.
“Mr. Harrington Brande? Very happy to see you, sir. We missed you on the morning train. I’m Alvin Burton, from the office.” He turned to the chauffeur, a dark, thickly built Spaniard wearing a black alpaca jacket, denim trousers and sharp-pointed tan shoes. “Will you get the luggage, please, Garcia?”
The open car, Brande noted with some alleviation of his irritation, was a respectable Pierce-Arrow, with well-polished brass, pipe-clayed tires, and freshly laundered white covers on the upholstery. While the bags were being brought he stood aside, a tall, heavy figure, with a slight, distinguished stoop, his long, sallow face, deeply furrowed at the nostrils, wearing that air of noncommittal dignity which he reserved for his subordinates.
“I do hope you’ll be comfortable at the residence, sir,” Alvin was saying. “Mr. Tenney took his servants with him. But I’ve done my best to engage a good couple. Garcia, the chauffeur-butler”—he lowered his voice—” has exceptional testimonials … and Magdalena, his wife, is an excellent cook.”
Harrington Brande inclined his head.
“Are we ready?”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Alvin exclaimed, rather breathlessly.
They got into the car. As they drove off the new Consul let his gaze roam over the town, still clasping protectively, under cover of the rug, the thin, damp fingers of his son. It was not, perhaps, he reflected, with a gleam of hope, so detestable a place as he had feared. The air was pure, the curving waterfront, along which they glided in the fading February sunshine, had a fringe of clean sand, and between the electric light standards the esplanade was planted, though somewhat raggedly, with flowering acacias. In the Plaza a fountain played amongst the scarlet blossoms of ponciana shrubs, the peeling gilt of a bandstand glittered beyond the black figures of old men reading La Gaceta, an antique bus discharged its passengers, a pleasant sense of life prevailed. Opposite the inevitable pink stucco church with twin cupolas like upturned breasts, its central belfry set with coloured tiles and surmounted by a tarnished cross, there were one or two moderate shops, a café, El Chantaco, with a blue-striped awning, which seemed tolerable, and further down the Calle, beside the harbour, a solid commercial block in which, Burton now murmured, was situated the office of the Consulate.
But no, near at hand, he could not but observe that the docks, upon which his work must largely centre, bore a listless and dejected aspect—they looked half-dead, in fact; he guessed that nothing much would stir there but a sluggish trade in hides, fertiliser, cork bark, olive oil and Tarragona vinegar. Only two fishing scows lay at the jetty, and a rusted coastal steamer from which, aided by three donkeys and a primitive pulley, some sailors were languidly discharging barrels. And again the old wave of bitterness swept over him, fixing his expression with a kind of brooding heaviness. Why, oh why, at the age of forty-five, after fifteen years of sedulous devotion to duty in Europe, was he sent to such a dead end, a man of his talent and personality who had long ago earned the right, if only through seniority, to one of the high positions of the service in Paris, Rome or London? After these last eighteen months, bogged amidst the Normandy marshes at Arville, he had hoped that his next move would bring him his due reward. And then … San Jorge … worse still, the realisation that Tenney, his predecessor here, and his junior by three years, had been promoted First Consul under Leighton Bailey at Madrid.
“Look, Father, isn’t that pretty?”
They had left the town, had climbed a steep, winding, sandy lane between rows of silvery eucalyptus trees, and Nicholas, aroused and interested, was pointing shyly to the view now visible from the summit. A great sweep of Mediterranean sea lay beneath, with a slender light house creamed by white surf upon the rocky promontory of the bay. Further to the north tremendous mountains unveiled their outlines dimly through the blue haze. The air had a fresh tang of salt and aromatic herbs. And just ahead, on the edge of a barranco smothered in pearly cistus petals, almost screened from the lane by a high mimosa hedge, stood a rambling, red-tiled villa with the name, Casa Breza, in faded letters upon the pillared entrance.
“You like it?” Alvin Burton turned towards the boy, and from his tone, expectant and a little anxious, Nicholas became aware that this
was his new home. He had known many changes in his brief nine years and so had lost something of his capacity to be surprised. Yet this strange old house, with its deserted air and magnificent seclusion, gave promise of unusual attractions. The Consul seemed of similar opinion, for as they ran with a crunching of wheels into the gravel driveway and got out of the car his sharp, appraising glance was gradually mellowed by approval.
Built of the local yellow sandstone, faded now to a delicate amber, the villa was in Moorish style, with a spacious arched portico, and a flat, overhanging roof tiled in a shade of weathered cinnabar. The upstairs windows opened upon a wide balcony, profusely overgrown with wistaria and tangled vines, with lilac and the flaming shoots of biscutella. To the left a cobbled yard, green with moss, gave access to the stables and other outbuildings. The garden lay beyond.
“It’s old, of course,” Alvin remarked excusingly, watching his chief’s face. “And a little out of repair. Also there’s no electricity, only gas. But Mr. Tenney always felt he was lucky to have it. There are really no proper living quarters near the office, and we have a long lease here … furnished.…”
“Yes,” said the Consul shortly.
Bracing his shoulders, he strode up the shallow steps of the portico towards the open doorway, where a stout middle-aged woman in a respectable black dress, whom Burton introduced as Magdalena, stood waiting to receive them with a smile.
Inside, the tessellated hall was cool and lofty, the dining-room on one hand, the salon, with double doors, upon the other, both apartments furnished in rococo style. A wide staircase in dark walnut spiralled upwards from the rear and, despite his fatigue, the Consul, as one who knew his duty and his rights, ascended heavily, to make an inspection of the upper rooms. There were many more than he and his little son, and perhaps an occasional guest, could utilise, but this was not displeasing to a man whose tastes were cast in a large and superior mould. He liked the sense of space, the inlaid chests and credenzas, the tapestried gilt chairs, tasselled bell-pulls and faded velvet curtains; even the slightly musty odour which pervaded the long corridors fell agreeably upon his nostrils. When his heavy baggage arrived there would be ample room for his books and porcelain, his remarkable collection, gathered in many places over the years, of antique weapons.
When he returned to the vestibule it was evident that he was satisfied, and Alvin’s brown eyes glistened with relief. Like a faithful dog, he perked up, expectant of some word of approbation.
“I trust everything’s in order, sir. There’s not been much time since Mr. Tenney left. I’ve done my best.”
“Of course,” the Consul replied suavely, yet with his most cryptic air. He knew better than to begin his régime with indiscriminate praise of his assistant. Nothing so easily impaired strict discipline, nor fostered more quickly the disaster of familiarity. Besides, he had already decided that this raw, nervous young man, in the tight-fitting suit—burst, indeed, in one place, at the armpit—was socially impossible, best kept at a distance. And as Alvin hung on, turning his straw hat in his hands, as if hoping to be asked to stay a little, for a glass of sherry perhaps, Brande civilly, yet firmly, conducted him towards the door.
“I shall see you at the office to-morrow, then, Mr. Burton.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You are always there at nine sharp.”
“Oh, of course.” Rather red above the collar, Alvin prepared to take his leave, but hesitated on the front steps and, in a manner which made Nicholas look appealingly at his father, stammered: “May I express the hope, sir, that you will honour Mrs. Burton and myself by a visit to our apartment in the Calle Estrada. It’s a small place, but we’ve tried to make it a little bit of the good old U.S.A.”
The Consul replied with perfect politeness, but when Alvin had gone his lip curled. No one could question his loyalty to his country, yet was he not now a complete cosmopolitan, refined and polished by European culture, a citizen of the world, in fact? No wonder Alvin’s naïve phrase made him smile.
It was now seven o’clock and, with admirable anticipation of his master’s wishes, Garcia announced that the dinner was served. Two places had been laid in the large dining-room and, seating themselves at either end of the long, carved refectory table, with a sconce of lighted candles between, father and son began the first meal in their new home.
For the most part, occupied by his own thoughts and deeply solicitous of Nicholas’s fatigue, the Consul kept silent. But the excellence of the cooking and the service, the pleasing atmosphere of the dim, cool, lofty room, gradually soothed his spirit, and erased the manifold irritations which had tried him so sorely during the day. With his heavy, brooding eyes he followed the movements of the butler, and finally he raised the barrier of his reserve.
“Your name is Garcia, I understand?”
“Yes, señor.”
“You have always been in San Jorge?”
Garcia straightened himself without a movement of his impassive face. The flicker of the candle flames was reflected for an instant at the back of his expressionless eyes.
“No, señor. I have been in much larger cities. And always with the best people. My previous situation was with the de Aostas in Madrid.”
“You mean the Marquesa de Aosta?”
“A branch of that family, señor.”
Harrington Brande nodded in recognition of the fact. He would have been the first to resent the imputation that he was a snob. Nevertheless, he was strongly conscious of the social order, and it did not displease him that this silent personage who now served him should bear, so to speak, an aristocratic recommendation.
“Tell the cook I will see her in the morning. My son is somewhat delicate and will require a special diet.” When the man bowed and noiselessly departed he remarked to Nicholas, with satisfaction, “He seems a superior fellow.”
The word ‘superior,’ whether he applied it to a horse, a servant, or to his intimate friend, Professor Halevy of Paris, was the Consul’s most-favoured expression of approbation. Yet for once Nicholas could not share his father’s feelings. Indeed, the butler had produced in him, from the moment of his first sidelong glance, a sensation curiously disagreeable which he could not well explain.
After the Consul had finished his coffee he looked significantly at his gold repeater watch. However, Nicholas, upon whom the exciting strangeness of the place was already working like a ferment, pleaded most eagerly that they might take a turn in the garden before he went upstairs, and his father indulgently consented.
Outside, with a coat wrapped about his thin shoulders to protect him from any chance of chill, the little boy drew in deep breaths of the soft, spicy air which seemed to sweep in from infinity, submerging all consciousness of time and space. Although his head still rang with the tumult of the journey, he felt the peace of the falling evening upon him and upon the garden. It was larger, oh, much larger, than he had expected, and gloriously rank. A path led downwards from the portico under three pergolas bent beneath great braids of roses, flanked on either side by a broad herbaceous border, wild with primulas and great white peonies. To the left there stood a thicket of myrtle and oleanders, pink and white, already in full-scented flower. Upon the other hand, the garden opened to a kind of meadow, which might once have been a lawn, bearing two lovely trees; a wide catalpa and a tamarisk, then, beyond a low boundary wall and a wooden tool-shed, there lay a rocky heath, studded with white boulders, spiny cacti, and tufts of purple azalea. Behind, clumps of laurel masked the stables and domestic quarters, while in front the land fell, not steeply, to some woods of stunted cedar, thence to the level of the shore.
Standing beside his father, viewing all this beauty, intoxicated by the scents of earth and springing growth, Nicholas was conscious suddenly of a presentiment, a surging confidence, never before experienced in any of their previous abodes, that he could—ah, no, that he would be happy here. From below there came the wild yet gentle sighing of the surf. An access of joy made him shut his
eyes lest tears should flow from them. He felt his chest rising in deep, slow breaths of glad anticipation.
“Isn’t it nice, Father?” he murmured, to prolong the moment.
Despite himself, the Consul smiled, that rare smile which only Nicholas could evoke. He too was not indifferent to the charm of the garden and, with his eyes upon the tangled oleander bushes and the rangy mimosa hedge which Tenney had ‘let go,’ his thoughts ran, a little grandly, to a policy of reclamation, of fresh planting, landscaping and topiary work.
“It could be nice,” he agreed indulgently. “We must have a gardener. I shall see about it to-morrow.”
As they went back to the house he gazed tenderly at his son, wondering, hopefully, if this garden, this pure, strong air, sweeping from the Sierras and the sea, might not bring health to him.
On the first floor he had chosen for Nicholas and himself two adjoining front bedrooms connected by a curtained doorway through which he would be available if his son should call him in the night. He himself was a light sleeper who suffered severely from insomnia. Yet his ever-watchful and protective love had always demanded that he should be close at hand during these nocturnal hours when, so frequently, distressing nightmares caused Nicholas to start into palpitating wakefulness, his heart beating frantically, his forehead bathed in a cold sweat of dread. This was a feature of the child’s invalidism which caused the Consul most concern.
Upstairs, the valises were already unpacked and it was not long before Nicholas had undressed and washed himself, swallowed through a glass tube the iron tonic which Professor Halevy had prescribed for him, and brushed his teeth. Then in a fresh nightshirt he knelt at his father’s side to say his prayers. Despite the sophistication that his long sojourn in Europe had given him, Harrington Brande was still—he gravely admitted it—a religious man. He might smile a little at his New England ancestors, yet their Puritan spirit remained strong within him. He listened with bowed head, his hand upon his dear son’s shoulder, and at the end he himself added a special petition that the Almighty might protect them both and bless their sojourn now beginning in this new habitation. Then he paused and in a low and muffled voice, in words which seemed wrenched from the centre of his being, he added:
