The Spanish Gardener

by A. J. Cronin

  “We ask God’s mercy for all transgressors … and in particular, dear child … we ask it for your mother.”

  A moment later Nicholas was in the big Cordova bed, its end-piece covered in stamped yellow leather and edged with heavy brass studs. Yet still the Consul lingered, glancing with a kind of self-conscious hesitation at the slight figure lost, almost, under the great brocaded counterpane.

  “Of course, dear boy … you are too tired for our reading to-night.”

  Nicholas, indeed, was dizzy from fatigue, and his eyelids, violet-shadowed in his small, pale face, were drooping as though drugged with sleep. Yet he knew how much store his father set by this final chapter of their evening ritual and, summoning a smile, he protested that he was still quite wide awake.

  Again the Consul hesitated, but only for a moment, before yielding to the inclination which his affection, his passion for his beloved child, made him loath to forgo. Entering his own room, he returned speedily with a heavy bound volume of Akerman’s Book of Ornithology, seated himself beside the soft Cordova bed, and put on his horn-rimmed glasses.

  “You remember, Nicholas, that on our last evening at Arville we were discussing the birds of South Africa—a most interesting subject. We shall not take much to-night, just enough to keep ourselves in touch. Ah, here we are.” He had turned the pages until he found the place and now, clearing his throat, he began to read:

  “The ostrich, genus Struthio, characterised by the possession of two toes and the absence of keel on the breast bone, is the largest living bird. The male may be nearly seven feet high and weigh as much as three hundred pounds. Ranging the sandy plains and open country, it is fleet of foot and when brought to bay can be extremely fierce. The birds are immensely vain of their feathers, and the male especially displays great solicitude for its young.…”

  Chapter Two

  Next morning the Consul rose early and left punctually for his office. Nicholas, unfortunately, had passed an unquiet night in which, through the torpor which bound him, the events of the journey, the grinding of engine wheels, the sound of the surf and, for some absurd reason, the dark, impassive figure of the butler were inextricably mingled. His temperature showed normal, but his father seemed to detect a lingering flush of excitement upon his cheeks, and insisted that the boy remain in bed, promising, however, to return at noon to see if he might get up for lunch.

  It was a disappointment for Nicholas, who wished he might at least have lain outside in that lovely garden. But he was an obedient child, well versed by now in his own physical deficiencies, in the regular routine of thermometer-reading and pulse-checking prescribed by Professor Halevy and, in a queer, prim way, gratefully expectant of the solicitude which his father constantly bestowed upon him.

  Magdalena brought up his breakfast, rather breathless from her ascent of the stairs, but quite friendly, her black eyes almost hidden by the creases in her plump brown cheeks. A white scarf wrapped about her head and two metal rings dangling from her ears gave her an interesting, gipsy look. Thanks to his father’s tutoring, Nicholas spoke creditable Spanish—he had, indeed, a precocious knowledge of French and Italian besides—but Magdalena’s rapid chatter was some kind of dialect, Catalan he thought, and they could not understand each other very well. As she stood there, with hands on her hips, he detected a frank peasant curiosity in her gaze and, in response, he dramatised himself a little, blinking his long eyelashes and swallowing his breath so that he could break it in his stomach with an alarming rumble. At this she laughed shortly, shook her head, and went away.

  The breakfast was his usual, and quite nice: a lightly boiled egg, crisp rusks and comb honey, a glass of boiled goat’s milk; obviously his father had been giving orders in the kitchen. Nicholas ate the food slowly, using his experience to avoid putting crumbs on the sheet. Then he hopped out and brought over the woolly hound which, with four short legs planted on the dressing table, had silently and faithfully awaited his attentions. Nicholas knew, of course, that he could not possess a live dog; the Consul, himself no dog-lover, had logically explained how this was precluded by the difficulties and uncertainties of their too mobile existence, so the child had made the best of this small stuffed substitute. This morning, however, he was scarcely in the mood for one of those long conversations which so often beguiled, for both of them, the tedious hours. Nor could he bring himself to glance, more than perfunctorily, at the lesson books which his father had placed, convenient to his hand, on the bedside table. No, he was too highly keyed by the novelty of these still unexplored surroundings and, while a bright square of sunlight slid warmly across the striped maroon wallpaper, stamped with strange arabesques, which fancy might make still stranger, he lay on his back, listening, as it were, to the silent heart-beat of the house.

  Yet the beat was not altogether silent. Sounds came from downstairs, disturbing sounds, as of an argument, high words, followed by the banging of what Nicholas guessed to be the kitchen door. Then came the low undertone of whispering, footsteps in the dining-room below, unhurried tidying-up movements, an ascending whiff of strong tobacco. Construing all this, somewhat rigidly, Nicholas was taken aback, quite startled in fact, by the sudden quiet opening of his door. He turned and there, gazing at him with a confidential air, was Garcia.

  Unaccountably, the blood rushed to the little cheeks. That queer distrust of the butler which he had felt on the previous evening, as though from the outset he sensed in him an enemy, returned with redoubled force at this unexpected materialisation.

  “Shall I take your tray?” Garcia spoke with exaggerated deference, in his usual insinuating manner, yet, as if to give that the lie, he kept his cigarette burning between his nicotined fingers.

  “Please … thank you.” Nicholas answered in a small, unsteady voice.

  The man did not move but showed his teeth in what, but for the general immobility of his features, might have been a smile.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said softly. “I am well used to children. In one place there were seven. The little girl used to sit upon my knee. Before she died.”

  Nicholas took a quick breath. The butler drew deeply, absently, upon his brown cigarette, yet never removed his eyes from the small boy’s face.

  “One day I will tell you about her. It would make an interesting talk for us. I’ve seen many things. Sad and horrible things. Unbelievable things. The world is full of idiots. Nothing matters to me, absolutely nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” Nicholas gasped.

  Garcia shrugged indifferently.

  “You will see. I have been a soldier. An officer. I have seen men flogged, tortured, and shot. But we will speak of that another time. Tell me. Where is your mother?”

  Nicholas turned pale. The question, thrown casually, yet with a hidden insolence, pierced anew the deepest, the most secret, scar in his shrinking soul. For an instant of panic he thought of answering, ‘She is dead.’ Had not his father insisted often, with melancholy gravity, that she must now, indeed, be considered as dead to both of them? And only that evening Christian prayer for her forgiveness saved her from an oblivion equal to the grave. Yet an instinct within him repudiated the lie, less from a natural innocence than from the strange precognition that if he lied to this man his defences would, once and for all, be swept away. He would be lost.

  “She is in America,” he stammered.

  “Ah!” Garcia exclaimed. “A wonderful country. But why not here?”

  With a trembling of his chin which made his lips and delicate nostrils quiver, and the skin of his forehead contract, Nicholas brought out the words:

  “Mother doesn’t live with us any more.”

  Garcia parted his thin wide lips in a silent laugh.

  “So she is nothing to us. She lives apart. But we cannot escape from people that way.” He broke off, listening, as measured footsteps sounded on the steps of the portico. There was a pause then; without change of manner, yet perhaps with a faint shade of caution, he nodded. “Your f
ather has come back. You must not tell him of our interesting conversation. Now we have a secret, you and I. Do not forget that, little innocent.”

  He advanced to the bed and, using only one hand, expertly hoisted up the tray; then, with a half-bow, tinged with that same servile mockery, he turned and went out of the room.

  Nicholas lay there, his brow still contracted, filled with perplexity and confusion. He felt discouraged, strangely empty, and only the prompt appearance of his father prevented him from bursting into tears.

  The Consul was in good spirits, evidently not displeased with his morning’s work and, after a brief inspection, he bade Nicholas get up. Seated on the end of the bed while the boy dressed, he proved more than usually discursive. The office was better than he had expected, small yet quite modern, and situated on the Marina, where the sea breezes would be agreeable in summer. Besides Alvin Burton, there were two Spanish clerks on the staff. He had found the equipment in sound condition except for a faulty typewriter which could be repaired, and a broken mimeograph machine which he had immediately ordered to be replaced.

  “And now,” the Consul went on with continuing liveliness, “you may be interested that I have found you a gardener. He’s outside, in the yard. Come along and take a look at him.”

  They went downstairs, Nicholas walking sedately at his father’s side.

  Outside, waiting at the back entrance, in an attitude of respectful attention, was a tall, well-proportioned youth of nineteen years, with open features and sloe-dark, gentle eyes. His eyebrows were strongly marked, his hair sprouted black and bushy, and upon his upper lip there lay already an immature, pathetic shadow. It was a simple face and could have been handsome, in spite of its saffron colouring, but for the soft, full mouth, which hung a little open. The young man wore his best suit, a shoddy but well-brushed serge, the jacket cut very short, Catalan fashion, and the trousers billowing slightly at the turn-up, covering the broken shoes. In his large brown hands he held a round, flat hat.

  “Well, here you are, my lad,” said the Consul with agreeable briskness. “ What did you say was your name?”

  “José, señor … José Santero.”

  “And you are an expert gardener?”

  José smiled, deprecatingly, showing beautiful white teeth. It was a warm, natural smile, and so infectious it made Nicholas want to smile back.

  “I know how to dig, and hoe, and care for the soil, señor. I can prune and plant. I am very willing. But I am not so expert.”

  “I understood you had experience,” Brande remarked somewhat impatiently.

  “Oh, yes, señor,” José answered quickly. “For three years I worked in the Montaro vineyards. But now there is much unemployment in the hills.”

  “You have testimonials?”

  With a faintly lost air, smiling yet doubtful, José’s gaze passed from the Consul and came to rest upon the little boy.

  “We do not trouble about such things, señor. If you ask Diego Borgano, at Montara, I think he would speak well of me.”

  There was a pause. Nicholas gazed up anxiously at his father who, biting his lip, was plainly debating this aspect of the matter, and he had strongly to suppress an impulse, which he knew would only prejudice José’s case, to beg his father to engage this gardener who was so young, so friendly, and so nice.

  The sound of the luncheon gong hastened the Consul’s decision. After all, they had given the fellow a good character at the Exchange. He spoke brusquely.

  “I shall expect you to work hard, you know. The pay is thirty pesetas a week. Do you agree?”

  “I do not quarrel with the señor’s wishes,” José answered soberly.

  “Very good,” said Harrington Brande. “Be here at eight o’clock to-morrow and I’ll show you what I want done. Come along, dear boy.”

  He took his son’s arm and moved off. As Nicholas went towards the house he had a warm picture of the Spanish youth standing there, gentle and humble, yet strangely proud in his poor Sunday clothes, holding the ridiculous hard hat in his fine brown hands. Irresistibly, as he followed his father up the veranda steps, he looked back over his shoulder and smiled. José’s white teeth flashed in an answering smile and to the little boy’s joy he waved his arm in gay acknowledgment. Something in that gesture went straight to the child’s heart … he kept thinking of it during lunch, and afterwards too, with little inward chuckles of delight.

  Chapter Three

  A place had been made for Nicholas in the shelter of the oleanders, a kind of arbour formed by their flowering, overhanging branches, and here, following the schedule laid down by his father, he spent most of his time between lunch and tea, reclining on a chaise-longue, absorbing the briny ozone, and perusing the pages of a book, which must necessarily be profitable, since the Consul himself had selected it.

  This afternoon, however, the child’s eyes strayed frequently, though secretly, from the printed page, towards the figure of the new gardener working in the overgrown border beneath the catalpa tree. For two days now Nicholas had longed to speak to him, but no opportunity had presented itself and he was, of course, too shy to make one. But now, from José’s rate of progress, as he dug steadily with his azada along the border, cleaning out the weeds and breaking up the soil, the boy could see that very soon the other would be beside him, and his heart began to beat a little faster at the prospect, for he had from the beginning felt a current of sympathetic understanding—he could not more fully explain it—flowing, flowing gently between the Spanish youth and himself. Perhaps he was wrong. It might be that José was like Garcia, a person who flattered only to deceive, yet he could not bring himself even to entertain such an idea; the disappointment would be more than he could bear.

  At last the gardener reached the arbour and, straightening himself, leaned his elbows on the long spade handle, smiled directly at Nicholas. The little boy knew that he must speak first, yet he could think of nothing to say and, when he did, for a long awkward moment the words stuck in his throat.

  “You have been working very hard,” he stammered, finally, with his usual nervous flush.

  “No, no.” José’s smile widened, and he shrugged his sunburned shoulders. His torso was bare, and the tight-belted cotton trousers, which he wore with rope-soled espadrilles, showed the clean, strong lines of his graceful limbs. His skin, smooth and golden, had a warm, living texture from the supple play of muscles underneath. Despite his exertions, his breath came quietly. After a short pause he added naively: “You do not work?”

  “I do these.” With a more vivid colour, Nicholas indicated his books lying on the wicker table beside him.

  “Ah, yes.” José nodded gravely, as though in acknowledgment of a superior intelligence. “ I think you are very clever.”

  “Oh, no,” protested Nicholas with a heightening of his blush. “But I have to rest a good deal and that is why I read.”

  “You are sick just now?” José suggested.

  “I always have a little fever,” Nicholas consciously explained. “ I am not strong.”

  José’s gentle smile deepened.

  “Perhaps if you worked like me you would be strong.” He held out his hand. “ Come. I have finished digging and am going to plant. You shall help me.”

  Nicholas was speechless with delight—he hesitated, but only for an instant. He wanted with all his heart to go, and José’s firm clasp, helping him to his feet, as though he weighed no more than a feather, dispersed his shyness, sent a reassuring thrill through him. They went to the potting shed, where José shouldered an open box of petunia seedlings, which the Consul had ordered him to bring that morning from the market, then proceeded to the far end of the lawn. Here, after stretching a double string along the freshly prepared plot, the gardener began to bed out the young plants. At first, Nicholas was content to watch, but presently, responding to José’s glances of invitation, he bent down and timidly planted a seedling for himself. After that, he could not bring himself to stop. It was a lovely sensa
tion to pick up the cool, green stem, to knead the soft, hot soil around the hair-like roots, to see the little shoot standing bravely up, resolved to face the world.

  Nicholas had always lived in towns, in houses which gave directly on to the street, and now, squatting beside José, the sun beating warmly upon the back of his neck, the smell of the earth filling his nostrils with a kind of intoxication, he told himself that he had never known anything so wonderful. Even the pricking of perspiration beneath his undershirt, normally a portentous symptom, caused him no worry at all.

  Towards four o’clock the planting was finished and, with real pride, Nicholas stood beside José, viewing the neatly spaced bed which would later on bloom into lovely, vivid colour. So immersed was the little boy that he did not hear the car as it entered the drive but, a minute later, he was startled by his father’s voice behind him.

  “Nicholas, what on earth are you doing?” The tone was surprised, tinged with disapproval.

  He had jumped a little, though not much, and now he swung round with a face still lit by the joy of his achievement.

  “Oh, Father, I’ve had such an interesting time. Watching, and helping too, with these petunias. And now they have to be watered, or they’ll not thrive.” He went on, coaxingly: “It isn’t really late. May I just wait a moment and see them done?”

  Displeased and uncertain, Brande gazed from his son to the Spanish gardener who, knowing his position, had withdrawn a few paces and was now winding the long string upon its wooden peg. Something impersonal and humble in that action seemed to reassure the Consul. His brow, which had borne a slight cloud, like a haze upon Olympus, gradually cleared. Raising his eyebrows, he answered dryly: