The Spanish Gardener

by A. J. Cronin

  It was grilling work. The warm season was now at hand and although the brief dawn came cool enough, soon the sun blazed out of a brilliant sky and waves of heat shimmered up like a mirage in the little garden. Blisters rose on José’s hands, blood ran from a torn fingernail and dried in a brackish smear, perspiration broke out all over his young body. To keep the dripping moisture from his eyes, he tore his red cotton handkerchief and bound a strip about his forehead. Oh, the relief, the exquisite assuagement of that blessed moment when the orange sun finally dipped down behind the brimming sea.

  Still, he would not, simply would not, give up; it was as though the bitter knowledge of injustice had steeled the gentle fibre of his spirit, and, as the days went by, he kept on, toiling at the killing task with a dogged and unflagging pride. Reclining in the arbour with his lesson books, pledged to unnatural silence, Nicholas watched his friend with straining eyes and throbbing, aching breast. He saw the weariness that slowed his steps. Once when a stone fell on José’s foot his heart leaped agonisingly to his throat. And, worst of all, José did not look at him, did not even smile, but went to and fro, staring straight ahead with that same fixed expression on his suffering face.

  A slow swell of feeling choked the little boy’s heart. Though he could not, dared not, question the Consul’s strict command, its purpose lay beyond his comprehension. He loved his father—of that there could not be the slightest doubt. Yet, in a different way, he cared for José too. Then why, oh why, was this chilling ban of silence imposed upon them? Suddenly, when he felt he could endure it no longer, an idea came to Nicholas, an inspiration, swift and splendid as a flash of light. It amazed him that he had not thought of it before. He need not disobey his father, yet he could break this horrible enforced estrangement with José after all. He lay for a moment, almost overcome, then quickly, reaching with trembling fingers for a sheet of composition paper on the table at his elbow, he took a pencil and scribbled these hurried lines:

  Dear José,—I gave my word not to speak to you, but didn’t make any promise about writing. Therefore I can send you this little note. I don’t think it’s wrong. Anyway, I must do it, because I have missed you so much, and have scarcely been able to sleep at nights for thinking of you.

  José, you are working much too hard; please do take it easier. I wish I could help you. You remember you said I was a big help when we did the planting and pruned off the tamarisks. That was great fun.

  If your back is stiff get Maria to rub you with the goose-grease, like you told me. Although I can’t work, I still do the exercises you showed me and am stronger than ever. Maybe I will be a pelota player too one day. Write by return and tell me how you feel.

  PS. Did old Pedro and the little five enjoy the trout?

  PPS. I hope you are missing me too.

  When he had finished Nicholas folded the paper many times into a tight, compact cube. Glancing round carefully to make sure that he was not spied upon from the windows of the villa, he waited until José trundled slowly past him, then, with a fast-beating pulse, threw this missile into the loaded wheelbarrow. It was a good shot. The paper landed between two stones and lodged there safely.

  If José was surprised he gave no sign, but continued heavily towards the dump of rocks. Perhaps he had observed nothing, or, worse still, meant to take no notice of the message. The little boy’s heart sank, then bounded again as he saw José, before tumbling out the stones, calmly retrieve the paper, conceal it in his palm, then move towards the shelter of the potting shed. Every other journey he would go to the shed to take a drink of water from the wicker-encased stone jar which he kept there, in the cool darkness. But on this occasion he remained out of sight somewhat longer, and when he emerged the first thing Nicholas saw, with a little start, was a yellow stub of pencil, glowing like a crocus, behind his ear.

  Steadily José plodded back, his expression unchanged, still fixed and set. A faint shiver of doubt contracted the little boy’s skin. Then, as the gardener drew abreast, suddenly he smiled, his own familiar, gentle smile, which lit up all his sweat-streaked face and warmed Nicholas by its radiance. At the same time, with a swift motion of his well-trained wrist, almost unseen, he flicked the paper back into Nicholas’ lap. The next instant he had disappeared behind the myrtle hedge.

  Nicholas drew a deep, joyful breath and after a long minute during which he lay quite still, savouring to the full that sweet smile, which reopened and restored the friendship he had fancied lost, he took the paper from the rug which covered his knees, and slowly unrolled it. There, written roundly, a little untidily, by the thick lead pencil stub, was José’s answer:

  Amigo mio,—You have more brains than José to think of such cleverness. Write more, for surely it offends nobody. This work is nothing. You know that I am strong as an Andalusian donkey—they are the strongest. Anyhow, I shall take a good rest when I go to the Arengo to fish on Sunday. I wish you might come. The five sisters are well, praise be to God, and old Pedro ate hugely of the trout. Did you truly miss me, little one? That gives me a new heart.

  José.

  For a full minute Nicholas shut his eyes tight, as though to fix upon the screen of his sight these blessed words. José had not forgotten him. All his being responded to that happy thought in a kind of golden glow. Suddenly he laughed out loud and, sitting erect, snatched up his pencil.

  How can you be an Andalusian donkey when you are the best pelota player in San Jorge? Also the nicest friend I ever had. I’ve never had a friend before, so that is no great compliment. Ha! Ha! Why don’t you oil that old axle? It makes a horrible squeak. I don’t mind, though; it sounds like music to me because it means that you are near. I can’t stop laughing, I am so happy.

  Nicholas.

  Into the wheelbarrow went the paper; then, some moments later, it flew back to the rug.

  I allow the axle to squeak so that everyone shall know that the lazy gardener is at work. But if you like music one day I will play my clarionet for you. The Catalan tunes would make you skip and jump. Ta-ra, ta-ra, te-da, boom, boom. We do not need to speak that way either. Also we could play ball in silence. You see I am not so stupid.

  José the Donkey.

  Then again:

  If you must be a donkey, then I shall be a flea. Then I can be with you without being seen. And jump as high as you like. But I assure you if you cease to be my friend I shall bite you very hard. Nicco the Flea.

  Next time, as he passed, José did not smile and, opening the paper, Nicholas read:

  Pray be careful, little amigo. Garcia is standing in the patio. He has seen nothing, but it is better we write no more until to-morrow. I am thinking of you.

  José.

  The boy stiffened imperceptibly, like one of these delicate sea plants which, at the first sign of danger, arrest the soft movement of their fronds before withdrawing them. With due caution, he stuffed the paper inside his shirt. A more correct technique—he knew from the books he had read—would be to chew the sheet and swallow it. But it was much too large for that and would have made him sick. Besides, he wished, with all his heart, to keep it. Resting there, his eyes, slightly parted, sheltered by his drooping lids, he was conscious of the caress of the stiff edges of the page, rough and a little sharp upon his skin, moving with his breathing, and with the tender beating of his heart.

  Chapter Eight

  And now, observing José at his appointed task, plodding backwards and forwards, completely silent, much thinner than before, the Consul drew in a sibilant breath of satisfaction. A pity, perhaps, that the rockery was almost completed. Yet, with a grim smile, he reflected that other horticultural operations could be devised, solid and creative works, on a scale calculated to strain the sinews and maintain the limbs in active motion. He would not rest until he had tamed this upstart and rebellious spirit.

  At the same time, as his hostility towards the Catalan youth intensified, Brande was aware, within himself, of an exceptional sense of well-being. In his recent years he h
ad never felt better, more fully in possession of all his physical and mental qualities—in short, more intensely alive. He liked warm weather, with its expansive glow, and was suited by the vigorous sunshine of this ardent spring. His office, unworthy of him though it might be, was at last running smoothly; his manuscript on Malbranche advanced in the final stages of revision.

  But Brande’s deepest gratification came from the manner in which Nicholas had responded to his authority. After those first few days of peevish dejection, he had thrown off his sulks, and ‘ come round’ like a loving and obedient child. Lately, indeed, he had displayed much brightness and gaiety, with fits of gleeful laughter which, although they caused his father to raise a moderating finger, were sure evidence that the disquieting affair had passed completely from his mind.

  Ah, it was good to feel the pulse of life, to be filled with this sense of mastery, of potent strength, almost, one might say, of rejuvenation. A new optimism towards the future stirred his blood and made his narrow nostrils dilate. Could it be, at last, that Fortune was about to cease to frown on him, perhaps even to favour him with her smile?

  On Saturday afternoon, towards five o’clock, in the warm glow of the sunset he set out with a brisk step to walk to the Consulate. It was a holiday—at least, before his arrival at San Jorge, it had been so regarded, in a loose and somewhat lazy style. But recently, with his passion for efficiency, he had insisted that one member of the staff remain on duty at the office. To-day he had been obliged to let Burton off—Alvin had planned to go picnicking to Huesca with his wife and the Alcade’s children, a familiarity which, incidentally, the Consul did not altogether approve—but Fernando, the senior clerk, had been instructed to remain at his post.

  It was, indeed, to reassure himself upon this point that Brande chose to call in at the Consulate at this hour. At the same time he meant to look through the mail, which no one was allowed to handle but himself, and which came up every weekday from Barcelona on the afternoon train. This late delivery was a great nuisance, but he had already taken it up strongly with the postal authorities, and hoped that the matter would be adjusted to his satisfaction.

  This evening, certainly, he was in no mood to complain. Humming under his breath, he let himself in to the office, noting with immediate satisfaction that Fernando was at his desk.

  “Well!” he exclaimed, with unusual geniality, “you are holding the fort, Fernando. Anything to report?”

  The clerk straightened himself hastily, his eyes half asleep.

  “No, señor. And the afternoon has been so fine. Such a pity!” He ventured a timid protest. “One might just as well have been on the beach.”

  “At least you have the satisfaction of having done your duty, Fernando.” Brande spoke in mild reproach. “Tell me, has the mail come in?”

  “Yes, señor; it is in the box.… And the carrier, remarked that there was a letter with seals … from Madrid. But of course I did not touch it.”

  “Quite right.” Brande nodded. “Well … you may go now if you wish.”

  He stood on one side as Fernando jumped up, seized his hat and with a quick bow ran from the office, like a schoolboy released from detention. Then, shaking his head, he went to the mail-box, unlocked it with the Chubb key on the end of his watch chain. And there, stamped with a heavy red seal, was the letter from Madrid.

  Immediately, as he took it up in his broad, well-manicured fingers, he experienced a queer, inexplicable premonitory thrill. Whether or not from the movement of his mood, he seemed to sense that this was, for him, a vital communication. Quickly he slit the envelope. And then, indeed, he saw that the news was of the first importance.

  The letter was from Leighton Bailey, the Consul-General at Madrid. It stated, briefly, that George Tenney had been taken seriously ill, stricken by a cerebral seizure which, if not actually fatal, must invalid him permanently from the service. It requested Brande to report immediately to the Embassy.

  The Consul remained for an instant perfectly still, his chest expanded, his large body throbbing beneath its immobility. Tensely, he read the letter through again. It could mean only one thing—he was to have Tenney’s place; the promotion, so long denied him, had come at last.

  Only by the greatest effort did Harrington Brande suppress a glad impulse to cry out. His sense of dignity alone restrained him. But at last … at last … they had recognised his worth. He breathed deeply, head thrown back, eyeballs glistening … abandoned to his joy.

  Finally, he mastered himself, collected his thoughts, strode through the doorway to the outer hall and, with an agitated touch, consulted the railway timetable which hung by a cord beside the wall telephone. As he had anticipated, the service was execrable. But if Garcia drove him to Barcelona after dinner, he could take the midnight train to Zaragize which connected with a local coach to Valladolid and here, after an hour’s wait, could join the Central Castile express which reached Madrid shortly before noon on Sunday. It would, of course, be a frightful journey but, in view of the honour to be conferred on him, he wished at all costs to impress Bailey with his promptness and punctuality.

  Through his elation— was he not, above all, a man of method?—his mind became busy with the details of the trip. He would probably be away for about three days. How fortunate to have such a reliable couple in the house—Nicholas would be well taken care of by Magdalena and the excellent Garcia. Naturally, he counted on the Burtons as an official standby, and when he telephoned Alvin—he would do so from the villa—he would request that they keep an eye upon the boy.

  At the thought of Nicholas a brighter gleam illumined the Consul’s humid eye. What happiness to convey the news to his dear son, to point out the advantages of this great upward step, to dwell upon the pleasures and privileges of life in the Spanish capital, to explain how fine would be their new establishment, how splendid their social and intellectual advantages, to promise visits to the Prado … the Palacio Real … the pavilions of Buen Retiro … and then, best of all, to feel admiration tinging the warm affection of that childish gaze.

  At this, Brande could contain himself no longer. He yearned, suddenly, uncontrollably, to be with the boy. Placing the letter in his pocket-book, he locked up the office, and hastened with all speed towards the street.

  Chapter Nine

  At ten o’clock that night, when Nicholas, in bed, heard the whine of the departing car, he burrowed nervously beneath the counterpane. Yet he could still see the reflection of the headlights as they shot out, swept the ceiling of his room, like the antennae of a great spider, then disappeared. And in the darkness which followed, blinding and silent, he could hear the thin loud beating of his heart. He was so seldom separated from his father that he felt always a wrench, when, even for a short period, the Consul went away. But this time, although he had not dared to speak of it, or even for that matter to admit it to himself, another anxiety intensified his natural disquiet. How could he stand, alone and unsupported, against Garcia?

  His wakefulness was not that restless tossing which used to trouble him when he was sick, but a kind of silent tensity that bound him while he lay there, open-eyed and stiff, in the old dark Spanish house, listening, listening for the return of the butler with the car. The creak of a dry board relaxing, as with a sigh, after the arid heat of day, mice pattering timidly behind the wainscoting, the tremulous tapping of a mimosa branch upon the window-pane, all the little gentle sounds of night which so often reassured him, fell unheeded upon his ears. Midnight struck upon the long clock in the hall. Had Garcia cut the motor and coasted in silence towards the stables? If so, he was back, in the house; at any second his padding step might echo, softly and secretly upon the stairs. Nicholas shivered, chilled by that unreasoning mistrust of the butler which he could neither control nor explain.

  He must have fallen asleep at last, for he awoke to a bright new day, with his tray already on the bedside table and Magdalena opening his shutters with a cheerful clatter.

  “I brought you
up breakfast for a little treat.”

  He understood her much better now and sat up with an answering smile. He liked Magdalena, despite these periodic moods which came upon her after the noise of quarrelling in the kitchen, and which drew her broad, swollen brow into a corrugation of resentful misery.

  “Did Father get his train all right?” he asked, beginning on the glass of orange juice.

  “Yes, yes.” She nodded. “ I am sure.”

  “I didn’t hear the car come back.”

  She bent to pick up something invisible from the floor. When she spoke her tone was casual, yet she glanced at him sideways, as though estimating the effect of her words:

  “Garcia did not return last night. It was so very late. Indeed, I think he will remain in Barcelona for the week-end. He has friends there. And some business to transact.”

  Wide-eyed, he stared at her, almost unbelieving, overcome by relief, by an inexpressible rush of joy.

  “It’s all right?” She nodded, still searching with her gaze. “ No need to say anything. We manage very well together, you and me.”

  “Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, scarcely trusting his voice.

  “Tell me, then, what you like for lunch.”

  “Oh, anything you please, Magdalena. You’re so decent …”

  “I do for you something special.” She nodded, satisfied, making her earrings dance, and, with her broad, strangely battered smile, she straightened his coverlet and went out of the room.