The Spanish Gardener

by A. J. Cronin

  “He has gone,” she moaned.

  “Who has gone?”

  “Garcia … after all that I have done for him.…” She gave way to little muffled cries that ended in a fit of coughing.

  A thin spasm of anger threaded the Consul’s apprehension. He went forward and shook her.

  “Tell me quickly … where has he gone?”

  Head in hands, in a muddled fashion, she seemed to try to think, to remember.

  “He has gone where you or any of the others will never find him. He can go fast in your splendid automobile. You will never find that either.” As Brande started involuntarily, she raised her wounded eyes, kindled now by a spark of bitterness. “ What did you expect, my fine master? That Rodrigo would wait until the police came to call upon him? Yes, that’s his name, Rodrigo Espantago. He’s a thief, a criminal, a maniac, all in one. He fooled you nicely, and me too, as he fools everyone. He‘s not my husband. I’m only his woman. Teamed up with him in Madrid. He promised me he’d treat me right. He got round me, got me to do all the work, to slave for him, the lazy, filthy devil … and now he’s gone.” Her voice, tortured, rose to a scream. “Why did you let him know that they were after him? If you had only heard him mock at you! At you and your little Professor. The stuffed codfish and the curried shrimp … that’s what he called the pair of you. He planted everything on José. Didn’t you guess that? He hated José and swore he’d send him to the cuartel. He hated Nicholas too. Meantime, he had all your jewellery, a pretty lot of loot. And now …” She began to shake hysterically, torn between tears and a terrible rending laughter. “ Now he’s got more. He’s done you down properly, like he always said he would. Just wait till you see.…”

  Completely broken down, she swayed backwards and forwards, moaning to herself, arms folded over her breasts, features contorted, tears streaming down her cheeks. No persuasion, no amount of shaking could stir her.

  Abruptly, Brande gave it up. He turned and lit the candle which stood upon the dresser, then, with a pale, desperate face, he left the kitchen, holding the flickering flame aloft. In the hall, shielding the light from the eddying draughts, he glanced round fearfully. Everything seemed in order. He began, slowly, to mount the stairs, with the regular steps of a somnambulist. Outside his own room he paused. The air felt cold and, besides the reek of melting tallow, was filled with that smoky odour which he had noticed earlier. As though overcoming a strong resistance, breasting an invisible barrier, he entered, and lit the gas.

  The stark disorder of the bedroom struck him like a blow. All the drawers were pulled out, the floor was strewn with scattered garments, the wardrobe had been emptied of his best suits. The silver toilet articles were missing from the dressing-table, his heavy ivory brushes, the chased cigar box. The room had been stripped of everything of value, systematically and with wanton destructiveness. Yet this caused him no distress, barely disturbed the surface of his numbed sensibilities. He looked about him, with darting, hunted glances, then his eye struck downwards to the hearthstone and lit upon a charred and crumbled mass which lay there. At first he did not comprehend, then with a painful indrawing of his breath he bent forward. Yes, it was his manuscript, burnt to shreds, totally destroyed.

  He gave a terrible sigh, a lost and gasping sound, straightened himself with that same pale, expressionless face, dusted the sooty fragments from his fingers. The frightful effort which he made to retain control of himself gave to each of his jerky movements a mechanical precision. This was his punishment, then, the loss of his life’s work; it might be that he had deserved it. His mouth made an imperceptible grimace, as though gulping down hot tears. He stood for a moment, apparently in deep thought, actually in a state of blankness; then, like a child seeking consolation, he picked up the candle and turned towards his son’s room.

  A moment later, he was staring at the empty bed which had not been slept in. A blast of cold air made him spin round. The window was wide open at the foot. His heart beat against his breast in great heavy strokes. He felt his legs give way under him, but just saved himself from falling. He pressed his fingers against his eyeballs, withdrew them. But still the room was empty, the window open to the pitch-dark night. Then the cry which he had been forcing back all night burst from his throat. In abject terror, he staggered from the room and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen.

  “My son.” The words came in a raucous whisper. “ Where is Nicholas?”

  Magdalena had in part composed herself, but his reappearance caused a sulky anger to flash through the misery in her eyes, which glowered at him from beneath the malignant bruise.

  “Where, indeed?” she said tauntingly. “ Did you expect to find him sleeping peacefully … after that devil had rampaged through the house? …”

  The Consul came close to her. Leaning a little to one side, holding on with all his strength, he looked as though he were about to lose his balance.

  “Tell me,” he shouted.

  The housekeeper stirred sullenly. Then her gaze fell, beaten down by the naked torment in his leaden face.

  “Garcia didn’t touch him,” she faltered. “ He would have, but Nicholas had gone. This afternoon he made up a little bundle and ran away.”

  Brande twisted his tongue in his dry mouth.

  “Where did he go?”

  “How should I know?” Magdalena shot back bitterly, then, as though repenting: “ When I saw him running down the drive I called him from the kitchen window. But he would not stop. ‘I am in a hurry, Magdalena,’ he called back to me. Then in a crazy sort of way, with his little face very white and desperate, he called again, ‘I am going fishing.’”

  At first he thought that she had lost her senses, but suddenly a gleam of understanding dawned upon him. From Halevy’s probings he was aware of the child’s excursion to Torrido, and the depth of the impression which it had left upon his mind. José’s bid for liberty had clearly been premeditated. Nothing was more likely than that Nicholas, forewarned, had set out to meet his friend at that mountain stream.

  Brande was taken by a swift downward sinking, the same sensation that he had experienced during that fatal moment upon the train, and at the same instant a vision rose before him of his son, lost amongst the high hills, wandering into the swollen torrent, the roaring waters closing over him, in the pitch blackness of this stormy night.

  As though to reinforce this image, a heavy gust of wind banged the shutter again, and a spatter of rain rattled like nails against the window panes. He felt his muscles relax, a rasping in his throat, a suffocation in his chest. Then, with a supreme effort, he collected himself, plunged back into the hall.

  Never more than at this moment had he felt the utter loneliness of his position in the world. To whom could he turn in his frightful hour of need? Only one name rose feebly to his mind, that of the humble, disparaged Burton, whose advice he had so cynically rejected only a few days before. But now he clutched at this solitary hope. Groping for the telephone receiver, he asked for the number, gasped with relief when Alvin’s voice came through to him, then, in a desperate rush of words, begged his assistant to come at once, with a car.

  Waiting, bareheaded, in the rain-swept portico, he lost all count of time. Yet it was not long before the sharp whine of a motor cut across the moaning of the wind, and a taxi-cab screeched at high speed round the curve of the drive and slithered to rest on the sodden gravel. Immediately Brande stumbled towards it, tugged open the door and, with heavy awkwardness, fell inside.

  “Tell him,” he mumbled, “tell him to drive to Torrido.”

  The taxi ran down to the stables, reversed noisily in the yard, then sped back along the lane. In the cramped interior darkness of the cab, swayed by an invisible swell, the Consul lay back, annihilated by a physical pain which pressed like lead upon the nape of his neck. Dimly he sensed that Burton had heard the news of José’s death but did not dare to speak of it. Indeed, it seemed as though Alvin could not find any words to break the silence. But at last he st
ammered:

  “I was lucky to pick up a cab at the station.” A pause. “I hope you’re all right, sir?”

  Brande did not answer. Huddled in the narrow seat, he made a forward gesture with his arm, demanding greater and still greater speed. Then, in a husky voice, he muttered:

  “Faster … faster …” After a long pause, he added, as if speaking to himself, “ I am looking for my son.”

  “Nicholas?” exclaimed Alvin, in subdued surprise. “ Is he at Torrido?”

  “He left to go there this afternoon. Whether he has arrived … I do not know.”

  “We shall find him, sir,” Alvin said consolingly. “ Please don’t worry.”

  This encouragement sent a tremor across the Consul’s cheek, a stab into his bursting heart. He turned to Alvin and, pressing his hand, he sought to justify himself. “I did not mean it, Burton … before God, I did not mean it.” Then, as the young man looked at him, uncomprehending and aghast, he bent forward, his chin almost resting on his knees, and peered through the rain-streaked window of the cab, searching the road with straining eyes.

  Now they had left the main coastal thoroughfare and were on the secondary country road, beginning the long and winding climb into the mountains. At every curve the car skidded on the muddy surface, then shuddered in all its members as the wheels gripped and the engine picked up again. The lowest gear kept up a constant drone, while in front the headlights sent two faded yellow beams which barely illuminated the dreary and deserted track.

  On they went. Once Alvin let out a sharp exclamation, and Brande’s heart stirred with hope, as they discerned a moving form ahead of them. But it was only a benighted farm labourer, plodding back to his homestead in the valley. Apart from that solitary figure, they might have been traversing the country of the dead.

  At last, through the pelting downpour, a few faint lights glistened on the summit, like beacons upon a misty sea.

  “Torrido,” said the driver. Five minutes later, with a grunt of relief, he drew up in the deserted square.

  “Why do you stop?” cried the Consul.

  “The señor wished to go to Torrido.” The driver spoke shortly. “We are there.”

  “Go on,” said Brande.

  “Should we not make some inquiries here?” Alvin suggested diplomatically. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch, which showed five minutes past eleven. “It’s very late.”

  “Go on,” the Consul repeated in an indescribable tone. With a surly shrug, the driver threw in the gears, the car rasped forward, through the little village, on to the murky plateau beyond.

  The road, washed out in places by the floods, was now difficult, almost impassable, and the cab proceeded at a snail’s pace for a distance of nearly half a kilometre. Still nothing was visible on the narrow way. The driver, glancing back at Burton, was about to raise a final protest when suddenly the silent darkness was enlivened by a sound, a movement, and all at once the shafts of light, wavering ahead, caught and held prisoner a small figure, tramping forward on the far side of the track.

  “My God!” Alvin cried. “ It’s Nicholas.”

  The Consul stared through the window like a lunatic. So positive was his belief that he would never see his son alive that the shock almost deprived him of his reason. A great shiver traversed his frame, his jaw began to chatter, the eyeballs protruded from beneath his forehead. No, no … it was no illusion … there was his beloved child, facing the car, blinking in pale inquiry under the headlights, his knapsack across his shoulder, drenched and bedraggled, as he might well be, but safe … oh, yes, dear Heaven … safe and sound.

  A shout burst from the depths of the Consul’s breast, broken and incoherent, abject, triumphant, a wild inhuman cry. He thrust open the door, hurled himself from the car.

  “Nicholas,” he wept, stumbling forward. “My son … my son.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Seven months later, on a clear, cold winter evening, the steamer from Stockholm passed up the Norlanger Fjord and with two short, cheerful blasts of its siren approached the Swedish port of Halversholm. Immediately the sturdy little vessel docked, its handful of well-wrapped passengers disembarked and although, purposely, the new Consul had given no notice in advance, he was met by a short, bearded, bustling man in a blue pilot coat, who introduced himself as the Harbour-master, Mr. Andersen, explaining with a genial smile that he had received advice of the arrival of Mr. Brande and his son from the shipping company.

  The town lay already deeply under snow, the sky gleamed with myriads of stars, sharp and shining as a dust of brilliants, the northern wind which scoured round the customs house was keen and invigorating. Andersen, in a jolly, hospitable fashion, with a tinge also of native inquisitiveness, proposed to take the newcomers to his house for supper, but the Consul hastily explained that they had partaken of dinner on the boat, that his son, who had just recovered from a protracted illness, was overtired, that they desired nothing more than to take possession of their new residence.

  The Consulate, towards which Andersen agreeably conducted them, was quite near, a narrow-fronted house in a grey-stone terrace, opening directly on the broad, snow-bound stretch of the Reivplatz, not more than a few hundred paces from the end of the wharf. It was a modest dwelling, made somewhat ridiculous by its steeply pitched roof and gabled dormer windows, but it looked solid and compact, with the living quarters above and the offices—to which access was obtained through a railed-off side entrance—upon the ground floor immediately below.

  No one was at hand but a very old watchman, puffing his meerschaum in the basement beside a big porcelain stove, and Andersen insisted heartily that he must send his wife to see them settled for the night. They might need fresh milk, or fuel, or extra blankets—Mrs. Andersen had two fine spare eiderdowns she would be most happy to bring over. The Consul, however, was firm in his refusal. A rapid, if weary, glance showed him that these apartments, although far from spacious, were clean and habitable. The bedrooms were in order, linen and towels had been freshly laid out. He assured the Harbour-master that he and his son were old campaigners, thanked him for his offer to provide a hot breakfast—a real Swedish breakfast, Andersen volubly declared—in the morning, saw him to the front door, and finally got rid of him.

  As the Consul turned and began to climb the scrubbed pinewood stairs, he was suddenly conscious of his own tiredness, and he realised with a pang how these last few months had slowed him down. He felt older, much older, his shoulders were thickened by a stoop far heavier than he would have owned to before, his hair, in need of trimming at the back of the neck, was shot with grey, and his features, no longer sustained by that heavy, fleshy chin, showed a queer gauntness. Tonight, at least, physical stress had banished the arrogance from his eye, his expression was resigned, even careworn. Yet he was relieved to be here, in the obscurity of this small, ‘ single-handed’ berth—without doubt Bailey, whom he had once maligned, had done him some service in proposing his transfer, in promoting Alvin Burton to his place. The feeling against him at San Jorge had been acute. And Nicholas, although recovering physically, had failed, excusably, to shake off his melancholy lassitude in an environment which brought every day poignant reminders of the past. Perhaps, here, amongst these glittering northern snows, so different from the parched Iberian heathlands, life would be better for both of them … at least for Nicholas … he wanted nothing for himself.

  Yes, he reflected sombrely—feeling himself more than ever a homeric figure, beaten and broken, yet bravely supporting the blows which Fate had delivered at him—his ambition must henceforth be sacrificed to the welfare of his son. Indeed, he drew sweet consolation from the prospect of his arid destiny. The edifice of his pride, though shattered, was not wholly destroyed, and from the noble ruins had sprouted this exquisite flower of martyrdom. From now on he would be content ‘ to jog along’ … towards ‘the evening of his life’—these phrases were his own, already current in his conversation, the password, so to speak, of
the days to come. Even the thought of the great work on Malbranche failed to rouse him. Already, with a kind of pathetic grandeur, he viewed himself as a new Carlyle, his life work ruined by a vicious servant, but, unlike that other historian, the circumstances of his existence, the tragic personal drama which had so profoundly affected him, forbade him to recreate it.

  Upstairs, the boy was already in bed, his eyes closed, the white coverlet drawn up to his chin. In him, the change was even more apparent. He was much taller. His legs stretched out long and lanky, his features had lost their babyish curves, were cast in a more masculine mould—he seemed to have gained the firmness which his father had lost. Gazing at him with a sort of hungry concentration, the Consul thought again, with an inward sigh: he is growing up.

  “You are not asleep, Nicholas?”

  “No, Father.” The boy did not open his eyes.

  “Well,” said the Consul after a moment, “here we are, starting out again. It seems not a bad town. I hope you will like it.”

  “At least there is no garden.”

  “No,” said the Consul heavily, as though that spared them both. “There is no garden.”

  A long pause followed. Would the boy never come back to him? Could he ever forget these frightful weeks when Nicholas refused to look at him, but, lying motionless, with averted head, met his tenderest advances with the muttered though, of course, unmeant words: “I hate you.”

  Even when the shock of José’s unfortunate passing had lost something of its sting, he had remained silent and apart, had spent much of his time with old Pedro and at the Burtons. Then, to Brande’s secret dismay, he had begun to speak about his mother and to ask most distressing questions, requesting her photograph for his bedroom, pressing to know her address, and when he might see her again, wounding and embarrassing the Consul with even stronger demands.

  Now, as at some inner prompting, the result of long well-guarded thought, he stirred, raised himself upon his elbow on the pillow.