by Joan Lingard
Hearing footsteps Encarnita looked up to see Sofia coming purposefully up the slope with a cloth in her hand, making for the cemetery.
‘I have come to do my cleaning,’ she announced calmly.
‘Today?’
‘Why not today?’
Encarnita got up and followed her into the enclave. At least the dead were not warring.
Sofia picked up the crucifix. She held it aloft for a moment, regarding it with lips pursed, then, suddenly, she dashed it to the ground, crying, ‘What use are YOU? I asked YOU to look after him and YOU did not!’
Encarnita went to Pedro’s mother and put her arms round her. They cried together and when all their tears were spent Sofia said, ‘Now I shall have another grave to visit. If I can afford the funeral.’
‘I have some money.’
‘You need it.’
‘No, I want to give it you. For Pedro.’ Encarnita broke off, sniffing the air.
‘Something’s burning,’ said Sofia.
She stayed up in the cemetery while Encarnita ran down the hill. The casino was on fire, blazing brightly, beyond salvation. The crowd was cheering and some had run in and pulled out pieces of furniture. Two men dragged the grand piano into the street and turned it upside down, whereupon a group of children began to stone it. The casino might not have been an important building, except that it had attracted tourists, who had brought money into the town, but it saddened Encarnita to see the flames and the venom in the children’s faces. She turned away.
By the shore, she bumped into Manolo. He looked like a wet seal.
‘Manolo! You’re not dead, then!’
‘Not quite.’
‘Have you come out of the sea?’
He had escaped by swimming to the lighthouse, then he had made his way over the cliffs. ‘We are finished, Encarnita,’ he said limply. ‘They are too strong for us.’
‘But not in the whole of Spain?’
‘I don’t know! I just do not know.’
He went into the bar and Encarnita continued along to the hotel where Jacobo and Lorenzo were listening to Radio Sevilla.
‘It doesn’t sound good.’ Jacobo shook his head.
They huddled round the crackling radio and at midnight heard that General Queipo de Llano was about to make a statement.
‘He’s for Franco,’ said Jacobo.
De Llano sounded drunk, but triumphant. He had come on air to announce the fall of Sevilla. God’s army had triumphed! Praise be to God! Viva España! Viva la Virgen! Anyone who was not with them would be shot like dogs.
‘It sounds as if they’ve won,’ whispered Encarnita.
‘How can we tell?’ said Lorenzo. ‘He might just have captured the radio station.’ That was the trouble: news came through in fractured bursts. There was never a complete picture; Spain was a big country and there were many different factions operating.
‘I heard earlier that they were still fighting in the north,’ said Jacobo. ‘In Barcelona and Madrid. The workers won’t give up so easily there.’
‘Maybe they did not give up so easily in Sevilla!’ said Encarnita.
Next morning, another warship was standing off-shore. Friend or foe? Shortly afterwards, a small launch was seen setting out from the bigger ship. When it reached the beach an officer, in sparkling white and with gold on his cap, stepped ashore, announcing that he was from H.M.S. Blanche. His Majesty’s Navy – His Majesty being the King of Great Britain and Ireland – had sent them to pick up British subjects who had found themselves marooned in this difficult situation. They could come or not, it was their choice, but if it were him, he said, he would not hesitate. This might be their last chance to get out.
Lorenzo and his friend, the Englishwoman, Wilma Gregory, decided to go.
‘I don’t blame them,’ said Jacobo.
‘Nor I,’ said Encarnita sadly, who wished that they could also be carried away across the sea on HMS Blanche.
They helped Lorenzo gather up his few belongings and escorted the two travellers down to the beach. The woman was handed into the launch first, then it was the turn of Lorenzo. He would come back, he promised, then he embraced them and said good-bye. Encarnita and Jacobo watched the little boat cutting like an arrow through the blue sea, leaving a white wake behind, growing smaller and smaller as it neared the horizon. When it was a mere smudge they turned their backs. There would be no more musical evenings in the Hotel Mediterráneo.
Encarnita went up the hill and collected Cinderella. There was no sign of Rinaldo, who was probably at yet another meeting. ‘We’re going to get some fresh air,’ she told the goat. ‘We’re going to our house.’
As they neared the outskirts of the village they heard voices and the trundling sound made by cart wheels. Encarnita stopped dead, as did Cinderella. The road was swarming with people as well as animals and all manner of vehicles, moving eastward. Many were on foot carrying bundles. The old limped, some with feet bound in rags. Scattered about were pots and pans and pieces of furniture, dropped by those whose arms had grown weary. A mule lay on the side of the road its nostrils foaming horribly. Babies cried from the running sores on their limbs. An ambulance came weaving through and arms were stretched out in supplication but it was full already.
One family had pulled up on the verge while the father was trying to mend one of the wheels of their two-wheeled cart. He was cursing; a spoke had broken. The cart itself was piled teeteringly high with furniture, bedding and clothing.
Encarnita spoke to the mother, who looked as if she had not slept for many nights. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Who knows? As far away as we can get from Málaga. It’s like hell on earth there, what with the shootings and burnings. God knows what we’ve done in our lives to deserve this!’
‘You were living in Málaga?’
‘A village nearby. A village called Churriana.’
‘Churriana!’
‘You know it.’
‘No, but a friend – well, someone I used to know – went to live there. An Englishman. His name was Señor Brenan.’
‘Don Geraldo? Yes, we know him well. And his wife, Doña Gamel, too. They are friendly people. They always talk to us.’
‘And their servants, Maria, Rosario and Antonio?’
‘They’re well, as well anyone can be with all this going on! How is it you know them?’
‘I used to live in the same village.’
‘In Yegen, away up in the Alpujarra? Don Geraldo said they had been happy there.’
‘Have they stayed in Churriana?’
‘So far. But we think they’ll leave at some point. It’ll be easier for them to get away, of course. They can go to Gibraltar and get a ship to England. Their government will look after them. But who is to look after us?’
The father lifted his flushed face. ‘It’s not going to hold.’ He shrugged. ‘I need some strong twine.’
‘What use is a cart with a missing wheel?’ His wife was close to tears. ‘What are we to do with all our things? We can’t carry them.’
Encarnita offered to go and try to find some twine in the village. She knew a man who sold it.
‘But will the shop be open?’
‘He lives in the room at the back.’
‘Why should you do that for us?’
‘Because I should like to. Since you know Don Geraldo. He is the link between us.’
The man gave her some pesetas and one of the children, a boy of some nine or ten years, came with her. The rest of the family said they would look after Cinderella. Encarnita found Roberto, the shopkeeper, at home; and he did have some twine left, which he was willing to sell to her. She felt that this piece of luck was a good omen and it had cheered her even to have news of Don Geraldo, as well as Maria and Rosario. She ran back to the family who waited by the roadside.
‘Would you like to come with us?’ asked the woman. ‘Franco’s men will be coming this way, you can count on that.’
‘I live with my uncle,
’ said Encarnita. ‘I couldn’t leave him.’
‘Of course you couldn’t. We must stay with our own in times like these. Vaya con Dios!’
They took leave of each other like people who had known each other for a long time. Encarnita watched yet another departure and wondered how far these people would have to flee to escape the rebel armies. They might be driven into the sea in the end.
She spent a couple of hours in the campo with Cinderella, who was reluctant to return to the hard, barren streets afterwards. When they reached the road she strained at her rope and dug in her hoofs. Life in Almuñecar did not suit her, nor Encarnita now, either. She wished they could live in their little house remote from war and talk of war.
She found Rinaldo at home. He was tying up a bedroll, and by the wall stood a packed knapsack.
‘Encarnita,’ he said, looking up at her, ‘I’m joining the Republican forces. They need recruits badly. I have to go and fight for our freedom. You understand that, don’t you?’
Encarnita nodded.
EASTER SUNDAY, 1939
The bells rang out and people cheered as the Risen Christ, his waxy face pale in the bright sunshine, his right hand raised, ready to bless them, was borne on high out of the church. The scuffed, workaday boots of the fishermen shouldering the heavy, flower-decked float were visible beneath the hems of their scarlet and white cloaks as they shuffled forward. The Saviour Has Risen! Aleluja! Aleluja! All is well with the world. It was a message that the crowd was desperate to hear. A tear or two was wiped away. The priest nodded and smiled upon his flock. Nearly everyone in the village was there; few would dare stay away. Attendance at church was mandatory now that General Franco was in power. The general was a pious man, reputed to attend mass daily and to spend hours on his knees in prayer. Where the moral standards of his citizens were concerned, he had a missionary’s zeal. He was determined to lift his people out of the slack ways they had slumped into and in which they might have remained had he not defeated the Republicans. Censorship was back, the clergy had their hands on the schools again and young men and girls were no longer to be seen out on the paseo hand-in-hand, their bodies brushing against each other as they walked.
Then it was Mary’s turn. This was the moment that the women had been anticipating. They were ready with their cheers. Encarnita, who had been standing back a little, moved forward and she, too, clapped and cheered. It was impossible not to. The men, in charge of this precious float, conscious of the watching eyes of their wives and daughters, were taking great care not to let the virgin wobble. The women tossed up flowers for their lady, who gazed serenely down at them from her lofty perch. Their faces glowed as they looked up at her. She had suffered the loss of a son, like many of them; she understood their pain. Blessed be the Virgin of Almuñecar! Mother of the seas! Sofia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Encarnita’s eyes were as dry as the dust in the road; she had shed so many tears in the last three years that she did not think she could ever weep again.
Once the crowd had fallen in behind the floats Encarnita detached herself. She had told Sofia earlier that she might go for a walk. Sofia did not like her to go walking alone in the campo but she needed to get away from the crowd. And bandits and dropouts from the war, which was what Sofia feared, did not come down as far as the coast. Also, refugees from the war would be Republicans and would not harm her. ‘How can you be sure?’ Sofia had demanded. ‘The war has changed our people. It has brought out the bad blood in them. Men, if they’re desperate, cease to know what is right or wrong.’ But the men tended to lie low in the higher passes of the sierras. It was known that a number of Republican fighters were up there, awaiting their chance to strike back, though Encarnita did not see how they would be able to without being slaughtered. There could not be so very many of them, and they must be ill-equipped, and the army and the Guardia Civil had a firm grip of every town and village. They were often to be seen up by the alcazaba, scanning the campo from the walls. Encarnita resented their presence there. She felt they had violated a place that belonged to her and Sofia.
As she dropped back from the crowd, she felt a hand on her arm and looked round.
‘Does anything ail you, child?’ asked the nun. She was elderly and had lived in Cádiar as a girl, not far from Yegen. Sometimes Encarnita would stop to talk to her, to reminisce about the places of their birth. The almond blossom was what the nun remembered most. ‘Are you not coming with the procession?’
‘I was feeling a little faint, Sister. I need some air.’
‘It is a very emotional experience, is it not, the resurrection of Our Saviour?’
Encarnita nodded.
‘I’ve not seen you at mass for a while. Do you go to confession?’
‘Sometimes.’ She had not been for a while. She hated the stuffiness of the confessional box, preferring to sit in the church when it was quiet. She found it more helpful to talk to her mother than to the priest but the nun would probably think that sinful. Sofia did. Sofia despaired of her state of grace, or lack of it, at times. ‘I’ll go soon,’ Encarnita added, though she was not certain that she would.
‘Good! Vaya con Dios!’ The nun took her hand from Encarnita’s arm and hurried after the procession, her skirts swirling.
On the next corner, Encarnita passed two members of the Guardia Civil, who swivelled round to watch her go. Automatically, she dropped her gaze. Anyone who had had family members fighting for the Republicans was regarded with disfavour and suspicion. Rinaldo had been known as a leader.
‘One moment, Señorita!’
She stopped, looked round. One of the guards was coming strolling towards her, taking his time. He waddled slightly, as if his thighs were rubbing together. Her heart beat quickened.
‘Your papers, Señorita?’
He knew very well who she was and where she lived. He had asked to see her papers before. She took them from her pocket and he perused them, pursing his lips, as he had done the first time.
‘So you were born in Yegen? That’s up in the Alpujarra.’ He made it sound like the moon. He was from Madrid himself and had not been pleased at being posted to a rathole like Almuñecar. He made no secret of it. Guards never worked on their own home ground.
‘What brought you to Almuñecar?’
He knew the answer to that, too.
‘Somebody cut out your tongue? Let me see it! Come on, show me your tongue!’
She let only the very tip of it slide over her lower lip. He put out a stubby index finger and laid it on her tongue, holding it down. She tasted nicotine and sweat and thought she might retch.
‘It’s healthy enough looking, I see, nice and plump and pink. I don’t like girls with skinny tongues. Seems it should be able to talk.’ He lifted his finger, regarded it for a moment, then ran his own tongue over it. ‘Quite sweet. Are you ready to answer me now?’
She swallowed. ‘I came to visit my uncle.’
‘Ah yes, your uncle.’ He came a step closer until she could feel the flow of his breath on her face. She flinched as if struck by a physical blow. His breath was heavy with the stench of beer and tobacco and his face looked blotchy and red beneath the tricorned leather hat. She could see beads of sweat sitting in the open pores of his nose. ‘So, have you any news of this famous uncle of yours? Or should I say, infamous?’
She shook her head.
‘No?’ He smiled. ‘Are you sure about that? You would tell me if you had, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you? Come on now, answer me! Don’t start playing dumb with me again. I might just get angry. You’d tell me?’ He engaged her eyes with his.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, feeling as a bird might when confronted by a cat.
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want any trouble?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You want to be nice to me, don’t you? Of course you do. Maybe I’ll come and visit you sometime. You must be lonely up there all on your own, a pretty chica like you, lying next to the dead. Aren’t you afraid of
the ghosts?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not? I like a bold chica. So, tell me, would you like me to pay you a visit? I might even bring you a little present, if you were prepared to be very nice.’ A blob of spittle had formed at the side of his mouth. She thought she had never seen an uglier face in all the nineteen years of her life. ‘What do you say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? No, don’t look away from me!’ He put his hand on her shoulder, letting his hot fat fingers slide down to touch the top of her breast underneath her blouse. He ignored the sniggers of his friend, who was waiting on the opposite side of the road. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll let you go.’ He gave her a little push and she staggered back. ‘For now,’ he added.
Her legs felt like jelly as she walked away. She heard the two men laughing. The street up the hill was deserted except for four or five mangy kittens scavenging in the gutter and one old man who sat on a low wicker chair in his doorway. He was too old to join an Easter procession and even the guards left him alone. He asked her, as he always did when she passed, ‘No word of Rinaldo?’ She shook her head and he sighed and said what a loss all the young men were. His grandson had been killed at the battle of the Ebro and buried there. But, at least, his family knew what had happened to him. ‘The pueblo will never be the same again.’
When Encarnita reached her house she closed and barred the door behind her. Then she sat down on her straw pallet and allowed herself to shake for a few minutes. Following on, came a bout of anger which swept through her like a raging fire. She felt the heat of it in her chest. She thumped the pallet with both fists until she felt gutted and empty. She would keep a knife by the door and if he were to come she would stick it into him as one might to a pig. If she were to confess this murderous thought to the priest would he absolve her sin? Priests the length and breadth of Spain must have had to absolve hundreds of thousands of the blackest of sins. Brothers had murdered brothers, and fathers sons. At times, surely, the priests themselves must have wept in the confessionals.
