Then he looked down at the parcel, stuck a thumb through the envelope and tore it open. What else was there to do? Run after her, a small, insistent voice urged in his head. But it was a very small voice, and easy to suppress, so he just held open the envelope and shook out a faded blue notebook with a cracked spine.
Inside, he saw pages of handwritten script with dates at the top: December 14th 1939, January 9th 1940. He turned to the first page. Written in a looping, girlish hand was a name he recognised: Marcela Elena Peralta, 16 Lower Castle Road, Gibraltar.
‘Jessica?’ Spike called out. Then he remembered she was gone, and sat down at the kitchen table and started to read.
PART FIVE
October 18th 1939
Jack was waiting on his mother’s porch again. He got to his feet as soon as he saw me and started wiping his hands on the sides of his greasy dungarees. I didn’t notice at first there was someone with him, but then Jack hunched down to light a cigarette, and I saw Esteban Reyes standing behind him, looking at me. I’d never seen him up-close before, so when he gave me that smile of his, my cheeks started to burn and I walked away as quickly as I could.
I don’t see how I can sleep. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.
October 21st
I could tell something had happened as soon as I walked through the gates. All around the schoolyard, everyone was standing in little huddles, and Veronica Felleti had already burst into tears like she always does whenever there’s any sort of excitement. I don’t see why they were all so shocked! Everyone knew we were to be evacuated, and now they say only men with ‘essential jobs’ will be allowed to stay. All the girls were in agonies, but Sister Margaret gave them short shrift. Said we’d be better off worrying about how we could contribute to the war effort rather than wasting our time on idle gossip. That’s as may be, but I can’t see how we’re going to defeat the Germans by knitting socks and collecting scrap metal.
October 23rd
Antonia told me I might find Tony at the Four Corners, and as usual, she was right. I only had to wait a few minutes before I saw him, wearing his favourite black suit, as though at any moment he might be summoned to a funeral. The way he’s been carrying on, it will probably be his! There are more soldiers than ever at the frontier now, sitting in their jeeps. And when I saw Tony stroll between the border posts, lugging that suitcase of his, I thought they would take him into the searching sheds for sure. But no one did. They just laughed as he clicked his heels and gave them a mock salute. And seeing Tony dole out his handshakes and cheeky winks, I remembered how Mama used to tell me that she’d always known Tony Stanford would go far, no matter what his father said. I daresay she was right, but if Mama had heard the way he spoke to me this afternoon, I don’t think she would have liked it. Not one little bit.
He was at it as soon as he clapped eyes on me. ‘Well, look at you, Marcie! All grown up.’ I didn’t reply, just gave him my haughtiest glare, but that just made him laugh, and before I knew it, I was smiling too.
I waited until we reached Main Street before I asked him – very casually – if he thought he might be able to get me a couple of bottles of wine. He looked at me sideways, and I could tell he was trying to work out what it was worth to him. A bit of sport, it seems, as when he made me tell him what it was for, he howled with laughter and said that a girl like me should aim a little higher than a pelota like ‘Little Jack’. That was when I told him to mind his own business thank you very much and wasn’t my money as good as anyone else’s. That shut him up.
November 5th
God must have been smiling on me tonight, as for the first time ever he answered my prayers. Esteban was already there when I got to Jack’s house, but his wife Magdalena was ill, so she’d decided to stay in bed!!! I tried to look sympathetic, I really did, but inside I was just bursting with joy.
And it really was quite lovely rushing around making the place pretty for our evening together. Even Tony Stanford turning up uninvited couldn’t spoil it, at least not for me, though I could tell that Jack was seething as he led him into the parlour. But Tony couldn’t have been more pleased with himself, grinning wickedly at everyone.
I didn’t talk much over dinner, and when Jack leant over and asked me in the most gauche way how Tito had been since Mama died, I just wanted to shrivel up in my chair. And I know people have begun to talk – especially since Father Ignacio came to call on Papa to ask him why Tito hadn’t been to school. But it’s nobody’s business but ours! And that’s exactly what I would have said to Jack, if Esteban hadn’t turned to me then and told me how sorry he was to hear about my Mama. Then he spoke to me about his brother, who’d died at Jarama – murdered by the Reds. And across the table, I could see his grey eyes glistening with pain, and I wanted to run to him. But I didn’t move, I just watched as he set his mouth into a brave smile and recited a few lines of the most beautiful poem I have ever heard. But then Tony ruined it all with a guffaw. So everything was spoilt, and Esteban didn’t even stay to finish his calentita.
I stood up as well, trying to ignore the hurt look on Jack’s face as I kissed him goodnight. But it was worth it to feel Esteban’s hands brush against my shoulders as he helped me on with my coat. We crossed the road together to my front door, then, on the step, I looked up into his eyes and told him how much I’d loved the poem. He leant in to kiss me on the cheek, and I felt him press something into my hand. I looked down and saw it was a little book, and when I looked back up, he gave me the most devastating smile. ‘It will make you laugh and cry. Till next time.’
Next time! Esteban said there’s going to be a next time.
November 7th
It’s only been two days since Esteban kissed me, but already I must have read the book he gave me a hundred times. I keep it under my pillow, so it’s near me while I sleep. I realised what a special gift it was the moment I opened it. ‘For Esteban Reyes’, it says inside. ‘A true Son of the Revolution, from your friend and fellow linense, Raúl de Herrera’.
When I saw that, I cried, because I knew that surely I must mean something to Esteban for him to part with such a treasured possession.
November 9th
A terrible night. I woke to the sound of breaking glass. At first I thought it was Tito sleepwalking, but when I went to check on him, he was safe in his bed. Then I saw a lamp burning downstairs. So I crept down to the kitchen and found Papa on his hands and knees on the floor. He was sweeping up a broken tumbler with one hand, while the other was tucked into his armpit. He wouldn’t meet my eye, not even when I helped him into his chair and set down a bottle of oloroso beside him. I poured him a glass and took his hand in mine and turned it to the light. And I could see that his middle finger was fat and black and sticking up in a way that made me feel quite sick. So I fetched an old sheet and tore off some strips. Then I bound up his hand like Mama did the afternoon I fell out of Dr Stagnetto’s dragon tree and sprained my wrist.
Papa didn’t say anything until half the bottle was gone. Then he leant his head back and stretched out his legs for me to undo his shoelaces. And his voice when he spoke wasn’t like my Papa’s at all.
The Piccadilly had been full of Naval Engineers, he told me. They were drunk when they got there, and Papa heard one of them say that they’d been thrown out of the Imperial. But he agreed to serve them one last drink, and at first they were all smiles. But then Papa rang the bell. One of the officers offered him more money, and when Papa refused, the man pushed past him behind the bar and started tipping rum into his mouth while his friends held Papa back. Then the man started smashing every bottle he could find while the others all jeered and clapped. When there was nothing left to break, Papa said that they must leave right away – threatened to report them to the Security Police. So the officer grabbed Papa by the collar and pushed him against the wall. And when Papa told him he was mad, the man took his hand and pulled off his glove and bent back his middle finger, saying he was a filthy Spic bastard
liar. Papa thinks he must have fainted then, for the next thing he remembered was seeing Jack standing over him. And all the men had gone.
November 12th
Papa didn’t go to work the next day. Nor the next. He just stayed in bed. And when I finally plucked up the courage to ask him if he’d thought about the Piccadilly – about the state those men had left it in – he just rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. So last night, I went down to the Piccadilly myself, and my heart was beating like a drum when I saw lights burning inside and heard the sound of voices. But I made myself go in, and when I did, I found Esteban Reyes in his shirtsleeves – mopping the floor!! Jack was there too. They’d been there every night after work, clearing up after those British bastards. Well, it took us a good few hours, but we finally got everything shipshape, and as we walked back to Lower Castle Road together, Jack told me that the squaddies deserved a whipping for what they’d done to Papa. How, if he hadn’t heard the screams and come in when he did, God knows what they would have done to him.
When I told all this to Papa, he said he felt better. This morning, he got up and had a wash, then he went to the Piccadilly himself to see what needed doing. When he came back, I suggested that wouldn’t it be nice if I cooked supper for Jack and Esteban to thank them for what they’d done. Papa agreed, and he said I should ask Tony too, as he’s been so helpful about the stock.
November 24th
At least the chicken stew was a success. Papa left us a bottle of sherry, and we ought to have made a very jolly band, except that all evening Jack had a face like a wet Wednesday. When I asked him what was the matter, he just grumbled on about how much he hated his job at the Dockyard. Said that the Brits treated them all like scum, ordering them about and making sly comments about why the ‘lazy Gibbos’ hadn’t joined up yet.
Even Tony seemed low. Little wonder given the state of his face. He just sat there brooding and topping up his own glass and no one dared ask him how he’d got that black eye, but I’ll bet that the cut on his cheekbone came from his father’s signet ring.
Things didn’t get really heated until after dinner. I’d fetched Esteban’s little book, and when I asked him if he might choose a poem to read aloud, I could see that Tony was about to make some spiteful comment, so I told him to hold his tongue – that it was my evening and he wasn’t to spoil it. So he just sat back and crossed his arms while Esteban recited ‘El Peñón’, which is my favourite one as it happens, and not just because it means ‘The Rock’.
Tony was silent after Esteban had finished reading, but then he picked up the book. And when he saw the inscription, he wagged a finger at Esteban and said that he didn’t think good Gibraltarians like us should be seen consorting with a Spanish Nationalist. And though I know he probably thought he was being terribly droll, nobody else found it amusing. It was only after Esteban had left that I realised he’d taken his book with him. I expect he just forgot it had been his gift to me, but I have to admit I shed a few tears.
December 2nd
The strangest thing happened today. I was getting ready for evensong, when there was a knock at the door and there was Tony Stanford blushing on my doorstep, holding out a package tied with string and saying that he was sorry for spoiling my night. Then he made me open it and inside was a copy of Raúl de Herrera’s collection of poetry, bound in crimson calfskin! He’s made his peace with Esteban too. They went together to La Línea last night and found Raúl de Herrera drinking at Los Caminos – he even asked them to join his table!
It was a thoughtful gesture on Tony’s part – and naturally I’m pleased to own such a handsome book – but it’s not quite the same as the one I lost, because Esteban didn’t give it to me. And afterwards, I wondered if what I was thinking might have shown on my face, as just as Tony was about to go, he put his hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear that he thought I ought to know that Esteban’s wife was going to have a baby. Then he stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked away.
December 14th
Today I went down to HMS Cormorant to make an official complaint. Papa says he just wants to forget about what happened at the Piccadilly, but I can’t – and he didn’t try to stop me. Jack came too, and seeing the British officer stifle his yawns Jack stammered his way through the whole sorry tale, I found myself wishing that it had been Tony I’d asked to come – Sharp Tony, who’s so good at dealing with these self-satisfied Brits.
I didn’t want to talk about it over supper, but Jack drank too much as usual, and started ranting again about ‘British tyranny’. If Tony had bothered to turn up, he could have calmed him down, but nobody’s seen Tony all week, so we had no choice but to sit and wait until Jack had burnt himself out. Then he slumped back in his chair, and said there was nothing we could do about it anyway.
But then Esteban refilled our glasses. ‘We have a phrase in Spanish. “Mil Cortes”.’ A thousand cuts, I said, and Esteban nodded. ‘Small acts of resistance. We may be few, but together we can change the world. To the “Mil Cortes”. Salud.’
As we all chinked glasses, Esteban gave me that wicked smile of his again, and just for a moment, anything seemed possible.
January 9th 1940
There are planes in the sky every day now. They give me the willies, but Tito likes them. He spends hours sitting on the steps of Lime Kiln Gulley, watching them weave and duck like murderous swallows.
At least the Christmas celebrations are over. I tried my best – Tito and I made paper chains, and decorated the mantelpiece, and I even scraped together the ingredients for a plum pudding. But it wasn’t the same without Mama. Papa just sat in his chair smoking cigarette after cigarette, and on New Year’s Eve, he got so drunk that we had to carry him up to bed.
And business at the Piccadilly is very bad. The servicemen have all but deserted the place and yesterday, when Papa went to open up, he found that someone had thrown a can of red paint through the window. It took us all day to clean the floor, and it’ll take a good few more to get rid of the stink of turps, not that there will be any customers to notice.
March 16th
I passed Jack on Main Street today. He didn’t see me, so I kept my head down and walked on by. Poor Jack. Esteban says he’s not really strong enough for the work at the Dry Docks, and now he’s been told that he is to be evacuated with the women and children – probably within the month. Everywhere we go there are rumours of where we might be sent. Some say French Morocco, others Madeira or Jamaica. What worries me is if there will be enough boats, and how we’ll get across waters swarming with German submarines. But it seems that the Governor is too busy renovating his summer residence to concern himself with such trifles. His wife can’t bear the humidity, we hear.
March 23rd
Papa died today.
He must have waited until Tito and I left for the market. For when we got back, there was a note pinned to the front door. It didn’t say much, just that we shouldn’t go in, and that we must fetch Dr Stagnetto as he would know what to do. Then Papa wrote that he was sorry, but that he didn’t feel that he could go on without Mama. So I sent Tito for the doctor, and when I pushed open the front door, I saw my father’s feet in his best shoes, lying at a strange angle on the kitchen floor. The smell of gas made me choke, so I turned off the oven and opened the windows, all the time trying not to look at Papa’s face and think about what a coward he was to leave us here all alone.
Dr Stagnetto was very kind. I couldn’t find the right words, so he just patted my hand and tucked Papa’s letter into his breast pocket. Then, after we’d heaved Papa into his chair, he turned away and started polishing his spectacles, while he said in a very quiet voice that grief can kill a man just as surely as any tumour, and that he thought it had probably been Papa’s heart.
March 28th
We buried Papa this afternoon. Not nearly as many people came as had done to Mama’s funeral. I expect it’s because of the rumours. Dr Stagnetto promised he would make it right with Fathe
r Ignacio, but his homily was very short, and he said he could only spare a plot on the north side of the cemetery.
Peter Zammit laid on some bread and butter and a bit of cake at the Piccadilly, and a few people came on afterwards. Tito didn’t say a word to anyone, but Sister Margaret was good enough to sit with him, working away with her crochet needle while he sat in the corner, letting his tea go cold. By 4 o’clock, almost everyone had left, and when Jack’s mother offered to take Tito home and give him a proper meal, I was grateful for a moment to myself.
So in the end it was just me and Tony. He was wearing his black suit again, and I realised that he’d finally found that funeral he’d been dressing up for all this time. The thought made me giggle, and soon I was bent over double, tears of laughter running down my cheeks. But then the tears wouldn’t stop, and before I knew it, Tony was holding me tight as these great sobs came out of me. He was whispering in my ear all the time, telling me about that bully of a father of his, how nothing he could do would ever be good enough and that I was lucky not to have anyone left to disappoint.
That made my blood boil, and I pushed him off me and said that he didn’t know what he was talking about. That my Papa had been a fine man but he’d been brought low by those British bastards who’d attacked him and then closed ranks against us when I’d dared to complain. That they’d practically bankrupted us, and that we might lose the bar – and the house, and how would I support my brother then?
Then I told him to leave.
April 2nd
When I got home from the notary, there was a brown paper package sitting on the kitchen table. The front door was locked, and Mrs Stanford keeps the spare key, so I knew it must have been Tony. Inside it was a wad of notes – enough to pay off the rent we owe on the Piccadilly.
A Thousand Cuts Page 16
