by Iris Danbury
Caran reflected that it was in some measure thanks to such footloose mudlarks, Spanish as well as a sprinkling of English, that Albarosa and its surroundings owed its fertility and much of its livelihood in fruit-growing, apart from an adequate water supply. She knew that at one time Albarosa could be approached only by tracks across dry river beds until a better road was built. Now the rivers were harnessed high up in the hills, their torrents controlled.
After a few moments she said aloud, ‘I’d better tell you that I’m meeting Brooke tonight. We’re having a meal with that couple who were here with their children in Cristal.’
‘Oh?’ Paul was not interested in the Ribera family. ‘But of course I didn’t mean to criticise how you spend your spare time,’ he added quickly.
‘Brooke is only here for a day or so,’ Caran informed him. ‘After that he’ll be off again to his mudlarking.’
Paul smoothed his fair hair. ‘There ought to be a few attractive young men staying here during the summer, so that you could enjoy a little fun.’
Caran nodded absently. Paul meant to be kind, but she had no intention of acting a handy available girl for chance visitors. The men must find their partners in flirtation among the other guests. Caran refused to be classed as part of that, but there was no point in telling Paul.
She worked hard during the day, not forgetting to type notes of the fiesta yesterday so that she could give them to Brooke tonight.
He met her outside the shop where the Riberas lived over the top. He grasped her wrist and pulled her towards the windows stacked with leather wallets and handbags as well as a saddle or two. There were pieces of wrought iron, decorative hanging baskets for patios; fancy pottery and serviceable cups and saucers.
‘The man who owns this shop is an expert castanet-maker,’ murmured Brooke. ‘How would you like a pair?’
‘But I wouldn’t know how to use them,’ she objected, and was immediately contrite at this brusque rebuff. What impelled her to look Brooke’s gift-horse in the mouth?
‘You can learn, can’t you?’ he demanded testily. ‘Benita would teach you.’
She was inside the shop almost without knowing it and Brooke was being shown dozens of pairs of castanets.
‘Edmundo makes castanets for all the well-known flamenco artists,’ Brooke told Caran, while he expertly clicked a pair with his Angers. ‘It’s not easy, you know. Each pair takes two or three days to make.’
‘Si, si,’ put in Edmundo. ‘One must choose the wood carefully. See? The grain must run this way.’ He held a pair of the polished mussel-shaped instruments in his hands. ‘Then when you have made them, you Ale them until you get the clear sound.’
‘This looks a good pair,’ suggested Brooke, picking up another couple.
‘Perhaps.’ Edmundo, a burly, elderly man whose fleshy hands were yet smooth and sensitive, cast a fleeting upward glance at Brooke. Then he turned towards a shelf with small boxes. ‘Here is a special pair,’ he said, opening the lid of a box. ‘Very pretty sound.’
Brooke picked them up, tried them and nodded. Edmundo then played them, strutting and jigging in flamenco style to his own rhythm.
As he wrapped up the parcel and handed it to Caran, Edmundo said, ‘You will soon be able to click them. They will make much music for you.’
In the rooms above the shop, Gabriela and Felipe were waiting eagerly for their guests. Benita was also there with her mother Manuela.
‘Not dancing tonight at the restaurant?’ enquired Caran.
‘Oh, yes, but too early,’ replied Benita. ‘I dance at half-past ten or eleven.
Gabriela had provided a wonderfully tasty meal of a zarzuela of fish, the mixed fry so popular everywhere in Spain. Then followed little tortillas, omelettes with chopped potatoes and ham, finally a custard flan and fruit. There was adequate wine to drink and Caran suspected that Brooke had provided part of the feast.
Caran produced her newly-acquired castanets and they were much admired. Benita showed her how to hold them.
‘You put your thumb through the loop and the first finger so. Now you play with the other Angers. When it is daytime, I will teach you,’ she offered.
Gabriela added that too much noise would wake the children, who were asleep in the two adjoining bedrooms.
It was obvious to Caran that Gabriela and Felipe assumed that she and Brooke were rather more than just casual acquaintances. Their smiles, their happy looks as they raised their glasses all pointed to a bracketing that Caran knew did not exist.
When she and Brooke left just before midnight, Gabriela said softly, ‘Senor Brooke is so kind. He is perhaps the kindest man I have ever known, except, of course, Felipe.’
The words were spoken as a strong recommendation, but Caran merely smiled and said nothing.
The streets were still alive with people, but the road down to the villas was deserted. Brooke walked along with Caran, but not touching her, and she saw their two shadows in the moonlight, separated by a strip of pale roadway. She longed to close that gap, to be held in his arms, so that their shadows melted, yet she could do no more than trudge along her own path.
When they had almost reached the villas, Brooke suddenly flung away his cigar and the glowing tip rolled in the road. She was in his arms without further warning and he was kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her neck. This was no casual goodbye kiss, she knew, and she responded as she had never before reacted to any man.
‘Caran!’ he murmured. ‘Oh, I wish it could be otherwise.’
She pulled away from him a little, although she was still encircled by his embrace.
‘How—otherwise?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, for it was full of fear.
‘You must forget me. We must forget each other. It wouldn’t be fair on any woman—not the kind of life I have to lead.’
Now she had wholly withdrawn herself. ‘I think I understand.’ The effort she made to prevent a flood of tears made her voice unnaturally hard. ‘You needn’t explain, Brooke.’
‘You don’t really understand. Perhaps it is that I’m not the marrying kind.’
Not the marrying kind! The words she had used when talking about him to Paul.
‘There’s nothing more to say,’ she said in as level a voice as she could find. She meant quite the reverse. There was everything to say. She wanted to tell him that if he loved her even one-tenth as much as she loved him, she would live the rough life with him, wherever his work compelled him to go. Other women had endured hardships and made homes for men because love was there to provide an enveloping aura of happiness that compensated for lack of home comforts.
Gabriela and Felipe had made themselves content even when living in a stable. They had kept their faith and trust in each other until better accommodation came along.
Brooke had managed to live in a villa while working on a site in the hills behind Albarosa. Yet he would not now allow her to share what he could offer.
She was not aware of how long she and Brooke stood there in silence. When she glanced at his face she saw the stern, rugged lines of his features. With despair she turned away and began to walk the short distance to the villas.
In one stride he caught up with her, thrusting out his hand to grasp hers. She shook his hand away impatiently, although the touch of his fingers fired her to the point where she wanted to abandon all pretence and throw herself into his arms.
Perhaps other girls had done just that and he had whispered soothing words ... ‘You’ll soon get over it ... I should only make you unhappy’—that sort of mush.
At the door of her villa site turned towards him. Now he was silhouetted against the moonlight and she could not see more than the blur of his face.
‘Goodbye, Brooke,’ she muttered in a low, furious voice. ‘Don’t try to see me again. It’s finished. You need not spare me another thought when you pick up your next girl. After all, by now you must have had plenty of practice in forgetting.’
He stood motionless like a statue ca
rved in bronze.
Blinded now by tears, she fumbled for her key, dithered it in the lock until at last the door opened. Even now at this last minute she realised that she had been hoping that he would rush to the door to help her, take her in his arms, kiss away her tears and assure her that he loved her and some time in the future might marry her.
But as she turned to close the door she saw his shadow still there, immovable, unwavering.
In her bedroom she sat for a long time, frozen, unable to think clearly. How easy it was for him to form these casual friendships, then break them when it suited him! She undressed and slid into bed, but not to sleep. Her strong determination came to the rescue of her weakness. If he could forget, so could she. No longer would the memory of his embrace cause her to buckle at the knees. She would live her life as though she had never met Brooke Eldridge.
When Julie returned from her visit to Malaga she asked, ‘And what gaieties did you have here?’
‘Brooke turned up for a day or two and took me to Murcia for a fiesta,’ Caran answered with a superb self-control.
‘Fine! Where now? Back to his hide-out in the north?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Any news of the gallant Don?’ queried Julie.
‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Caran. She was relieved when apparently Julie was satisfied not to probe for further disclosures.
In April several of the villas became occupied for a fortnight or so at a time. The two new ones, Perla and Diamante, were popular because of their wonderful position on the far side of the little spit of land.
‘Let’s make the most of those two,’ advised Paul one day to Caran, ‘while we have the chance. Soon it will be all noise and dust when the hotel is being built.’
Surprisingly, Caran found herself taking a much greater interest in all the new projects of development. Paul had shown her plans and artist’s impressions of the layout when finished, and she had to admit that it all looked attractive if what you wanted was a delightful village by the sea.
She had succeeded in pushing all thoughts of Brooke not quite out of her mind, for that was impossible, but into the farthest crevices. She had even become accustomed to passing or entering his Villa Zahro without a pang of memory.
Mrs. Parmenter returned to England in May, but promised to revisit the villas before the autumn.
‘And do think again of what I advised,’ were her parting words to Caran. ‘About Paul. He needs good direction.’ Caran smiled non-committally, but reflected that Paul would never receive that good direction from her. He had taken a room at El Catalan in order to leave all the villas free and Julie had vacated Esmeralda and rented a small flat on the advice of Senora Molina, to whom Caran had introduced her.
Caran stayed in her own Villa Joyosa so that she was usually on the spot.
During the summer months she found it easy to take time off for an hour or so in the day and often spent it swimming in the clear water or lazing on the sandy shore. Sometimes Julie joined her, for they had a special little part of the beach and their own straw wigwam shade.
One afternoon Julie raised herself on one elbow and asked suddenly, ‘Do you ever hear anything of Brooke?’
‘No. Why should I? I don’t know his address. He’s probably moved to somewhere else by now.’ Caran remembered how several days after the visit to Murcia she had found in her handbag the typed notes of the fiesta. She had intended to give them to Brooke at Gabriela’s house, but she had forgotten them. She put the pages in an envelope and gave it to Benita to send on. No letter. He did not need that.
Now Julie changed the subject and spoke of a family of guests in one of the villas. Caran was never quite sure how much Julie suspected or whether she eventually intended to mark him down for her own. In that ease, she would need to know how far Caran was involved.
‘It’s a bit thick,’ Julie was saving now, ‘how some of these people come from England and expect the maid to work eighteen hours a day for them, fetching and carrying. I pointed out to this lot that the girls work thirty hours a week and no more. “Oh, we can pay for overtime,” says this large, fat mum sprawling in her long chair.’
Caran giggled at this description of the stout woman referred to. ‘Money talks, but it doesn’t always speak Spanish,’ she said.
‘People who are accustomed to maids at home—whoever they may be in these servantless days,’ continued Julie, ‘always treat them with respect. It’s these jumped-up lots who clean their own kitchen floors who are so demanding.’
‘Like the ones who want their fridges re-stocked free of charge,’ Caran put in with a laugh.
She and Julie had originally laughed their heads off when earlier in the season a woman had told Caran quite sharply that the food stocks were practically exhausted.
‘The fridge is practically empty,’ she complained. ‘I should have thought it was part of your organisation to see that we have enough food.’
‘But you must order whatever you want,’ Caran pointed out. ‘You’ll see that according to the brochure, we supply you with about two days’ food and drink to give you a start. You wouldn’t expect to go shopping immediately you arrived, would you?’
‘You mean we now have to pay for what we order?’ demanded the guest.
‘Of course. You are renting a villa here. It’s not a hotel.’ After that episode Caran had been extremely careful to impress upon visitors that after the initial free supply, they bought or ordered their own food and drink.
With the influx of different parties of people Caran had found a slight easing of that dull ache which never seemed to leave her. One day she had been turning out a drawer in her dressing-table and come across the box with the castanets that Brooke had given her. Since that night of parting she had never opened it. Now she took out the little polished pieces and it was then that she saw in tiny gilded letters on each pair, ‘To Caran’. All the longing and loneliness welled up in her, threatening her peace of mind.
So Brooke had been in league with Edmundo, pretending to choose a pair of castanets at random when both men had known that a specially-inscribed pair was waiting in a box.
Yet another parting gift, thought Caran. Spain and perhaps other places must be full of girls hugging little farewell treasures. From Brooke—but not with his love. She replaced the castanets in the drawer. She would never learn to play them now.
August was a crowded month, all the villas were full and Caran had little free time. Paul had set up a small temporary bar in a corner of the gardens facing the sea. Half a dozen tables, a few chairs, glasses and an array of bottles provided a meeting place for the guests if they wanted to spend an hour or so talking to companions. ‘It saves them traipsing up into the town if they don’t want to go that far,’ was Paul’s view. ‘A youth of eighteen or so to serve drinks and look after the tables ought not to cost much for labour.’
There was no doubt, Caran often thought, that Paul was quick to see people’s needs and do his best to cater for them. As Julie had once said, Paul would certainly end up in the hotel tycoon category.
Caran and Paul were sitting at a table one evening when he spoke of Julie.
‘If only I knew where I stood with her! I thought when she first came here that she liked me and that I might stand a chance, but she’s like a piece of quicksilver. You can’t ever pin her down.’
‘Be patient, Paul,’ she advised him. ‘Julie’s not the type to be pinned down unless she’s quite sure that’s what she wants and then she prefers to do the pinning. Give her time and perhaps one day everything will come right for you.’
‘I’m at a tricky stage in my career just now, but in a year or so I’d have something quite substantial to offer her.’
‘Julie has tremendous confidence in you, if that’s any comfort,’ Caran assured him.
After a long silence during which he communed with his wine, he said, ‘What about you, Caran? I’ve wondered if you really liked that chap Eldridge. Did you?’
/> The semi-darkness hid any colour that flushed her checks and she answered coolly, ‘Oh, I liked him in some ways. I’ve almost forgotten about him now.’
‘It’s been a good summer.’ Paul was speaking now of the material side. ‘We’ve shown a substantial profit and can well justify the financial deal we made about the villas.’
A good summer! Caran had so looked forward to it, but it had been ashes. Brooke had said he wished he could be in Albarosa for the summer, but he hadn’t meant it.
‘Now is the summer of my discontent,’ she misquoted to herself. It was the winter and then spring that Brooke had made exciting. Winter would come again, but it would not bring Brooke.
Towards the end of August there was to be a special display of flamenco in a cave near Albarosa, so Benita informed Caran.
‘We have this every year,’ Benita said, ‘with many good dancers and singers. You must come.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Caran. ‘Perhaps I could bring a few of our visitors, too?’
‘Naturally. We must have a good audience.’
Caran took the precaution of inspecting the cave beforehand. She did not want complaints about shoes being ruined stumbling about on rough boulders. She found the approach not too difficult and made up a party of guests for the appointed evening, and arranged the necessary transport.
It was dark when the cars set out and already Caran was wishing she had never agreed to conduct such a party, for the road from Albarosa to the adjacent hill would be unlit as well as fairly rough.
Her fears were unfounded, for young lads lined the route with torches and the effect was that of a procession of wavering fireflies.
In the cave, chairs were set out, the floor sanded and dry with a boarded platform for the dancers. Caran settled her party in their places and hoped they would think the performance worth the journey.
