by A. J. Cronin
Chapter Six
Three days later, when they were midway between Lera and Málaga, the real trouble began. They had stopped by the roadside in the shade of a clump of cork trees for their customary midday rest. The sun, filtering through the stunted branches, made fitful patterns on the dusty bank. Beside them in the shade of the up-tilted cart, the donkey stood absolutely motionless, passive as a statue shaped in clay. Blackened by the sun, grimed, unshaven, his shirt stained and torn, Stephen had the appearance of a tramp. Peyrat, with one foot bare, had rolled up his trouser leg to the knee. Although he always maintained a sort of spinsterish privacy in regard to his own person, now, after a period of silence, he turned to Stephen.
‘My leg pains me. Will you look at it?’
Stephen went over and looked casually at the leg. Then, disquieted by what he saw, he examined it more thoroughly. Although he had known that the excoriated heel was troubling Peyrat – he had on several occasions observed him dispense with the tight boots and limp along in his bare feet in the dust behind the cart – he had never suspected that the condition had become so acute. The right foot was swollen and inflamed, the heel itself ulcerated.
‘Well?’ Peyrat was watching his expression closely.
‘No more walking for you.’ Stephen assumed a confident tone. ‘Not for a while, anyway.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘It’s probably slightly infected. Let’s see what we can do about it.’
He took his spare shirt from his valise and tore off several strips. Moistening these with water, which now they always carried in an old wine-bottle, he cleansed the raw, inflamed area as best he could and applied a loose moist bandage.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Cool… in fact, somewhat easier.’
Hitherto Stephen had been content to allow Peyrat a free rein; now, however, he knew he must take the situation in hand, and after briefly considering whether or not to return to Lera, at best only a straggling country town, he decided to press on. Málaga was their safest objective and they must get to it as soon as possible.
He harnessed the burro, assisted Peyrat to the cart and, after settling him in the back, started off. He set a good pace at the donkey’s head, but whenever they approached an incline he fell behind, and by pushing hard on the tailboard helped to master the slope. In this fashion they proceeded without interruption and towards five o’clock in the afternoon drew near to the village of Cazaba.
Here Stephen stopped in the central square, and approaching a young man who stood filling a bucket at the well, asked to be directed to the doctor’s house.
‘Señor, there is no médico in Cazaba.’
‘None?’
The young man shook his head.
‘If need be we are visited from Lera or Málaga. However, there is in the village an excellent farmacéutico?’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘I will show you, Señor.’
Obligingly, with studied politeness, the youth conducted them through several narrow side streets and halted outside a doorway above which a pole striped in red, white and blue bore the sign: BARBERÍA. Stephen helped Peyrat from the cart. They entered.
A tall, extremely thin man in a grey alpaca jacket, one of those pale, reserved, sad-faced Castilians who look always as though their thoughts were of another world, who seem, indeed, as if they stand waiting to cross the threshold of the next, was slowly cutting a boy’s hair.
‘My friend has hurt his foot. Will you look at it?’
‘Be seated, I pray you.’
He went on cropping the boy’s skull, methodically and with melancholy dignity. Five minutes later, when he had finished, he shook and folded the sheet, put away the clippers and turned his liquid eyes towards them.
‘Now I am at your disposal.’
Peyrat unwrapped the bandage of torn shirt and held up his foot. The barber inspected it.
‘You are brothers?’
‘No, as I have said, friends.’
‘Not Spanish?’
‘No,’ Stephen said. ‘I am Inglés.’
‘Ah, Inglés. How lucky for you to be in Spain at such a sorrowful time. What do you do? And where have you come from?’
‘We are artists … painters. And we have travelled from Granada.’
‘That is a long way. Too long for such a foot as this. And where are you going?’
‘Málaga.’
‘A beautiful city. After my marriage I went there with my wife, who now, alas, has gone to God. I myself am from Saragossa. You do not know that town? It lies on the Ebro. I was born within sight of the river, near La Seo. Ay, ay, doubtless I shall never see it again. Ah, well, it is no matter.’ He was pressing the leg gently with his thumb. ‘ Does it hurt you?’
‘Not badly,’ Peyrat answered. His face looked white in the dark little room and Stephen knew that he was lying.
‘Well… let us see what is to be done.’
The barber opened a wooden cupboard in the corner and from the shelves, on which stood a number of jars and bottles, selected a yellow ointment. As he began to spread this gently on the ulcerated skin, with a little bone spatula, he said:
‘This is a remedy which I compound myself. It is simple, but soothing.’
‘Then it should help?’
‘Would you think otherwise?’
The foot, covered with soft raw cotton, was loosely bandaged with a swathe of lint and, as on the previous occasion, Peyrat emitted a sigh of nervous, yet hopeful relief.
‘Muchas gracias, Señor. I am a new man.’
Stephen rose, hesitated, then said, resolutely, yet with great awkwardness:
‘And now … I am afraid … we are without money. But once we are in Málaga, our circumstances will improve. Name your fee and I will send it within the week.’
The barber looked from one to the other, then held up his hand in the manner of a grandee.
‘Say no more, friend. For the little I have done you may pay me simply with your gratitude. But I advise you to show the foot at once in Málaga.’ He looked directly at Stephen and added, in an undertone, as they moved towards the door, ‘I do not like it. With such a case there are always possibilities which may arise.’
For the first time a faint foreboding passed like a shadow across Stephen’s mind. Peyrat, on the contrary, seemed reassured. As they took the road out of the village he was loud in praise of his benefactor, and especially eloquent on his skill, which he contrasted, to the disparagement of the latter, with orthodox medicine, in which he professed no faith whatsoever. He spoke of the virtues of salves and unguents, of the use of oil and wine in treating wounds, of balsams, salt and rosemary, of rare herbal nostrums containing myrrh, bergamot, and ambergis that healed overnight, particularly those compounded by alchemists of the East – there was, he interpolated, undoubtedly Moorish blood in the veins of the good barber of Cazaba. Perhaps because he had been silent for some hours, this volubility seemed unnatural, and Stephen noticed with growing uneasiness that Jerome’s cheeks were slightly flushed. He realised again, and with greater urgency, that they must push forward with all possible speed.
The road was favourable for the next few kilometres and they made good progress. Then, as the light began to fade and they looked for a shelter for the night, Stephen caught sight of a large outlying barn set on the crest of a field of stubble in which some goats were pastured. It was a fortunate discovery. The barn, filled with fresh hay, promised them not only a comfortable night but fodder for the animal. Stephen brought Peyrat inside, then, after several attempts, spurred by a sense of emergency, he caught and milked a goat. In the cart were some green cobs of maize they had picked some days before. Within half an hour he had prepared a hot dish of com and milk.
‘How do you feel now?’ he asked, when Jerome had eaten.
‘My friend, I am deeply touched by your care and consideration.’
‘Yes, yes … but your foot?’
‘It i
s throbbing, naturally. However, that I regard as a favourable reaction. After a good night’s rest I shall be perfectly recovered.’
But Peyrat did not rest well – he could be heard twisting painfully and muttering under his breath, and in the morning, by the grey light of dawn, he looked definitely worse. Stephen, aware now that he had a sick man on his hands, was thoroughly alarmed. He did not dare examine the limb in these surroundings. He filled the cart with hay, supported Peyrat as he hobbled from the barn, made him as comfortable as possible on this improvised couch, and hastened to be off.
The donkey, refreshed and fed, went with a will and, aided by Stephen on the hills, made excellent progress. If only they could reach Málaga before dark – the thought of another night on the road did not bear contemplation – he would go immediately to the consulate for help. There must be a French or British agent in a port of such importance. He drove forward still harder, only stopping occasionally to give Peyrat, who complained of thirst, a drink of water. As he handed the bottle he could feel that Jerome’s skin was hot with fever. Then the road became bad again, curving steeply upwards in a series of hairpin bends to a sharp summit from which they were faced, after an abrupt and lurching descent, with yet another precipitous climb. Still there was no possibility of rest. At noon, using sticks and a blanket, Stephen contrived a primitive shade over the cart. Peyrat seemed quieter but confused. He had lost all his earlier bravado, and asked continually if they were not yet within sight of Málaga.
Now Stephen kept looking over his shoulder, as though hoping for some sudden materialisation, for a conveyance, even the oldest and most dilapidated carreton, for help of any kind that might bring them more speedily to their destination. Yet nothing, no one came.
As the afternoon passed and the granite boulders that studded this inhuman landscape cast shadows on the dusty earth, a sense of helplessness, almost of panic, struck at Stephen. The loneliness of these hills, their absolute and primaeval desolation, was enough to constrict the heart and paralyse the will. He felt utterly exhausted, his gallant little beast, flanks sodden and heaving, head drooping, was almost spent. And still they were at least twenty kilometres from the coast.
Another hill, then, over the brow, a collection of houses drew Stephen on. It was a small, miserable settlement, composed of caves and rock dwellings, no more than thirty in number, built into and occupying a cleft in the hills. A few mangy pigs, encrusted with dried mud, were rooting in a heap of rubbish beside a well with a broken coping. The sense of squalor, decay and filth passed belief. Not a human being was in sight.
Stephen stopped beside the well, looking up towards the blank walls of the cave dwellings. All were situated high above the road, on the face of the canyon. I must get help, he told himself. He left the cart and started to climb the sharp slope. There was no path and the surface of the cliff, seamed with gutters and innumerable crevices, was covered with loose, gritty sandstone. Several times he lost his footing, but he persevered and, on his hands and knees, had almost reached the first house when he lost his hold, slid back violently the full length of the slope. As he lay there at the bottom, covered with grit, scratched and bruised, a man came from one of the caves and, throwing down a bucket of refuse, shouted to him to be off.
‘They think I’m drunk.’ He muttered the words hopelessly.
He picked himself up, refilled the wine-bottle at the well, watered the donkey and went on. How far they travelled in the next two hours he could not guess. Now night was approaching swiftly, flinging its banners across the eastern sky. At his wit’s end, Stephen gazed desperately about him. All at once, at the end of a rough track, he saw a small white house with a lean-to cabaña, roofed in esparto grass, standing in a patch of wasteland. Summoning up the last of his resolution, he went towards it.
As he drew near a woman came out of the low doorway, her head a little to one side, as though listening to his approach. She was about sixty years old, dressed respectably in worn black, with a heavy figure and thickened, dark features, a face almost Negroid in its darkness, its full bluish lips and flattened nose. Her eyes were prominent, strangely opaque, and Stephen, now close to her, saw suddenly in the centre of each pupil the yellowish blight of trachoma. But it was her expression, the stolid enduring placidity of that sightless face, which most truly revealed that she was blind.
‘Señora.’ The word came raspingly from his dry throat, he had almost lost the faculty of speech. ‘ We are strangers, travelling to Málaga. My friend is sick. I entreat you to give us shelter for the night.’
There was a silence. She stood motionless, her hands, on which he could make out the badly broken nails, crossed before her. It was as if, through some strange vibration in the air, she sought not only to establish the truth of what he had told her but to discover, actually, the nature and character of these unknown visitors. A long moment passed. Then, without a word, she turned, led the way to the thatched lean-to, and opened the door.
‘This may serve you.’ She made a gesture with her passive hands. ‘There is a place for your burro behind.’
The shock of this sudden and unlooked-for security after the afflictions of the day was such that Stephen, overcome, was unable to utter a word of thanks. It was a poor room, but clean, the floor of beaten earth. A table and a wooden chair stood under a hanging oil lamp. In the far corner, on a wooden trestle, was a flock mattress.
He helped Peyrat out of the cart and, supporting, almost carrying him, on to the low bed. Then, having taken off his clothes, he washed the dust from his face and got him into a clean shirt. The foot still remained encased in cotton wool and lint. Next he stabled the donkey, giving it fresh water and all the hay that remained in the cart. As he returned from the back of the cabaña he met the woman of the house carrying a grey earthenware bowl filled with thick bean soup.
‘Take this for your supper. It is not much but it may help your friend.’
Again, he was speechless. At last he said:
‘Your kindness leaves me without words. Believe me, we had need of your help.’
‘If you are worse off than I, then you are badly off indeed.’
‘You live here alone?’
‘Completely. And, as you observe, I am blind.’
‘Then … you manage … yourself?’
‘I manage. I grow these beans. I exist.’
A pause followed. Then, as he remained silent, she turned slowly on her broad, heavy feet and left him.
He took the soup to Peyrat and, propping him up, tried to induce him to swallow it. But after a few spoonfuls he was forced to desist. Jerome had turned irritable and in a fretful manner kept pushing the spoon away. Nor would he permit Stephen to examine his leg. The light, faint though it was, hurt his eyes. Only half awake, almost in a state of stupor, he begged to be left undisturbed. What next? thought Stephen. I have brought him so far, I won’t, I can’t give up now. But he will never be fit to travel in the cart tomorrow, nor will the burro be fit to move. Then he thought: I must not waste the woman’s soup. Seated at the table, under the flickering lamp, his harassed gaze fixed on the sick man, who lay muttering in his sleep, he drank the thick soup quickly. It was good, but he did not taste it; all the time he kept thinking what he should do for Peyrat. Presently, with the empty bowl, he went to the door of the house. The woman answered his knock.
‘Is it a far distance to Málaga?’
‘Yes, it is far. More than ten kilometres.’
‘Perhaps there is a bus, perhaps a carretón, which runs there every day?’
‘There is nothing of that nature on the hill roads. Only such carros as the one you possess.’
Stephen forced his tired brain to think. Ten kilometres… He felt sure he could walk that distance in three hours, and by starting at dawn, reach the consulate before nine o’clock.
‘Señora, I must go to Málaga early tomorrow. I shall leave my friend, also the burro and the cart. But have no fear, I shall return soon after noon. Is such an arrangem
ent agreeable to you?’
Her head remained averted, yet in some strange fashion she seemed to measure him with her sightless eyes.
‘It is agreeable. But do not call me Señora. My name is Luisa … Luisa Méndez. And do not speak to me of fear. I have long passed the stage of having fear.’
He went back to the lean-to and, after a last look at Peyrat, turned out the lamp, around which great moths were hovering in the languid air, and lay down on the beaten floor.
Chapter Seven
Next morning, as he crossed the last summit and came down the steep incline towards Málaga, he felt the dark cloud of his anxiety lightened by a sudden gleam of hope. He was here at last. The town beneath, curving along the bay, sheltered by its long breakwater, shimmering white and gold against the deep Mediterranean blue, the roof of the cathedral glinting in the early sunshine, seemed, after the arid wilderness behind him, a haven of security. Peyrat, when Stephen left before dawn, although still fevered, had been quiet, and apparently in less pain. Now it would not be long before help reached him.
Hastening through the outskirts of the town, Stephen passed along an avenue of palm trees, then entered the Calle de la Victoria. As he made his way towards the main square he began to sense a singular stir in the streets. Men were standing in groups around the cafés talking and gesticulating, and at the corner of the Calle Larios a large crowd had collected outside the offices of the Gaceta de la Caleta. Stephen stopped and spoke to a man on the edge of the gathering.
‘Friend, what is the reason of this assembly?’
‘The reason? Why, man, we are waiting for the next edition of the Gaceta.’
‘And is that usual here… in such numbers, every day?’
‘No, it is not usual. But then, not every day is there such news.’
‘What news, friend?’
‘Why, man, news of the war.’
‘War?’ Stephen did not understand, thinking that the word guerra which the man had used referred to some local disturbance, a strike perhaps. ‘Then there is a conflict in the town?’
