by Rosanna Ley
They kissed goodbye. Yeah, thought Ruby. Like Frances.
*
The bike was faster than she’d expected and Ruby loved the feeling of the wind in her hair as she gathered speed. Had her mother – Vivien – felt this way just before the accident, she wondered? Had she closed her eyes just for a second, before … There’s always a blind spot. Ruby pushed the thought away.
She remembered how supportive Frances had been at the funeral. She was upset herself – Vivien was her closest friend, although they hadn’t seen quite so much of each other since Frances had moved to North Cornwall to be nearer her daughter and grandchildren. ‘If there’s anything I can do, my dear,’ she had said as she scribbled her contact details on to a scrap of paper which she pressed into Ruby’s hand, ‘just ask.’
And Ruby was going to do just that. Thank goodness she hadn’t thrown it away. The scrap of paper was still tucked inside the zip pocket of her handbag. She was just plucking up some courage and waiting for the right time. Was she Vivien and Tom’s daughter? Was she Ruby Rae? She desperately needed to know. But afterwards – there would be no going back.
She freewheeled down the hill past the museum and the library where the Wednesday market was in full swing. The auction was being held in a town hall four miles away. She had enough time – hopefully, although the bike was taking a bit of getting used to; the back brake was operated by back-pedalling and the saddle was almost too high for her to put her foot down. But she loved it anyway. It was fabulous to sit upright and survey the cropped fields and green Dorset hills. It was like going back in time; back to that childhood she dreaded was about to be snatched away from her.
Saturday night’s gig at the Jazz Café had been dedicated to her parents and it had felt like a much more potent and personal goodbye. And although the sadness had almost overwhelmed her … It had been good for her. And it had gone well. When she saw the audience out there, when she heard the applause, when she felt that pure rush of adrenalin at performing and playing … She had been on such a high. She’d almost forgotten about shoeboxes, photographs and birth certificates.
And if they weren’t her parents? She couldn’t stop the thought edging once more into her mind. She had lost them both and now she was in danger of discovering that they might not have been hers to lose in the first place.
She pushed down on the pedals, drove the bike faster. But they were still her parents in the real sense of the word. They had cared for her. They had loved her. No one could take that away. Even if … This thought seemed to float in the air and stream away, like gulls’ wings in a thermal.
*
Auctions were weird. The auctioneer weaved his way through the proceedings, arms raised, eyes in the back of his head and his ears, pushing the price up every time it seemed to be stagnating, firing out the standard phrases: ‘It’s with you’; ‘It’s against you’; ‘Who’ll give me … ?’; ‘Now two’; ‘Am I seeing three?’ It was like a chant, a poem; it was almost hypnotic. Ruby was a bit nervous – she’d never been to an auction before and this was a huge purchase. She knew her budget though. She could only go up to £200,000. That was her absolute limit. She wasn’t allowed to go a whisker more, no matter how tempted she might be.
There was a picture of Coastguard’s Cottage in the auction brochure, looking suitably desolate and in need of adoption, and she allowed herself a brief daydream. In the fantasy, she was up a ladder wearing paint-stained overalls, daubing the sitting room white. White walls, wooden beams, polished floorboards, good antique furniture. A leather sofa? A chaise longue?
She recalled the view of Chesil Beach – the rolling tide, the cresting waves, the sea that stretched into infinity. The promise of a twisting pathway up the green and golden cliff. The fairy tale. Yes, but could it really exist for her again?
At last the bidding began on Coastguard’s Cottage; quiet at first, raising her hopes – no one was interested, no one but Ruby; then gaining momentum, blast it. Her first bid – at £115,000 – took some courage, but her waving arm was spotted immediately by the auctioneer. Not waving but drowning. She was in the game.
At £120,000 they lost a few of the players and at £135,000 Ruby realised there were only two of them left in the race. Damn. She had a rival. She couldn’t see him properly from her position – he was right over the other side of the hall – but she could hear him. His voice was low and soft, slightly foreign-sounding.
She agreed £139,000 with a decisive nod. Just her luck. She was competing with foreign money. Someone who didn’t know what a risk he was taking with Coastguard’s Cottage, someone who didn’t know what he was doing, who had just wandered in. Some idiot who—
£140,000. The bids went on. Back and forth. At £155,000 Ruby craned round the pillar to get a better look. He shifted in his seat and she got a good view of her rival. He was tall and dark and seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps he lived in the area after all. £160,000, she agreed.
Neither of them wavered. The hall was prickly with tension; everyone was quiet, waiting, looking from Ruby’s position near the back by the door, to his – near the front on the other side. It was like ping-pong, she thought. With danger. The adrenalin streaked through her, she was charged up and determined. £190,000. She mustn’t let him hear it in her voice – the fact that she could not, must not go much further, the fact that she was reaching her limit.
‘One hundred and ninety-five,’ he said.
Ruby couldn’t believe she might lose this. £200,000, she agreed. Without a tremor.
He raised it by a grand.
It was too much, she knew that. She raised it five. It was like a game of poker. You had to bluff and scare your opponent out of it. It was a risk, but the cottage was a risk.
He raised it another ten grand.
Ruby knew she was done for. She shook her head.
‘Going once at two hundred and sixteen thousand,’ intoned the auctioneer.
There was a collective sigh. Everyone knew she’d been beaten. The people sitting near her adopted sympathetic expressions. Ruby put her sunglasses back on to protect herself.
‘Twice,’ said the auctioneer.
‘Two hundred and thirty,’ said a voice from the back.
Everyone turned to see. A man in his fifties in a well-cut pinstriped suit. There was another rustle of excitement. Everyone looked towards the other guy to see what he would do. He caught Ruby’s eye, shrugged.
There were no further bids.
‘Sold,’ said the auctioneer, bringing down his gavel with a crack of finality.
Ruby made her way out of the hall. Shit. It was only a house, she told herself. But it was the fairy tale she’d lost. The dream that now she knew she would never get back.
‘Hey!’ Someone was running after her.
Ruby didn’t want to talk to anyone. She walked faster, but knew he’d catch up with her by the bike.
‘Hey, Ruby!’
She spun round. It was the half-familiar man with dark hair who had been bidding against her. What the hell did he want? And more to the point – how did he know her name?
CHAPTER 11
Barcelona, 1940
Julia’s mother took her to the Santa Ana Convent on that first day. It was late autumn and a chilly breeze blustered down Las Ramblas as if it might push Julia and her mother there with still more speed. Julia’s mother held her hand fast and sure; it seemed she would allow no doubt or second thoughts to creep in there.
She only paused as the convent came into view.
Would they turn back? Julia gazed ahead at the gatehouse, beyond which the convent buildings stood, bleak and austere. Was there still time? But her mother squeezed her hand. ‘It is for the best, my daughter,’ she whispered. ‘It is all we can do.’
So. They entered the gatehouse and rang the bell in the foyer. Julia glanced at her mother but her head was bent. Were there tears in her eyes? She could not tell.
A nun dressed in a simple white habit came to the foyer. She di
d not speak.
Julia’s mother raised her head. ‘We are here to see the mother superior,’ she said in the clear voice Julia recognised as her teacher’s voice. A voice that would brook no nonsense.
The nun simply bowed her head and drifted away.
Again they waited. It was, Julia thought, the worst part. She almost wished that she had come here alone, that she had said goodbye to her mother back at home with the rest of her family. Instead of this. This … deliverance.
The mother superior appeared in the foyer, distinguishable by the blue in her habit and a look of authority in her eyes. She was old, her face as wrinkled as a prune, but she held herself erect and with dignity.
‘Reverend Mother.’ Again, Julia’s mother dipped her head. ‘This is my daughter Julia.’
Julia followed her lead and as the mother superior scrutinised her with a piercing gaze, she too looked down. But she wondered.
What deal had been done so that she could come here? What had been promised? Had money changed hands or were her parents calling in some old favour? Julia had no way of finding out.
Her father had gripped her by the shoulders this morning before they left. ‘I am sorry, my dear,’ he said. ‘God knows I never meant this to happen to our family.’
Julia could hardly look at him. But she understood. With three daughters who were not allowed to work and food in such short supply, they had to marry them off or all starve. Simple economics. And when two of your daughters are pretty and one is plain … The Church at least offered another option. No muerdas la mano que te da de comer. Do not bite the hand that feeds you. Yes, she understood. But still. She blinked back a tear.
The reverend mother showed them around. The convent buildings surrounded a square, half-ruined stone cloister, whose air of tranquillity touched Julia almost at once. Beyond this, the reverend mother indicated the living quarters for the nuns. There was a kitchen and a storehouse, an infirmary and a refectory.
‘It seems very well organised,’ said Julia’s mother, looking to Julia for something – reassurance, maybe.
And peaceful, thought Julia, struck by this despite everything; at least compared to the world outside. This was a small comfort.
The reverend mother showed them the chapel. Julia stood at the ornate altar and gazed at the frescos whose vivid colour had faded with time. Could she live in this place? Could she make it her home?
The reverend mother nodded to Julia’s mother and Julia shuddered. She knew it was time to say goodbye. But with the old nun standing there over them hands patiently folded … It seemed impossible.
Julia’s mother embraced her and kissed her cheek. ‘Be content, Julia,’ she whispered. ‘Please be content.’
‘Mama … ’ But Julia saw her mother’s broken expression. How could she make it any harder for her – after all she and Papa had been through? So she swallowed hard and was silent.
‘Goodbye, my daughter.’
Julia watched her mother walk away. This was it then. The end of her childhood. The day she was abandoned by her own family. Given up so that she might have a better life. So that she might not be hungry. So that she could live without fear. She wanted to cry out to her, she took a step forwards as if she might run after her, as if she might fling herself into the warm arms of the mother she loved.
But the reverend mother laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Be still, my child,’ she said. ‘For it is done.’
And then Julia’s mother was gone.
*
‘We are mostly self-sufficient here, you will find,’ the mother superior told her, leading Julia away. ‘This is the herb garden.’
Julia gazed at the lavender, comfrey and soapwort, but the plants became a mere blur from her tears.
‘And the vegetable allotment.’ She pointed to the onions, root vegetables and tomatoes.
Julia brushed the tears from her eyes and saw beyond this a small orchard and a fountain. ‘Thank you, Reverend Mother,’ she said, since saying something seemed to be required of her. What else could she say? What else could be done? Now, there was no going back.
One of the other nuns showed Julia to her room. She did not speak; just smiled and nodded, but at least her eyes were kind.
Julia stood in the doorway. The room was small and plain and nothing at all like home. Where was her pale blue counterpane? The treasured photograph of her family standing together outside the front door of their house? Where were her clothes and her books? Her sisters’ combs for their hair? Their dresses, their shoes? Julia swallowed back the tears. She must be strong.
Because this was not an uncomfortable building to live in. The feeling of peace – which she’d recognised immediately like a long-lost and unfamiliar friend – would surely be restful after life on the streets of the city these past few years. There was no young man in her life – she’d hardly had the chance and anyway, so many young men were gone. Indeed, they had all suffered so much hardship and fear that she was almost content to retreat from the world she lived in. And that was what she must cling to.
*
And so Julia took her first simple vows. She forced from her mind the family and friends who had filled her life for so long. She forced away the soft comfort of being held in her mother’s arms, of cuddling up to her sisters in bed, of hearing the familiar deep tones of her father’s voice. In their place she must welcome God. He was just and He was true. He would help her survive this parting.
The daily life of a nun, however, was not as she expected.
Prayers began at five fifteen a.m. when the chapel was cold, dark and windy. And there were three services even before breakfast. Sometimes – in the early days, until her body became accustomed – Sister Julia felt faint from kneeling on the cold stone and from the pangs of hunger. It would take all her energy to make the effort to stand, to walk to the refectory to break her fast. And all her willpower not to bolt down her food as if it was her last supper.
The morning services began with a quiet chanting and although Sister Julia was given a service book she found that she was soon able to say parts of the service by heart. Gloria al Padre al Hijo y al Espíritu Santo… Amen. She found some comfort in it. The monotony, the ritual – it was soothing to the senses; soon she was softly chanting as if she had been doing it all her life.
The rest of the morning was devoted to work duties. According to the reverend mother, work encouraged the sisters to avoid vain thoughts, idleness and gossip. Certainly there was no gossip. Most of the time no one spoke at all, and this was hard at first for Sister Julia, who was used to the chatter of Matilde and Paloma and their friends at home.
In the evenings they assembled for Vespers – evening prayers – and then proceeded to the chapel. In the quiet, Sister Julia found plenty of room for her own thoughts and her own prayer. But she missed her home and her family with a physical ache that stayed in her heart from morning to night. Could reflection ever replace it? Surely this was impossible – no matter how dedicated she tried to be?
She tried so hard to find peace through prayer. She tried to find the simple rituals of monastic life calming. Nothing was demanded of her – apart from the simple tasks she was allotted and to pray. Nobody expected her to laugh or talk or to comb their pretty hair. There were no reminders that she was the plain one, the serious one. Here, they were all plain and serious and it did not matter a jot. She did not have to worry about herself or her family – God would provide. What would be, would be … If only she could bring herself to believe that this was so.
Meals were taken in the refectory – a high-ceilinged and vaulted grand hall – and silence was maintained whilst one of their number read aloud from a history of the order in Catalonia. Sister Julia thought of her mother’s cooking – when she could procure the ingredients. Her sisters’ laughter and complaints as they helped and simultaneously got in the way at mealtimes. Oh, this was so different from home. The food was basic and simple, but good. For breakfast there was coffee, bread
, jam and ham; for dinner there was soup – perhaps a broth of leftovers – and salad. They never went hungry and for Sister Julia it had been a long time since she’d felt so replete. Even so … She would much rather have been hungry and at home. How were they all? And when would they come to visit? These were the questions that filled her mind.
The convent at Santa Ana subsisted through the same means as most others. They accepted donations from the better-off members of society, they sold needlecraft, they made sweets and cakes like rosquillas de almendra and yemas which they sold from the foyer of the convent. One day, Sister Julia took a turn at selling. Inside the main front door was a revolving tray. The customer would enter the foyer, press a buzzer and place their order – after the requisite words had been spoken. Ave Maria purisima (most pure, Ave Maria), sin pecado concebida (conceived without sin). They would then place the money on the tray, Sister Julia would spin it, take the money and place the sweetmeats there in exchange. And then. Eh aquí. There you go. She would spin the tray back, the customer would take the sweets and the transaction was complete. God would provide, said the reverend mother. And it seemed to Sister Julia that He provided rather well.
But she was lonely. She missed her family, she missed her home, and she missed her own belongings. She might not have had much, but she did have things she valued – her books and her few dresses and shoes, the photograph of her family, the special linen handkerchiefs embroidered by her grandmother. Such luxury items were not allowed at Santa Ana. How, she wondered, could she ever fit in?
In her second week, one of the other sisters took her aside. ‘It is characteristic of the modern world to think first of what is excluded and what is forbidden, rather than what is embraced and intensified through living the simple life,’ she said. And then she bowed her head and left the room.
Sister Julia thought about this. Since she had been living here, she had wept and she had felt anger. Why her? Why had she been banished from her home in this way? Why was she now destined for a life that meant she would never have a family of her own, no husband to love her, no child to care for? She would never know what it felt like to lie in a man’s arms, nor to give birth to a son or daughter.
