Bay of Secrets

by Rosanna Ley

  Her parents had a telephone in their remote island home, but hardly ever contacted her. Vivien phoned them from time to time, but within every stilted conversation was the sense of something missing, something that made her not want to call again for a while. It was as if the geographical distance they’d put between themselves and their only daughter was so much more than that – it was a personal distance, a spiritual distance. It was as if she had lost them.

  Vivien thought of Tom. She was lucky to have him. What she had with Tom … Well, she couldn’t even contemplate the loss of that. With her parents so far away, he was all she had.

  A child ran past her – a girl of about ten, in a flowery pink dress and plastic beach shoes. She stuck her arms up in the air as she ran down the mound of pebbles on the other side shouting with delight. Vivien smiled. She could see the girl’s parents up by the café. They were laughing, and there was a little boy with them too, tugging at his mother’s hand. A perfectly formed family. She sighed.

  Goodness, what was up with her this afternoon? What had brought this on? Vivien turned her gaze from the sea and the child and continued walking down the sandy path towards the old chapel. She knew though.

  ‘Vivien!’

  She swung around. Put her hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun. And then she saw it. Parked by Chesil Beach, a brightly painted camper van – in psychedelic colours, swirled with fluorescent pink, lime green, dark purple, dotted with silver moons and stars. And standing by the open door was Laura – waving. ‘Hey, Vivien!’

  ‘Hello, Laura.’ She waved back, left the bucket of flowers on the worn step of the old chapel and made her way over. So this was the famous VW camper van – in which Laura and Julio lived with little Ruby. In which Laura had given birth, and in which she’d travelled back to England from Spain. Vivien looked at the intrepid and luridly painted machine. She was surprised they’d made it.

  Laura seemed more cheerful than the last time she’d seen her. ‘This is Julio,’ she said, indicating a surly-faced individual with dark curly hair who was stretched out on a bench seat inside the van at the back.

  ‘Hello,’ said Vivien. She noted the stickers on the windows – Love and Peace, Ban the Bomb. A rainbow. And the scent of patchouli joss sticks drifting out and away with the breeze. She could quite see why they’d been stopped by the police more than once on their journey home. But actually, the inside of the van was rather lovely. It had a pop-up roof so there was room to stand upright and an up and over door at the back. Opposite the sliding door was a compact little cooker and a sink with cupboards underneath. There was a gas kettle on the hob and a loaf of bread and a knife on the counter. The windows had gay, jazzily printed curtains and there were cushions on the bench seat where Julio was sitting and a guitar propped by the open door. But where was Ruby? Ah. Vivien spied her asleep in her basket on the front passenger seat.

  ‘We were wondering about what you said, Vivien.’ Laura was wearing a long blue dress today, with a string of multicoloured love beads hanging around her neck. In her long blonde hair she had pinned a daisy chain. She looked as if she had just come from Woodstock, a real sixties flower child. Vivien smiled indulgently.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Vivien looked back towards the passenger seat. It was difficult not to stare at Ruby. She looked so peaceful, so contented.

  ‘About looking after the baby.’

  ‘Oh.’ Vivien hadn’t mentioned her offer to Tom, hadn’t honestly thought Laura would ask her. She’d told him about her visit, but as soon as she’d mentioned the child, he hadn’t wanted to know any more. And there had been a warning light in his eyes. Since then she hadn’t seen Laura anyway, although she’d told herself that if she did, she would invite them round for dinner. Pearl had been a lovely woman and a good neighbour. It was the least Vivien could do. She’d wondered about them though, how long Laura would stay now the house was up for sale. She seemed the type who wouldn’t stay anywhere for very long. A free spirit. A wanderer.

  ‘Could you have her this afternoon?’

  ‘This afternoon?’ So soon?

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Laura looked across at Julio, who just shrugged. But it wasn’t as if Ruby was his child. It couldn’t be easy for any of them – living in a camper van.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Vivien murmured. How could she refuse? And anyway … She would love to.

  ‘Great.’ Laura opened the passenger door and picked up the basket. Without further ado, she handed it to Vivien.

  ‘Oh, you mean now?’ Vivien had somehow imagined that one had to prepare for leaving one’s baby with someone. That Laura would have to get some spare clothes ready, make up some milk formula, locate nappies and creams and what have you. Apparently not. She blinked.

  Julio said something in Spanish.

  Laura didn’t acknowledge him. ‘The stuff’s all in the basket,’ she said.

  ‘Oh. All right.’ Vivien held the basket close to her. ‘Er, what time will you collect her? Or shall I bring her back here?’ She looked down at little Ruby as she stirred in her sleep.

  Laura shrugged as if this was immaterial to all of them. ‘We’ll come and get her,’ she said. ‘Sometime later. OK?’

  ‘Well, OK.’ It all seemed very vague.

  And then there she was, walking towards the old chapel carrying a baby in a basket. When five minutes earlier she had been alone. Once again, Vivien looked down at the baby. And Ruby was still sleeping – unaware that responsibility for her welfare had just been passed to a stranger. When was her next feed due? Vivien had forgotten to ask. But then again she suspected that if she had Laura probably would have had no idea. No doubt she simply fed her when the baby was hungry. No matter – Vivien would do the same.

  But she’d also have to do the flowers before she took her home.

  Inside the chapel, the interior was cool and calming, the musty wax scent of candles intermingling with wood, incense and damp stone. Vivien walked carefully over the old flagstone floor, towards the simple altar decorated with the cross. Silence. She breathed deeply.

  Did the baby feel it too? Vivien smiled and placed the basket tenderly down on the front pew. ‘Stay here for a minute, little one,’ she whispered to the sleeping child. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She returned for the bucket of flowers she’d left on the doorstep, came back in and looked around for the vases Frances had said she’d bring. The chapel was bare, apart from the faded tapestry on the wall, the embroidered cushions on the wooden pews and the cream church candles in brass candelabra. For a moment she paused to imagine the atmosphere on Saturday, when it would be filled with people and smiles and spring bridal flowers. She glanced at the basket as she passed. The baby stirred again. Opened her mouth as if she was rooting for food. Bless her.

  Just as she was going into the tiny kitchenette behind the curtain with the bucket of blooms, Vivien heard Ruby begin to cry. Oh-oh. You didn’t get much warning then.

  She put the bucket down on the stone floor and hurried back towards the pew. The baby’s eyes were now open wide. ‘Hello, Ruby,’ Vivien murmured.

  Ruby looked at her and yelled. She did have a voice on her. And from the sound of her she needed to be seen to. Straight away.

  ‘Now, now. What’s all this noise?’ Vivien bent down, gathered the little one up in her arms. Ah, but she felt good, even though she was already writhing around as if she hadn’t been fed for days. ‘Less of the racket, now. You’re in a chapel, you know, lovey.’

  Another deep breath and off she went again.

  Vivien rocked her. ‘Ssh, ssh,’ she told the screwed-up red face. Gently, she rubbed a thumb across the puckered brow.

  The baby didn’t stop screaming. She was getting hot with it; well and truly het up.

  ‘All right then, we’ll soon sort you out.’ Vivien scrabbled through the contents of the basket with her spare hand. There was a bottle of milk already made up. Thank goodness for that. Though it wasn’t warm, of course.

  She took bo
ttle and baby through to the kitchenette, still shushing and rocking. It was just a sink really but there was a boiler for hot water.

  She ran the tap, putting the little one on her shoulder where she arched and wailed, but at least Vivien could move around more easily, keeping a firm one-handed grip on the contorting little body, which proved surprisingly strong. On the drainer were the vases Frances must have brought over. Vivien found one which would do as a container for the water, filled it, and stood the bottle in it upright, shaking it every so often to warm the milk through evenly. Every action was confident; she knew instinctively what to do. Laura must have known, surely, that Ruby would be wanting something soon though? She should at least have warned her she’d need feeding. It wasn’t, well, very responsible, was it?

  After a few minutes of murmuring and rocking and warming and shaking, Vivien tested the milk on her hand. It would do. She cradled Ruby in the crook of one arm and offered the bottle. The breathless baby rooted for it desperately, drank, spluttered, coughed and at last began to suck and was silent. Bliss. Vivien exhaled a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. This was what it was like then, she thought. Motherhood. This was what it was like.

  Still feeding her, she made her way back into the chapel, sat gingerly down in the front pew, smoothed the wrinkles of the baby’s brow with her forefinger, just as she had before. The redness in her face was already fading; she felt relaxed now and soft in Vivien’s arms.

  ‘There,’ she said.

  There was a click as the chapel door opened.

  Oh my heavens, thought Vivien. Were you allowed to feed babies in here?

  ‘Vivien?’ But it was only Frances. ‘Goodness,’ she said. She came closer. ‘Who’s this then?’

  ‘This is Ruby,’ she said. She explained about Laura. ‘I think she needed a break,’ she said, ‘so I’m looking after her for a bit.’

  ‘Oh, lovely.’ Frances sat down next to them, clucked her tongue at the baby. ‘Isn’t she a sweetheart?’

  ‘Yes. She is.’ Vivien held her slightly closer than before. She would have liked a few precious moments when it was just her and the baby, but that was foolishness, nothing more.

  Vivien put the baby on her shoulder and gently patted her back. She should have invited them to stay at the house – Laura, Julio and little Ruby. They probably wouldn’t have. But … Truth was, when she’d seen the little one she’d been almost frightened to.

  ‘Do you mind if I leave you to it?’ she asked Frances. ‘It was all a bit last minute. Laura—’

  ‘Of course not.’ Frances nodded. But her kind eyes seemed to take it all in – Vivien, the baby, the way she was feeling.

  ‘The flowers are in the kitchen.’

  Frances nodded. ‘I’ll do them.’ She got to her feet. And was that a tear in her eye? ‘You see to that baby.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Barcelona, 1945

  And so the years went on. Sister Julia continued to work at the clinic. It was a half-in, half-out kind of life. Perhaps she was fortunate. She had the security of Santa Ana – its peace and tranquillity which was restful to her soul – and a position in the outside world. But what a world. It was said that Spain was heading towards even greater economic disaster than they had ever known before. Towards bankruptcy even. But how could this be? Spain had not even been involved in the Second World War. She had remained neutral. So how come her people were still suffering?

  *

  One spring day Sister Julia made her way to the clinic as usual. She had much to think about. Yesterday evening her family had visited her again – the first time for more than a year – just her mother and Paloma this time. Indeed, she had not seen her elder sister since her marriage and still her father never came. She knew there must be news to impart.

  ‘How is Matilde?’ she asked them as they sat stiffly and uncomfortably in the foyer once again.

  ‘Well,’ their mother replied.

  ‘Is there a child?’ Sister Julia thought of the women she cared for at the clinic. She hoped to God her sister’s experience would be more fulfilling.

  ‘Not yet,’ their mother said.

  Paloma stifled a giggle.

  ‘What, sister?’

  Paloma shot an exaggerated look around the foyer of the convent as if to check that no one was listening. ‘They say he cannot,’ she whispered. ‘They say he is far too old.’ And she rolled her eyes.

  ‘Indeed?’ Sister Julia tried not to be shocked. She saw so much in her life at the clinic. But she had forgotten the looseness of her sister’s tongue.

  ‘Hush, child,’ their mother scolded.

  ‘And Papa? How is Papa?’ Though Sister Julia would no longer ask if he had given them a message for her. She knew that he had not.

  ‘He is not as well as he could be,’ her mother said.

  Sister Julia sat up straighter. ‘What—’

  ‘Nothing to worry over,’ her mother added. ‘We all have our aches and pains, you know. We are none of us getting any younger.’ She smiled. ‘But how are you, my child? How are you finding your life here at the convent? Have you learnt to be content?’

  Sister Julia hardly knew what to say to her. How could she even begin to describe the work she did? And indeed, she must not, as she had been sworn to secrecy from the start. And was she content? No. It was not contentment she felt as she walked to the clinic each day, as she held flannels to the brows of women in labour, as she did what she could to ease their pain. It was not even acceptance – since she still felt keenly all that she had lost. What she had, what she had always had, was understanding. That was all. So she did not answer. She merely bowed her head.

  ‘But never mind all that,’ said Paloma in her usual direct fashion. ‘For we have come to bring you wonderful news!’ She clapped her hands.

  She was still such a child. Hands folded in her lap, Sister Julia waited. Gone were the days when she too could shout and jump and run and feel the life blood flowing through her veins. Although perhaps she had never been like that, she thought. She had never, she knew, possessed the vitality of Paloma.

  ‘I am to be married!’ Paloma shrieked.

  ‘Quietly, child.’ But their mother was smiling.

  Sister Julia could not help smiling too. As always, Paloma’s happiness was infectious. Life might be still hard for them all but there was still Paloma’s joy to brighten the world. ‘That is wonderful,’ Sister Julia agreed. ‘I am happy for you, my dear sister.’

  Paloma waggled her left hand in front of her and Sister Julia saw the ring. It was small but pretty. ‘Don’t you want to know who is the lucky man?’ she teased.

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  Paloma leaned forwards. ‘Mario Vamos,’ she whispered.

  ‘Our neighbour?’ Sister Julia said it without thinking. It was a long time since she had watched Mario Vamos as he laughed with the other boys, since she had seen that look in his thoughtful eyes. She considered the news. Cocksure and arrogant, even as a youth, he was just the sort of young man she would have imagined Paloma falling for. And she had clearly fallen. The light of love was shining from her dark eyes.

  ‘Paloma is fortunate,’ Mama said quickly. ‘She is marrying for love.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ breathed Paloma. ‘I love him, Julia, I really do. For so long, I have loved him.’

  And Sister Julia was glad for her. For that look Mario Vamos had once shot her was a long way in the past. And perhaps the conditions of post-war Barcelona had made him a better man.

  *

  There were more cars and motorbikes now in the streets of the city and it was noisy, even in the early morning before many people were up and about, the air already heavy with exhaust fumes. Down Las Ramblas the bootblacks and lottery sellers were already setting up their stalls and street sweepers were clearing the debris of the day before. The milk bars and cafés were busy too with the early morning trade and the fruit and vegetable stalls were open and ready for business. Sister Julia glanced up at
an advertisement hoarding, at a picture of what was described as the wondrous machine of the future – the television. Would people want it? Her family had always loved to listen to the radio. It would be like that, she supposed. But with pictures too. Would there be nothing left to the imagination?

  Sister Julia knew now more than ever that her family lived in a different world. Her world was Santa Ana and the clinic – nothing more. But she still loved this city of her birth – though it was changing. As she turned the corner she heard the conductor’s bell and saw the blue tram pulling away; some things did not change. Barcelona still carried the scent of the sea in the breeze, but if you looked closely, you could make out the bullet holes in church walls from machine-gun fire. The heart of her city had been damaged. And perhaps it had to change to survive?

  Sister Julia passed a newspaper vendor and slowed, straining to catch a glimpse of the headline. She caught the name of Hitler. Ah, yes. It seemed that the other war – the world war – was finally coming to an end. And that wasn’t all.

  Yesterday she had lingered outside a café on the way back to Santa Ana, listening to a conversation between two men sitting at a table outside. She might be a nun, but she still wanted to know what people were saying about Spain – just as she had back home when she used to listen to her parents from the top of the stairs. Spain was still her country, was it not, even though she had given her life to God?

  ‘Bad times,’ the man had said to his companion. ‘Have you heard about this latest appointment?’ He glanced furtively around.

  Sister Julia tried to melt into the very stone wall against which she was standing. But she needn’t have worried – to all intents and purposes she was invisible in her nun’s habit and the man seemed satisfied that no one was listening.

  Still, his companion dropped his voice. ‘Every day, more government posts are going to Catholic politicians,’ he muttered. ‘Si, si. And we know what that means.’

  What did it mean? Sister Julia frowned. She supposed that it would increase the power of the Church. Or make the government more Catholic. Was that the same thing? She wasn’t entirely sure. Una, grande y libre– one, great and free. This was Spain’s new motto. How did it all fit in?