‘Whoa boy, whoa,’ Ramon crooned softly, a soothing hand on the animal’s shoulder.
Working adjacent furrows, Pepe and the two boys were planting an early crop of potatoes, while Adelita raked the earth to a fine tilth in one of the small vegetable plots.
‘If you plant that tuber facing up, by the end of May they’ll have grown into a basket of new potatoes,’ Rico instructed as Yöst, unsure what to do, inspected the wizened potato in his hand, a batch of tiny pink buds dimpling its already shrivelled skin.
‘It’s as simple as that?’
‘You should have learned by now, Yöst, nothing on a farm is as simple as that,’ Adelita broke in. ‘Rico has tactfully forgotten to inform you that at least twice during the next few months, you will be back in this field, piling earth around the tubers.’
‘Is this what you do every spring?’
‘Except it’s not really spring.’ Rico pointed upwards to where a light blanket of scudding cloud concealed the sun, ‘Ma says, not ’til there’s enough blue to make Pepe a pair of trousers.’
Overhearing, Pepe emitted a discordant bellow that grated against the bones of Yöst’s skull. Despite the giant being a much-loved member of the family, a love he repaid by taking on the greatest share of work, Yöst still found his strangled whisper and distorted toothless grin repulsive. Except now, he felt ashamed of his feelings, wondering if all children were brought up to judge certain things as good and others as bad or evil. TaTa obviously saw nothing except kindness in the giant, perhaps because no one had taught her any different.
After the enforced idleness of the previous months, it proved backbreaking work, even using a long-handled dibber. Yöst stood up, stretching at the muscles of his back to ease them, surprised, especially after Rico’s confession about planning a different sort of life, that Rico actually seemed to enjoy the arduous labour. He certainly hadn’t bothered to pick up on Adelita’s remark, about returning twice to the same field to cover the growing plants with earth. Maybe, being brought in a farming family made a difference? Kneeling down again, he buried the seed potato in the hole he’d scooped out, wanting to do the same with his memories, and moved on, dragging the half-full box of tubers behind him.
It was Zande who blasted his memories out of the hole he’d dug for them. Remembering Yöst’s promise, when the sky grows light again, that’s when they will return; as migrating swallows and swifts began to pass overhead on their way north to their summer home, he wandered out into the meadow and stayed there.
At first no one noticed, the two older boys out in the fields all day, and it was Clara who eventually alerted Pascual to his curious behaviour, distraught and believing him no longer her friend. ‘He doesn’t want to play anymore.’
‘What is it, Yöst?’ When he arrived home that night, Pascual drew him to one side. ‘Please find out, I’m really concerned. TaTa’s upset as well. Last night, she refused to sleep alone and climbed in with Zande.’
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, as Zande finally gave up his vigil at sunset. ‘Pascual’s worried about you.’
‘Waiting.’
With a blast of recognition, Yöst recalled his words. The sky had grown light and now Zande was waiting for him to make good his promise.
Except any returning carinatae wouldn’t seek them out, they would fly straight to the island. Nevertheless, a dormant kernel of excitement burst into life at the thought of their return. Their reappearance had always proved a joyful reunion and a cause for celebration. He had witnessed it numerous times; first with his mother, then his grandmother, then Willem and Tast and Rue, the swans led by the coal-black shape of their leader gliding in over the sea. Moments later, with a hurried transformation into their human form, celebrations had begun in earnest; the women, children, even the carinatae too old to shape-shift or accompany the migration, crowding round, begging the cobs for stories about their travels.
When Pascual repeated her concern, he shrugged a reply, closing his mind to yet another lie. He wanted to explain, the truth burning his lips, and eventually, not knowing what to do, he confided in Maestro.
‘He did this once before when he was waiting for his mother. I had hoped he’d accepted her death but I daren’t ask. I may be wrong and it’s his father he’s waiting for.’ Yöst tugged at his hair hoping pain might help clarify his thoughts. ‘I’m scared Pascual will ask why he is watching the sky. I daren’t tell anybody about that.’
Surprisingly Maestro was sympathetic.
Not so, Rico. ‘Why do share your secrets with Maestro and not me?’ he grumbled. ‘You said I was your friend, not him. You swore it.’
Maestro sneered. ‘Why do you think?’ he retorted. ‘He tells me because I can keep a secret. Not like you, shouting your jealousy to the rooftops.’
Yöst wandered outside, watching the small figure at the top of the slope that no amount of persuasion could disturb until evening, when Zande got to his feet and walked back to the house.
They had seen swans, long strings of birds flying north. Each time, Zande had raised his head in a single excited glance, dropping it again as they passed out of sight. Yöst also scanned their length, rejecting them equally as quickly because their flight was too low, their wings discordantly beating against the air like the bellows of an organ, the antithesis of the carinatae, the epitome of graceful elegance. He had tried explaining how very different their lives were now, only to have his words ignored, the reproach in the young boy’s eyes unbearable. He knew what Zande was waiting to hear: she will be back tomorrow or even your father will be back tomorrow. Those were the words he was waiting for Yöst to speak.
Tatania had taken up Zande’s cause, except Yöst wasn’t sure if she even recollected their former life. She might well have asked and Zande replied, although he doubted it. Even with Zande, her speech was confined to familiar words. She was sitting out the daylight hours with him because she loved him. As he watched, Léon and Tigre wandered out into the field and settled down, one on either side of the two children.
‘Blimey, if you fetch Barone and Duchesse, it’ll be full house.’ Rico followed him outside, a worried frown replacing his earlier antagonism, his ill humour forgotten as easily as it rose. ‘Pa says if there’s no more rain, Monday we’ll be working for Monsieur Benoit. He wants us to clear that end field and set more grapes.’ His mouth twisted, ‘He’s paying us, so of course Pa said yes.’
‘What about the potato crop?’
Rico shrugged. ‘He said Ma and the girls can finish getting that in.’
Yöst didn’t reply, intent upon the flight of a bird winging across the sky towards the distant treeline.
‘You hear what I said?’
‘Yes. Perhaps it will have resolved itself by then.’
The words echoed sonorously inside his skull. How could anything be resolved? He knew what had to be said: Your mother died, Zande, she died on the island, but couldn’t bring himself to utter such fateful words. Maybe a part of Zande already knew his mother was dead. Or maybe, no different from the disbelief that had rampaged through his own head at the death of his friends, he simply refused to accept someone as beautiful and as full of life as Nuria could ever die.
‘Can we ask Maestro to keep an eye on him?’
‘We might …’ Rico scratched his head. ‘Wait a minute, what day is it?’
‘Why ask me?’ Yöst retorted. ‘All days are the same, except for Sunday. Last day I remember clearly was the first day of spring. We flew kites and …’
‘Katarina danced,’ Rico chorused. ‘Trust you to remember that. Come on, cheer up, an’ there’s you supposed to be the cheerful one. At least that’s what Adelita says, and she knows everything.’ He nudged Yöst playfully. ‘A proper ray of sunshine, she calls you. It’s Friday today. That makes tomorrow … Saturday … market day.’
‘Ramon told Pepe it’s not worth bothering, there’s nothing left to sell.’
‘There’s the firewood we’ve been collectin’
all winter. It’s in the shed. We could sell that.’
‘I don’t see how that can help.’
‘You’re not thinking straight, that’s why,’ Rico aimed his fist, lightly tapping it against Yöst’s arm. ‘I’ll ask Pa if Monsieur and Madame Meijer can come back with us. Now we’re earning our keep again, I can ask stuff like that.’
An explosion of pure joy invaded Yöst. ‘You’d do that, for me?’
Rico’s expression changed; his usual will-o-the-wisp attitude suddenly intense. ‘I’d do anything for you, you know that,’ he growled out.
Yöst swung away, unable to reply. He couldn’t, overtaken by a swirl of painful memory, hearing once again Willem’s warm tones ordering him to run.
‘Makes sense too,’ Rico said. He shrugged away his earlier intensity. ‘When our kids are hurt, they always shout for Ma. If anyone can sort it, Madame Meijer can.’
That evening, he and Rico spent most of it in one of the sheds chopping wood. Pepe helped, sawing thick branches into something more manageable and it was his willing presence, giving up his free time to help Zande, that drove Yöst’s attention in the giant’s direction, recalling his many acts of kindness towards the family. At the outset, it was barely more than an idle thought then, all at once, as if Zeus had opened the heavens and dispatched a bolt of enlightenment, he saw his own repugnance as both callous and cruel. Pepe couldn’t protest the inevitable snide remarks thrown at him in the market, yet that had not stopped him going. No doubt he felt their sting equally as Maestro did – perhaps more so, because he couldn’t defend himself with witty repartee – his solitary defence, a willingness to shoulder the burdens of those about him.
As Pepe finished tying the last bundle of wood, ashamed and embarrassed, Yöst held out his hand. ‘Thank you for helping us.’
For the first time ever Pepe met his glance, his expression one of surprise. His hand snaked out, his eyes warm and smiling. Clasping it, Yöst felt its strength under the rough skin. Pepe made a sound, still raucous although it no longer grated. ‘Friends,’ Yöst guessed and nodded.
Anxious to have his stall in place before the town’s people were up and about, Ramon accompanied by Pepe and Rico left before dawn, both carts full of neatly stacked kindling. Yöst headed out to the fields, Rico’s comment about earning their keep a reminder how high his mountain of obligation had grown over the winter. The early morning air was chill, the relentless heat of the summer some months away. Surprisingly, despite the sensation of being no bigger than an ant beneath this vast canopy of open sky, he didn’t feel lonely. On the contrary, he felt nurtured, the breeze tiptoeing through the hedgerows soothing his agitation about Zande.
This place was so very different from the island, where views were scissored away by the cliff in one direction, trees in another, and sand dunes a third. People also, dozens of them, their numbers swollen each spring and summer with the presence of the cobs. During those months, being alone was rarely an option; day or night there would be someone within earshot, keen to chat.
He had completed half a dozen rows before a distant rumble of wheels sounded on the track by the orchard. Hearing Duchesse whinny, he dropped his dibber in the potato box and raced back towards the house, in time to see Zande silently hugging an elderly woman’s arm, and pulling her towards the meadow.
‘I have never known Rico show such good sense.’ Watching the little episode from the kitchen window, Pascual clapped her hands. Clutching them to her chest with relief, she swung round on Adelita, who was peeling onions for their evening meal and crying lustily. ‘He must be growing up, at long last.’
Adelita joined Pascual at the window, the glance she directed at her compassionate. ‘They have all grown over the winter,’ she replied, watching the family disappear down the slope towards the river, Tatania running by M. Meijer’s side, her tiny hand clasped in his.
‘I wish I knew their story,’ Pascual sighed deeply.
‘I agree. But you can’t break the rule, Pascual; you made it after all, and you were right. Some things cannot be spoken of.’
‘Onions done?’
‘Almost. Well?’
‘Well what?’ Scooping up the finely chopped pieces, Pascual dropped them into a pan sizzling away on the hotplate. ‘Yöst wants to explain. It’s eating him up, only there’s something holding him back. It’s driving me crazy, not knowing.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’ Adelita wandered over to the stove, scraping the remainder of the chopped onions into the pan.
‘Katarina insists I’m a bit in love with him. But yes, I like him. More than that, I respect him.’ Opening the fire door, she added a log, prodding it into flame. ‘He’s had his entire life turned upside down and he just gets on with it. Of course, I wanted more boys,’ she replied to Adelita’s silently asked question. ‘Being the only one puts a lot of pressure on Rico.’
‘Only because he doesn’t want to be a farmer.’
‘Shush!’ Pascual glanced nervously towards the shell curtain.
‘Relax. Ramon’s in town and Pepe with him. It wouldn’t matter if he was here; Pepe’s the best at keeping secrets. If anyone tells, it’ll be Maestro. When he’s in a lot of pain he lashes out, not caring who he hurts.’
‘Pascual?’ The curtain rattled as Katarina pushed it to one side.
Her sister spun round. ‘What?’
‘Are our guests staying overnight? If so, I’ll sort the bedding.’
‘No. Rico will drive them back to town this afternoon.’
She peered closely. ‘What’s up with you, sister-of-mine, you look guilty?’
Pascual sighed. ‘I hate keeping secrets from Ramon.’ ‘What’s it about this time?’
‘Rico.’
‘I’d not worry. I’m quite certain Ramon has a fair few of his own he’d rather not confess,’ she replied tartly. ‘Eh, Adelita? Do you have secrets?’
Adelita rose gracefully to her full height, her skirts flaring as she twirled on the spot. ‘Why else do I force Rico to drive me to church, if not to confess my sins?’ Her eyes shone delighting in the memory, her rouged cheeks patchy in the midday light betraying her advancing years. ‘Maestro believes I have so many sins on my conscience, I should really go to confession every day, not just in winter. Otherwise, when I die, I’ll still have a long list demanding absolution.’ Rolling her eyes, she disappeared through the curtain, her heels tapping out a rhythm only she was dancing to.
‘Do broken hearts mend?’ Yöst looked across to where Mme Meijer and the two children were seated on the grass nearby making daisy chains, the elderly woman listening with an amused expression to something Zande was telling her.
‘Are you referring to you or to Zande?’ M. Meijer chirruped, his impish face alight with pleasure at seeing the three children.
They were perched on a log of wood which Pepe had rolled into place a few days before. Below their feet, the river gambolled merrily, the surrounding meadowland no longer awash with water but covered in tiny white daisies and blousy buttercups, their velvet petals tilted to the sun.
‘Both, I think.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they do … eventually. Ask my wife, she is far better at this sort of thing than me. Unfortunately, the same as a bad cut, they often leave a scar.’
Yöst was silent for a moment as if considering the older man’s words. Then he burst out, ‘Will you take us back with you? I promise we won’t be any trouble.’
‘Don’t you enjoy living here, in the country?’
Yöst shifted uneasily, remembering the contrariness of his thoughts earlier that morning. ‘Yes, yes, I do. They’re very nice people and TaTa and Zande are happy enough.’
‘But?’ M. Meijer waited.
‘It’s just that everything’s so regimented,’ Yöst accompanied his excuse with a shrug. ‘Only in the evening is it any different. Then just as I’m drawing breath and deciding it’s okay after all, the evening’s over and Ramon is telling us we have to be up early because the lan
d won’t plough itself.’ His face darkened. ‘It’s really horrid when the weather’s bad and we can’t work outside because then I have Zande and TaTa to look after.’
‘And you don’t want that?’
‘No!’ He flushed. ‘Not really. I’m sort of getting used to it. Pascual told me I had to learn because I was the only family they’d got.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Yes, but it still doesn’t make me an expert. The girls …’
M. Meijer held up his hand. ‘If you are going to tell me that girls have sole-rights when it comes to children, you had better whisper it. If Marie hears you, she will be most put out.’
‘That’s what Pascual said,’ Yöst complained. ‘It’s really hard, though. In the village it was always the women who cared for the children, not the cobs.’
‘Shush, take care.’
Obediently, he softened his tone. ‘TaTa says practically nothing while Zande is the opposite. He never stops asking questions. Until …’ a muscle in his cheek flicked. ‘Look at him now. He’s actually talking. He hasn’t done that for almost a week. Please say we can come and live with you again,’ he begged.
‘Oh, my boy, we’d love you to. It’s impossible at the moment. He doesn’t forget.’
‘You mean the priest?’
‘Not so loud!’ M. Meier glanced over his shoulder. The twins and Clara were within earshot, testing each other on passages from the Bible in preparation for their first Communion, the following week. ‘His order rules the town; anything or anyone different is regarded with suspicion and discredited by the church.’ He hesitated, admitting, ‘He came back you know; that fisherman said he would. That’s why we didn’t visit for your birthday in December. Ramon invited us, but Marie decided it was too risky.’ His tone lightened. ‘The other day I went out to the island …’
‘Are they back? Is the goat all right?’
‘No, on the first count; yes, on the second. Still, I don’t advise telling Zande, not if you don’t want to cause more trouble. He will undoubtedly insist on rescuing it.’
The Click of a Pebble Page 24
