‘I find her restful,’ Pascual had said, when he enquired if it was normal for a child to be so quiet.
‘She knows the words and will read them in a book,’ he explained, ‘but keeps any conversation for Zande.’
‘With six other girls, all of them noisy, TaTa doesn’t stand much of a chance. Besides, Zande talks enough for both of them.’
He’d grown too, Adelita commenting that Zande more than made up for his sister’s lack of progress. ‘If we search hard enough, we’ll probably discover he’s eaten all her food as well.’ She smiled lovingly at the boy across the table, as incapable of resisting his charm as anyone else. He’d not lost his search for answers, exhibiting a growing interest in everything living. Yöst had asked M. Meijer when they came to visit if that was a characteristic of being the Black.
‘He refused to kill flies, until Pascual explained how wretched they made the horses in summer, stinging their eyes and crawling up inside their nostrils. She told Zande, you can scratch your nose when it itches, a horse can’t. Their four feet are made for pulling the cart, to which he replied, and give TaTa rides.’
‘That boy has a tender heart,’ M. Meijer had chortled at Yöst’s anecdote. He and his wife visited every three or four months, Pascual insisting it was important, when Ramon objected about the inconvenience, having to carry them back and forth to the town. ‘His mother’s influence, perhaps. I wish I had known her, such a loss.’
‘Do you think Zande still misses her? He never seems sad or anything and never mentions her.’
‘Because you have taken her place, Yöst.’
‘Not me,’ he shrugged off the compliment. ‘Tante Marie stole Zande’s heart the day he first met her. And TaTa took yours. I’m the odd one out.’
Then he had spoken in jest, finding the company of so many girls intimidating, preferring to loiter in the kitchen and talk to Pascual or spend time with Rico. Now, he no longer considered himself the odd one out, the girls were just girls and Rico had taken the place of those he had once cared about.
He caught the pattering footsteps and three figures emerged around the corner of the barn, Zande’s face flushed with importance that extended even to his walk.
‘Yöst? Where are you? Yöst!’
‘Coming.’ He spoke softly, aware there was no need to raise his voice, Zande’s hearing as sensitive as his own. Even the rustle of a mouse in the barn had his fingers reaching for the inevitable scrap of paper and a pencil, ready to draw the furry creature if it became visible.
As he shinned down the rope, Léon and Tigre rose to their feet stretching their spines languorously, their muzzles raised. He patted them as he walked past, feeling their noses cold and wet, the hair on their short jackets bristling with health.
‘Pascual said to ask if you will feed the chickens?’
Scooping grain from a metal bin into a bucket, he looped it over his arm. Then linking hands with Tatania and matching his steps with hers, he strolled out to the orchard, leaving Zande and Clara to follow on behind. Her front teeth had come through, plus several more, the new set both larger and stronger; her remaining baby teeth stubby and wizened by comparison.
The chickens were a new venture begun that spring, their run sited close to the apple orchard, where the ground was soft and contained a plentiful supply of worms. Yöst had tried to keep that particular snippet of information from Zande – that chickens loved to eat worms – convinced it would bother him, his concern for defenceless creatures very noticeable.
Since it had been Rico’s suggestion, accompanied by the offer that Pa could deduct the price of any lost birds from his wages, he and Yöst had been given the job of building their run. Pepe had shown them how to make it fox proof, layering lengths of wood deep below ground and enclosing the perimeter with wire. It had worked and they had not lost a single bird all year. Now Ramon and Rico took eggs to market as well as fruit and vegetables.
‘Me do it,’ Tatania demanded as the hens came into view, their russet feathers glinting in the late September sunshine, their combs a rich red. Opening the gate, Yöst carefully poured a sprinkling of grain into her cupped hands.
In the far distance he caught the click of a harness. He didn’t bother with it, aware the horse and cart had just reached the olive grove, and it would be a while yet before Rico appeared. Plenty of time to feed the chickens and shut them in for the night.
Minutes later, he heard loud footsteps pounding over the grass.
‘Yöst!’ Rico yelled and leapt into the air, waving.
‘What?’ he shouted, watching the running figure speed over the grass, his face flushed with excitement.
‘He’s gone.’ Panting heavily, Rico drew to a halt. He leaned against the chicken pen to recover.
‘Who has?’
‘The priest,’ he gasped out.
‘The priest?’ Yöst stared blankly. Then the news made sense. A sense of lightness swept over him, as if he had been pinned to the ground by a boulder and it had finally rolled away, releasing him. He raced back over the events of the past three years, tidying them away into a nice neat pile.
No longer did he need to fear for Zande. The man who had created such terror, he was gone and they were free.
Except they weren’t … the reprieve had come too late.
The truth struck at him from a great distance. Whenever the priest’s departure had occurred, it would always have come too late.
‘Are you all right?’ Rico grabbed at his arm, shaking it up and down.
‘Hungry, I expect,’ he dissembled, feeling his cheek muscles sore with smiling. Tilting the bucket, he poured a layer of grain into the metal trough. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive! The town’s buzzing with the news. They’ve all gone, all the brethren except for the parish priest. They left by train yesterday’
‘Where?’
‘Some say they’ve been sent to another town.’ Rico grimaced. ‘Don’t you just pity those poor people; I know I do. Others are saying they’ve joined a military regiment. One man swore they were wearing military uniform when they left. He even described it; it doesn’t matter though, does it?’ He flashed his wide smile, the doleful plains of his face wiped out by his ebullience, ‘He’s gone!’
‘Can we go home then? Home to Tante Marie and Uncle Albert?’ Zande tugged at Yöst’s coat.
Startled, Yöst stepped back, the bucket dropping carelessly from his hand.
Madame Meijer had told him, when they visited a few weeks before, that the Black had asked for them to travel north in the spring, to meet up with the clan. At the time he had protested, ‘Do we have to go?’ as scared as he had been when Tante Marie announced they were to be sent away, to live with strangers in the countryside.
She had wrapped an arm around him, his head topping hers now by some measure. ‘You know you do, Yöst.’
‘Sometimes I forget, believing myself no different from Rico.’
‘You’re not. You’re still a boy like him.’
He remembered her tone of voice; sharp and decisive brooking no argument, appropriate camouflage for a warm heart, overflowing with love and understanding. ‘The rest is immaterial. It will be a wrench, Yöst, I understand that. But it’s different from last time, when you were sent off to live with strangers. These are your family … your real family. Perhaps, in a year or so when you are settled, you can visit.’ He had nodded his acceptance, what else could he have done, wishing he could explain how, against the vivid colours of his new life, his years on the island had receded into shadow as if they had belonged to someone else.
His gaze encountered Rico’s.
‘You can’t,’ the boy pleaded. Yöst didn’t reply, scarcely knowing what to say. Rico’s tone changed becoming surly. ‘Go on then, if that’s what you want.’
‘You know I don’t.’
‘Then why are you thinking about it? Don’t deny it. I can read your face like a book.’ he shouted out. ‘If Zande wants to go, let him.’
‘That
can’t happen,’ Yöst reached out to him, feeling the muscles in Rico’s arm taught with strain. ‘You know that. We have to stay together.’
Throwing off Yöst’s arm, Rico turned away, staring pugnaciously out over the orchard, his shoulder muscles rigid with anger.
Tatania hearing the belligerent tone ran to Yöst, scattering the remaining grain on the ground, her fingers seeking refuge in her mouth. He swept her up, cuddling her closely. Zande gazed from one to the other, a puzzled frown replacing his usual animated expression. ‘What’s wrong with Rico? Why is he angry with me, have I done something wrong?’
‘No, Zande, you are the world’s best.’ Yöst pointed to one of the hens, her pale feathers making her conspicuous among the gleaming russet of the majority. ‘Beeky hasn’t been laying and Pascual thinks she must be hiding her eggs. Will you go with Clara and check the bushes before we close up?’
‘Ma says she’s for the pot tomorrow,’ Rico’s words grated against the pleasant afternoon air.
Yöst flinched. ‘Take no notice.’ He gave Zande a push. ‘Go on, go and see if you can find her eggs.’
‘TaTa get down.’ Taking her fingers from her mouth, the little girl wriggled, kicking her legs. She ran off across the orchard, catching up with Zande.
‘That was unkind, Rico. You know she’s scared of loud voices.’
‘I know.’ He scraped the toe of his boot across the earth, gathering the grains TaTa had spilled into a pile. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ Bending down, he brushed them into his hand. ‘Only, you never play fair.’ He spun round, tears in his eyes. ‘I tell you everything.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Yöst retorted, his voice trembling at the sight of Rico’s tears. ‘You never told me about your trips out with Adelita.’
‘That still doesn’t make it right for you to leave,’ he said, reverting to the subject in hand. ‘You know I don’t want to live here. I hate the life of a farmer; it’s only bearable because of you.’
‘It was never going to be permanent,’ Yöst pleaded. ‘A few months, that’s what was agreed. It’s been almost three years.’ The traitor words cut him to the quick. What he really wanted to say was: if I could stay, I would.
‘I don’t care about that,’ Rico shouted. ‘Ma doesn’t want you to go, either. You belong here.’ His voice changed, excitement taking over from tragedy, like a weathervane switching from stormy to sunny spells. ‘I know, I’ll speak to Monsieur Meijer when he visits for your birthday. Ask him if you can live here permanent. He’ll say yes, I know he will. Then I’ll tell Pa, you and me are old enough to do the market while he stays home with Ma. He’ll be pleased about that. Always saying he never sees her. Then we can be together always,’ he wheedled.
Yöst closed his eyes, hearing the words be together echoing on and on.
If only this was a dream, for Tante Marie never to have told him or for the carinatae to have stayed away. If it was a dream, there could be a different reality … one in which he would stay as he was and never change. He opened his eyes again, painfully aware it was a future at the farm that was the dream. Reality, however, cold and harsh, presented a very different future. And soon, very soon, he would be able to visit the farm only in his dreams. Never awake. As carinatae, that was unlikely to happen.
No!
‘Always … is too far away. How about spring?’
It was lightly said, Yöst conjuring a teasing tone in the face of Rico’s despair. Pascual had said his face was made for laughter; Rico’s was as well. He should never be unhappy. ‘TaTa’s sixth birthday?’ Rico didn’t look at him, his toe continuing to circle some imaginary obstacle on the ground. ‘It’s not for another hundred and sixty-seven days,’ he coaxed.
Rico shrugged. ‘It’ll do for now. But you’ve got to swear to come back. And I’m still going to ask Monsieur Meijer.’ His expression changed. He swung round, his smile banishing all trace of tension between the two boys. Yöst felt his heart lurch. ‘Honest, one hundred and sixty-seven?’
‘We found some eggs.’ Zande and Clara walked back across the orchard, each of them carrying an egg in their cupped hands, Tatania running behind, a merry smile replacing her former scared expression.
‘Put them in the bucket. Be careful not to break them!’
A few of the chickens were still milling about haphazardly, pecking at bits of grain Tatania had spilled. Driving them into the hut, Yöst swung the wooden bar into place, testing it to make certain it was secure.
What a mess! With luck, Rico’s threat would be forgotten by tomorrow, his attention drawn to something else. But Zande’s words! Somehow, he had expected the young boy to have forgotten his doorstep request to Tante Marie. He should have known better. Zande never forgot anything.
25
The olive trees glistened with light, as if fireflies had been wakened from their winter’s sleep and were dancing. More elaborate than in previous years, Ramon and Pepe had wired the branches of several trees, creating a dazzling pathway up to the house.
‘Why?’ asked Zande.
‘Because Ramon wishes to thank Mother Nature for our good harvest.’
It was a good tradition, Yöst had decided, marking the year this way: kites to welcome in the spring, a picnic in the woods in summer.
As the cart carrying the Meijers from the town came into sight, the three children rushed out of the house to greet them. M. Meijer swung the little girl high, her peals of delighted laughter filling the night with silvery music.
‘What a loud voice for such a tiny girl,’ he whispered setting her back on her feet. ‘You’re never fifteen, Yöst, far too tall. Twenty at the very least,’ he teased. ‘You top Rico now. And Zande,’ he ruffled the boy’s curls. ‘You’ve really grown since we last saw you. Be careful or you’ll overtake Yöst.’
‘Pascual measured me yesterday especially for Yöst’s birthday. She said as I hadn’t any money, I could make him a birthday card and write my new height in it. I have grown nine millimetres. What’s a millimetre, Tante Marie?’
‘An insect with one hundred legs,’ she kissed him fondly. ‘Yöst, I have a gift for you.’ She passed over an oddly shaped parcel.
‘I don’t want a present on my birthday,’ Zande linked his hand in hers, ‘only for my mama to be there.’
Mme Meijer shook her head at her husband. ‘Not tonight,’ she mouthed.
‘Let’s go in. Zande, you coming?’ M. Meijer called, ‘Yöst?’
‘In a minute, I want to unwrap my present first.’
Pascual came out of the kitchen. Wiping her hands on her apron, she greeted the couple warmly, ushering M. Meijer into the house, Zande and Tatania on either side pulling at his hands.
‘It’s three years since the business on the island, Yöst,’ Tante Marie sounded upset. ‘I had hoped Zande would have forgotten by now. Clearly, he hasn’t. Does he still believe his mother is alive?’
Yöst shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure. You’d think after all this time I’d know everything about him. I do, at least on the surface. Not what’s underneath. That, he keeps hidden.’
‘Even from Clara?’ Mme Meijer said the girl’s name with affection, the two children rarely apart for long.
‘Her too,’ he frowned. ‘I can’t help wondering if the only person he really trusts is TaTa. The other day, he said it would be better if we knew when our real birthdays were. I didn’t pick up on it at the time. In any case, we know his – it’s in October.’ Mme Meijer nodded in agreement. ‘Later, I began to wonder if he was talking about us … me and TaTa. Look at Uncle Albert tonight insisting I looked twenty, and TaTa? She could easily be older as well.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe, we only think of her as being a baby because she’s so dainty and quiet.’
‘Is she talking more?’
‘Not really. I’ve come to the conclusion, it’s in her nature to be silent. She’s happy to read out loud or repeat whole sentences when I’m reading to her,’ he replied, ‘and she knows every word in the book. But conversatio
n? She will thank Pascual for her food and say goodnight. For the rest it’s TaTa down, TaTa tired.’ He paused, his face in repose gloomy. ‘It’s almost as if she doesn’t trust conversation … only her fingers. When we go out, Rico and I hold a hand each. When we stop, into her mouth they go.’
‘And you?’ She tucked her arm in his. ‘You and Zande are like weeds, always growing. How are you?’
‘I still want to stay,’ he blurted out. The words burned at his throat, ‘Only I want to change too. I feel so mixed up,’ he added, his confusion very apparent. ‘It used to be all I ever dreamed of. But this place has shown me a different type of life. I know I can be happy here.’
A shaft of pain flittered across the elderly woman’s face. ‘Oh, my child, I’m the wrong person to talk to about this. You need Albert.’
‘You understand.’
Mme Meijer searched round for somewhere to sit. ‘Sometimes I’m tired for no reason,’ she confessed, perching on a low wall, framing a border where Pascual grew herbs for the kitchen, a scent of thyme tickling Yöst’s nose.
Carefully unpicking the string from his parcel, he unfolded the brown paper, discovering a drawing book and pack of crayons for Zande and a reading book for Tatania. He gazed at them, his eyes sparkling with delight.
‘You said you didn’t need anything, apart from a greater helping of patience,’ she teased.
‘Perfect,’ he kissed her on the cheek. ‘You always know what I want before I know myself.’ He sniffed. ‘Can you smell it, the thyme?’ he murmured. ‘I remember, we grew it …’ He flinched, recalling the bed of herbs outside the back door of the tiny house he had shared with his mother, recollecting also parsley and rosemary. ‘Grandmother grew chives. She said they were pretty with their purple flowers, but also useful in stews when there were no onions.’
Mme Meijer tentatively sniffed, raking through the motley collection of windblown leaves with her fingers. ‘There’s nothing here, except for a handful of leaves.’
‘That’s one of the things that make us different,’ he admitted, ‘also our hearing and sight.’
The Click of a Pebble Page 29
