by MARY HOCKING
Mary Hocking
THE YOUNG
SPANIARD
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
To Pam
Chapter One
‘Perhaps I could help?’
James Kerr took the heavy suitcase and tried to disguise his annoyance at having to share the compartment. The girl maintained her grip on the handle.
‘I’m so sorry . . . I’m afraid there’s something I want to get out.’ Her expression, although apologetic, was determined. He turned away and stared out of the window while she fumbled in her handbag for keys. After a moment he heard the rustle of tissue paper and out of the corner of his eye he saw her removing layers of clothes from the case. She did this very slowly and at times she stopped altogether and appeared to meditate upon some quite unimportant article. He realized that he had indeed arrived in Spain. It was odd that she should have this effect on him, since she was undoubtedly English. It was not an entirely pleasing effect, either; something more disturbing than mere irritation at her slowness. He tried to concentrate on the scene beyond the window.
People were still struggling through the customs office, although the train should have left half-an-hour ago. This, so friends had assured him, was part of the charm of Spain. Why, he wondered, was a disregard for time always regarded as charming? Sweat pricked his forehead and his collar rubbed the back of his neck. The heat was oppressive already; but then the train was standing in the full glare of the sun, no doubt it would be more bearable once it started. He hoped so, since he was travelling a long way south.
There were a lot of people in uniform on the platform. James watched two soldiers slouched against a wall talking to a customs officer. They did not look very formidable. The admission was grudging: this was a Fascist country and already he was taking up an attitude towards it. Stupid to over-simplify, he told himself disapprovingly; it would be quite wrong to become emotional about things here, this country’s whole history . . . Before he could be drawn into one of the exhausting debates which took place constantly within himself, another voice intruded:
‘There! Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’
He heaved the case on to the rack while she took possession of the corner seat which he had reserved. She laid a book on her lap; then she put her hand across the front page to keep it from turning and he knew that she would not read a line throughout the journey. Already her head was turned away as she watched the people on the platform. She had dark hair which was drawn back into one of those severe pleats which had become fashionable; the style did not suit her springy hair which was falling out of place. He watched as she plucked lazily at a few strands and then began to remove pins, pausing every now and again as something beyond the window caught her attention. She would, he guessed, be occupied in this fashion all the way to Barcelona. He hoped that she was not travelling further south.
He had to sit opposite her because he did not want to move to the corridor side. She smiled at him. She must be quite young, he supposed, noting the full face and plump, rounded chin. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled and little creases appeared at the corners of her eyes. James, who found conversation with strangers difficult and therefore to be avoided, responded unwillingly to the smile. Encouraged, she said:
‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’
He nodded his head, and then, because he could never snub anyone, forced himself to ask:
‘Going far?’
She was going to Barcelona to stay with a friend. He picked up his book of Spanish poetry, hoping that further confidences could be avoided; the letter which acted as marker fell out and he put it firmly to one side.
‘And you?’ Her hair now fell around her shoulders; she spoke with a grip between her teeth as she began to twist strands back into place. ‘Are you staying in Barcelona?’
‘Only for the night.’ He looked at the letter. ‘Perhaps not as long as that, provided I can get through . . . some business . . . quickly.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I go south.’
‘How lovely!’ She looked out of the window again, at the dusty platform and the harassed people spewing out of the customs office. ‘But then it’s all lovely.’
‘I don’t know about that!’ he protested, amused by the wonder in the wide, dark eyes. He examined the scene thoughtfully, trying to make a more reasoned assessment.
‘ “Lovely” is scarcely the right word to describe this.’
She paused, one arm suspended above her head, and looked at him, puzzled, a little hurt; then she pinned another strand of hair in place and turned her head away. She made no comment, neither did she attempt to renew the conversation. Soon the train began to move, slowly at first, and then faster, settling into a steady rhythm. James picked up his book again.
It was so hot. He could not relax as he had hoped. For one thing, the light had a different quality—or seemed to have, because the quality of light could not really be said to change with national barriers. And then, she would not sit still. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her, turning from side to side as different things attracted her eager attention. Her face was shining with sweat and excitement, the wide dark eyes were bright and uncritical. He felt certain that, had he not in some way offended her, she would have enjoyed sharing her pleasure with him; she was obviously the exuberant, extrovert type and he was spoiling her journey by his Scots dourness. He felt a little guilty; which was absurd because, of course, she was spoiling his journey. It was no use trying to concentrate on the book. The rhythms of Spanish poetry eluded him and the glare of light on the white page hurt his eyes. He looked out of the window, trying to see something on which he might comment intelligently, and with sufficient enthusiasm, to restore some kind of harmony between himself and his companion.
At first, he was aware only of the dust rising in a yellow haze from the cracked, reddish earth so that the whole landscape was viewed through a yellow filter; yellow in the colour of the grass, the leaves of the trees, the stone walls of cottages. It was a change, he acknowledged cautiously, after so much blue and green in England and France: definitely, this golden light was a change.
‘I wonder what all that stuff is?’ he ventured, pointing to the long spears of smooth pale green which grew on either side of the track.
She did not know. But when the ticket collector came she asked him in bad Spanish accompanied by a lot of gesticulations and breathless laughter. The ticket collector told them that it was cane; when it was stripped and dried it was used to make brushes and also to fence the fields. He stayed to point out one or two cane palisades and to ask them a lot of questions, his sombre eyes fixed on the girl’s face. After he had gone, James made no further conversational overtures.
The sky was very blue now; colour was becoming more intense and the freshness which had seemed so magical earlier when he breakfasted on the French train was gone. One was aware of the heat gradually souring the day. And yet . . . perhaps ‘sour’ was too ungrateful a word. There was some kind of splendour here. The train was crossing a bridge over a river bed, dry, stone-littered, with the trunk of a tree lying across it. Beyond, the monotony of bleached fields was broken only by a crescent of cypresses shading a farmhouse. A long view, not u
nsatisfying, stripped of inessentials. No doubt the inhabitants would not see it in this way; the starkness meant a hard life for those women there, doing their washing in a trickle of water in the dried river bed. But there would not be many such views in this mountainous country; already the hills had appeared with their knotted outline which was due to the fact that the sparse vegetation grew in isolated clumps. Beyond the hills there was the dark shadow of the Pyrenees. A big country, as countries go in Europe, James thought; a lot of space there, beyond those mountains. Yet, try as he might he was unable to fill the space in his mind’s eye with villages, rivers, occasional towns; it remained vast, empty. This was not Italy, where he felt he belonged because he was a European and had a sense of his past. This was alien country; if it had a meaning it was not one with which he could associate himself in any way. It was very still now; just the heat glimmering on the leaves of the cane and the dust rising from the parched ground; no people. He wondered, for the first time since he started on this holiday, what he would do when he left Barcelona. Seville, of course; however predictable, one must go to Seville. And then? Why had he suddenly made up his mind to come here instead of going to Greece? Greece meant so much: it spoke to the mind. While this . . . He looked down at the book of Spanish poetry which he found very obscure. His eyes rested on the letter lying beside it. Perhaps he would feel better about things once he had got this tiresome Barcelona business over.
He picked up the letter and read it through again. His Aunt Morag, whom he had not seen for many years, said that she had heard through a mutual friend that he was going to Spain, which would be lovely for him, particularly as it so happened that his Cousin Rose, whom he had never met, was working at a travel agency in Barcelona and could be very helpful to him. His aunt then went on to explain how he could be helpful to Rose. ‘She seems to have got herself involved with a young Spaniard. If you could just have a word with her, find out what kind of a dago he is and how far it has gone . . . offer a little helpful advice, you know the kind of thing.’ He did not know the kind of thing and his aunt, if she remembered him at all clearly, must have realized that. Yet she asked him to do this monstrous thing and then passed on to chat about travel generally, just as though she had demanded nothing more of him than the purchase of a bottle of perfume. This wilfully uncomplicated attitude towards human relationships was, James remembered, one of the things which his father had loved about her and, for his father’s sake, he supposed that he must make a gesture. But it would be a half-hearted one. He would see Rose and make a few enquiries, preferably over a meal with plenty of wine: and that would be the extent of it. He would accept the role of a reporter, but he would not, under any circumstances, undertake the functions of an editor. That would be up to his Aunt Morag; if she felt it necessary to intervene in her daughter’s affairs, she must come out to Barcelona. He would travel south.
Undoubtedly he would travel slowly. He thought about this grimly as the train began to lose pace. This was something to which he must accustom himself; he must learn to smile at all those jokes about mañana. The brake was applied sharply, the engine gave a long sigh and the train stopped.
‘Really!’ James exploded. ‘I might as well have walked to Barcelona.’
The girl turned her head and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Oh, you’re a Scot.’
She said it as though it explained much and then looked away again. He felt the colour come into his face. He was surprisingly annoyed at being dismissed in this way; perhaps this uncharacteristic touchiness was due to weakness after his illness. To relieve his feelings he got up and leant out of the window. Silence. In the distance the Pyrenees, still a dark shadow with here and there a gleam of white where the sun shone on the rock face; the scent of ferns and pines alternating with whiffs of garlic from the restaurant car; and silence, a dazzling silence. Beside him, the girl stretched her arm along the rim of the window and watched, a half-smile on her lips, as the sun reddened her skin. She looked contented, as though she would wait uncomplaining all day.
James opened the door and took one or two steps down towards the track.
‘The engine driver has probably died.’
But even as he said it, two figures moved suddenly from the front of the engine. As they came down the track beside the train, James saw that they wore three-cornered hats and had rifles slung over their shoulders. Further along, in the second and third class compartments, windows opened, heads poked out. The girl had come to the window and was looking at the two men.
‘What funny hats! Who are they?’
‘The Guardia Civil.’
‘Is that the Spanish police?’
‘It’s not quite the same thing.’
Near by, one or two men had climbed down on to the track; a train guard went by and stopped to speak to them. James heard a few isolated words; ‘frontera’ was repeated several times.
‘What are they saying?’ the girl asked.
‘I’m not sure; but I think someone is trying to get across the frontier.’
She came out on to the steps beside him. She was very close to him now and he saw that she was older than he had thought—at least twenty-four, he hazarded. Her gaze was hostile as she looked at the two men. She said:
‘I hope he gets away.’
‘But you don’t know anything about him.’
‘This is a dictatorship.’
‘It doesn’t follow that there are no ordinary criminals in the country.’
But she was not listening. It occurred to him, looking at that rounded chin, that once she had formed an opinion it would take a lot of changing. The two men were moving away, apparently they had no intention of searching the train. Perhaps James had misunderstood what had been said. The dust rising from the track was getting in his eyes, his mouth was dry and gritty.
‘It must be like walking in a desert,’ he said, watching the two men make their way across the fields.
He turned to get back to the train; she was just above him and she did not move out of the way. He looked up and saw to his dismay that she was staring after the two men with tears in her eyes. He wanted to turn his back on this regrettable display of emotion; unfortunately it was necessary for him to mount the steps quickly if he was not to be left behind on the track.
‘Excitement’s over,’ he said briskly.
‘For us.’
She did not move; he had almost to push her aside to get into the carriage. He shut the door, making rather a business of adjusting the window latch. He was relieved to note, when he eventually turned, that the tears were not flowing; she was looking up at the brilliant sky which only recently had so delighted her.
‘It’s so hot,’ she murmured. ‘So hot to be out there . . . hunted.’
‘You don’t know what he may have done.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I should say it mattered quite a lot.’ This anarchical attitude annoyed him. ‘If you could see the victim you might be crying over him.’
The fields were falling behind now; the land on either side was becoming more barren, littered with rocks from which the sun sparked fiercely. Not a kind place for the hunter or the hunted.
‘I probably made a mistake,’ James said reassuringly, taking up his book again. ‘Maybe they lost their way, wanted to send a message to the frontier . . .’
She did not answer. She had stopped playing with her hair which clung, damp and dishevelled, around her neck. Perhaps, after all, she did not greatly care about her appearance. He went on reading. She had also stopped twisting and turning from side to side. In fact, she was so quiet that, after a while, he glanced across to see if she had fallen asleep. She was not asleep. And yet, there was something of the dreamer’s remoteness about her face, so still and ivory pale as she stared out of the window; impossible to believe that those abstracted eyes had been eagerly aware only a short while ago. She had done what he wanted her to do when she first came into the compartment; she had left him alone. She had left him al
one and gone away, far out there where the light sparked from a stone on the bare red hills. He tried to read his book. Usually he liked to be alone, so why should he experience this feeling of emptiness, this almost panic-stricken desire for companionship? It was the aftermath of illness, of course; it was weakness that was responsible. But whatever the reason, he could not bear these dreadful waves of desolation. He looked at her. He had always respected other people’s solitariness, their right to withdraw themselves; he loathed and despised people who made demands, who . . . He said loudly;
‘What is your name?’
Her eyelids flickered rapidly, as though a little shock passed through her; the eyes looked at him, momentarily unfocused. He was disgusted by his selfishness. But she was not in the least resentful and already she was smiling as she said:
‘I’m sorry, I was miles away . . . You said something?’
‘I asked your name.’
‘Frangcon. Frangcon Perry.’
There was a moment’s silence. But silence was impossible now; he must say something more since he had chosen to thrust himself upon her.
‘With two ff’s?’
‘No. There should be, of course; but we’ve simplified it.’
Another silence. He said;
‘I’m James Kerr . . . I . . . I’m afraid that the heat doesn’t agree with me.’
He got up and pulled back the corridor door, muttering ‘excuse me’. He blundered towards the toilet. After that, he stayed in the corridor until the train drew into Barcelona.
‘Are you better?’ she asked as he helped her with her case.
‘Quite, thank you. Now, do you want a porter?’
‘You’ll have to be very careful of the heat.’ She was not one to be hustled once something was on her mind. ‘It’s nothing here to what you’ll get further south . . .’ She followed him along the corridor, giving advice in a soft, concerned voice. ‘I should buy a hat if I were you, and sun glasses. You really ought to with your colouring.’
He put her case down on the platform.
