Mad Dogs and an English Girl

by Caroline Waterman

  “Well, be careful, anyway,” warned Peter. “This place is seething with political tension and there could be an insurgency at any time.”

  I had to agree. I knew there were secret police everywhere watching and listening.

  “Not much fun,” observed Peter wryly. Audrey looked around her and said she thought it was time they were getting back to the hotel. “We have a long journey ahead of us and we have to be up early,” she said, pulling on her cardigan.“Come on Peter!”

  Two civil guards had just entered the café and were deep in conversation with the barman. Remembering Don Tomás’s quest for me, I decided it was time I too made a move.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GATHERING CLOUDS AND A VILLAGE WEDDING

  “Hay agua! Hay agua!” shrieked Aunt Domi. This was the clarion call for everyone to rush into the kitchen and grab wine bottles, jugs, mugs, pots and anything else we could lay hands on and race with them to the tiny lavatory where the wash basin tap provided our only source of water. Since we never knew when and for how long the water would be available, it was essential to fill as many containers as possible as fast as possible. It was quite likely that the supply we were collecting now would have to last us for twenty-four hours or more. For most of the summer and autumn, when the tap was turned on, the only result would be a strangled gurgling sound, sometimes, but not always, accompanied by a few rusty drips. So the joyful sight of unlimited water gushing from it would automatically send us into that frenzied scramble.

  On this particular day, our task was considerably hampered by the presence of two cockerels which seemed to have taken up residence in the lavatory. Every time someone opened the door to reach for the tap, the birds would make frantic attempts to escape. Twice their efforts were successful and it took Cousin Bea, who had brought the birds, ten minutes of chasing them up and down the stairs and around the house before she eventually managed to recapture them amid much indignant clucking, squawking and the panic-stricken beating of wings.

  “Hurry up all of you!” she gasped, clutching the protesting birds, her hair dishevelled, her bosom heaving from the recent exertion. “You’re upsetting my birds. Get a move on with those bottles!”

  Cousin Bea had been given the cockerels by a friend and it was her intention to make a meal of them as soon as she considered them sufficiently well-fattened. This process consisted of keeping them in a confined space while supplying them with abundant food, hence their occupation of the lavatory. In the meantime, the entire running of the house revolved around their welfare, their comforts taking precedence over those of the rest of us. Unfortunately, they were of an aggressive nature and, from time to time, terrible scuffles would break out and the noise of hostile squawking and fluttering feathers would send Cousin Bea hurtling towards their den where her screams of alarm, as she attempted to separate them, would join the general pandemonium.

  I did not look forward to the various visits which, of necessity, I had to make to the place where-in these ill-tempered creatures lurked. That morning, clutching my allotted bottle of water for washing, I paused outside the door, listening nervously before attempting to enter. However, all I could hear was the innocuous sound of their claws scratching in the straw so I opened the door a chink and peered in. Immediately, two heads, armed with vicious-looking beaks thrust themselves through the crack. I pushed them back with my foot and entered hurriedly, closing the door after me in the nick of time as one of them was about to hurl itself into the outside world. Pouring my water into the wash basin, I kept a wary eye on them as they circled menacingly round my legs grumbling to themselves and observing me sideways with their beady eyes.

  Washing was never an easy business in that confined space but now it was a thousand times more difficult. Care had to be taken to avoid treading on soiled straw or knocking over their water or food trough. This time I was lucky for I managed to avoid all of these hazards and, better still, the two antagonists seemed to have declared a temporary truce. This was a relief as I was used to seeing them confronting each other on tiptoe, feathers ruffled, spurs at the ready, poised to launch themselves into their next confrontation. While cleaning my teeth I heard the flapping of wings behind me as one of them flew clumsily up onto the cistern.There it stood, head thrust forward, deafening me with its crowing.

  This was something we had all learned to live with and alarm clocks were no longer necessary. Every morning, at crack of dawn, we were rudely roused from our slumbers as they vied with each other, making further sleep impossible. They had incredibly loud voices and it seemed the whole house shook to their joyful heralding of a new day. At last, even Cousin Bea grew tired of the many inconveniences – especially the lack of sleep – and so, thankfully, the cockerels were eventually moved to the back yard.

  It was just as well that I had got into the habit of waking early as I was now very busy and had a lot of classes to fit into the day.They were going well. It was a relief to teach people who really wanted to learn and my pupils were becoming my friends. One of them was Señorita Alvárez, a middle-aged unmarried lady of enormous charm and character. Among her many hobbies was the study of the British, their language and quaint customs and on this subject she considered herself something of an authority. Indeed, Señorita Alvárez never ceased to amaze me with her knowledge.

  One day, towards the end of the lesson, she set down her book and smiled at me sweetly.

  “No more English for today. It’s time for refreshments and I have a little surprise for you.”

  She patted me on the shoulder and left the room to return shortly bearing a tray with a jug, some cups and a plate of something sticky. She set the tray down carefully on the table, throwing me little sideways glances as she did so and then set out the cups, saucers and plates with meticulous care. Next, she picked up the jug and paused for a moment to smile again before pouring its thick, black contents into the cups. Handing me one, she leaned back in her chair to watch my reaction.

  “What do you think of that?” she asked.

  I took a tentative sip of the strange beverage. It had a very strong, odd flavour: sour, sweet and bitter at the same time and yet there was something vaguely familiar about it.

  “English tea!” she announced triumphantly.“In your honour; I know how you English just love your tea.” She was obviously very pleased with her brew.

  “How kind of you!” I said.

  “And how about this?” She leaned forward to pick up the plate of sticky brown confectionery. “Doesn’t that make you feel at home?”

  “Er – yes,” I replied hesitantly, wondering what it was.

  “Plum cake. Just for you. You see I know how you English always have plum cake with your tea.”

  “Lovely!You’re spoiling me!”

  “I knew it would make you happy. I know all your little habits. I think I understand the British having read so many books about your country. I want you to feel quite at home when you come here, my dear.You must get very homesick being so far from your native land. But whenever you feel sad, just come here and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Señorita Alvárez, but at present I don’t feel homesick at all.”

  “How you must miss your family!” she continued, ignoring my last remark. “And your mother must worry about you a great deal. But you can tell her that in me you have a friend to whom you can always turn in times of need.”

  I walked over to the window. The grey November afternoon was cold and windy and a chilly drizzle pattered against the panes.

  “Now this makes me think of home. This is typical English weather,” I remarked.

  Señorita Alvárez shook her head firmly.“No, not typical.To be typical there must be fog. Am I not right? In England there is always fog.”

  “Well, not always,” I began but my pupil was not listening.

  “Yes, always fog. I have seen it in all the films about England. Always there is a policeman with one of those strange, tall hats walk
ing through the swirling mists. I think it must be rather a sad place, always to be surrounded by fog and damp. But there must be compensations,” she added brightly, “yes, I am sure there are many compensations.”

  I could see that she had formed her own mental picture of England and it would be pointless – even unkind – to disillusion her. I finished my cup of strange tea and the even stranger plum cake and, with renewed thanks for her hospitality, gathered up my books and departed.As I stepped out onto the wet pavement, I was immediately enveloped in a cold sheet of rain that had no difficulty in penetrating my flimsy jacket. I hurried along the semi-deserted streets, shoes squelching in the puddles, hair clinging to my face and water trickling down my neck. Under my jacket I cradled my precious text books hoping, at least, to keep them reasonably dry. On the other side of the street I noticed a sandwich man holding an umbrella and bearing a placard appropriately announcing the film that was to be shown the following Sunday at the local cinema: ‘Cantando Bajo La Lluvia’ (‘Singing in the Rain’).

  As it happened, I didn’t feel at all like singing. I just wanted to get back to the warm comfort of Anita’s kitchen as soon as possible. Up to now I hadn’t thought about the coming winter. Life in Spain had seemed like one endless summer’s day and yet I had been warned that winter in Burgos was both long and harsh. The icy winds from the sierra could cut through you like a knife and there would be plenty of snow.After all, we were at 4,000 feet.

  On reflection, I remembered that there had already been hints of the weather to come, like the cold wind that had swept along the Espolón on the evening before I leftVázquez: that evening with Luis. But what had happened to Luis now? Just lately he seemed different: even more remote and withdrawn and preoccupied, as though wrestling with some inner conflict. Even when he kissed me it was with a strange urgency as though each kiss might be the last. Could it be, I wondered with a sting of panic, that the warm summer of this, my first love, was about to fade away into a cruel winter? I felt a sudden shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the rain.

  The old bus bumped its way across the village square and, with a final shudder of relief, came to a lurching halt. Anita and I, dressed in our best, stepped down gingerly in our stiletto heels which sank instantly into a quagmire of mud. The rain of yesterday had fortunately drifted away, but it had left its mark.

  A bevy of girls, who had been waiting for us, ran across the square. They greeted us warmly, chattering and giggling with excitement.

  “These are the bride’s sisters,” explained Anita.“Come on! We must hurry.The bride is waiting to be dressed.”

  I had not known that we were to attend a wedding until the previous evening when Anita had surprised me with the news while helping to peel off my sodden clothes. I was still not clear as to how we had come to be invited but it appeared that the miller’s daughter in a nearby village was to be married the following day and our presence at the event was absolutely imperative.

  So here we were, picking our way through the slush to the bride’s house accompanied by her sisters and followed by the eyes of interested neighbours who stood in their doorways observing us with unabashed curiosity.The fact that we had been summoned to assist the miller’s daughter in preparing for the happiest day of her life suggested to me that we were no ordinary guests.

  To my surprise, we arrived at what appeared to be a roomy cattle shed. I could hardly believe that we had come to the right place but, sure enough, we were ushered by the sisters through a low doorway to find ourselves in the company of two cows. The animals turned their heads to gaze at us with liquid brown eyes as they chewed the cud contentedly. The sound of grunting and an unmistakeable smell told us that there were also pigs rooting around somewhere in the semi-darkness. Puzzled, I turned to look at Anita but she just beamed at me brightly and we waded through the straw to the far end of the shed where there was another door. Behind this, a flight of rickety stairs led us up to the bride’s home. I later learned that it was quite usual for village houses to be built in this way with accommodation for livestock at ground level and living quarters above.This made sense as the heat generated by the animals rose and so helped to warm the upper floor.

  The bride’s bedroom was full of people all fussing around her and offering advice.

  “They’re here! They’re here!” cried the sisters in chorus and immediately all heads were turned in our direction as we walked into the room.The miller’s daughter, a plump, apple-cheeked girl, sprang to her feet and kissed us both affectionately.

  “This blouse,” she said breathlessly, “do you think it’s alright? It’s the best I’ve got. And the skirt, do you think this grey one or the black?”

  “The grey is perfect,” Anita assured her, “and so is the blouse. But something must be done about your hair.”

  “Yes, I know. I was waiting for you.”

  Anita removed her coat in a business-like way and at once stepped into the role of hairdresser. She grabbed a handful of hairpins from the dressing table and thrust them into my hand with instructions to pass them to her as required. Deftly her fingers worked on the black shiny mane and soon it had been tamed into a neat coil at the back of her head. There were murmurs of approval from the bride’s mother and other female relatives who stood watching us with keen interest.Two red carnations were poked through the coil and everyone agreed that the bride was now lovely to behold.

  Next came the nylons and stiletto shoes, shiny and new for the occasion. Aware of the sorry state of Anita’s and my legs and feet after the walk from the bus, my heart bled for her when I imagined how those immaculate shoes would look by the time we arrived at the church! Finally, a small, black veil of fine lace was draped carefully over her hair and, as a finishing touch, a few drops of the perfume ‘Enchantment of Seville’ were dabbed behind the dangling gold earrings. Everyone stood back to admire the final result of all this effort and the bride’s mother, overcome by the beauty of her daughter, gave a little sob of delight and pressed a white lace handkerchief to her eyes.

  Then there was the sound of people gathering in the street below and a few tuneless notes from a cornet could be heard. One of the sisters poked her head through the window then turned to us with a squeal of joy.“They’ve arrived! It’s time to go.”

  After a quick, last minute glance at herself in the mirror, the bride, with great dignity, descended the stairs, crossed the cowshed and stepped out into the street, arm-in-arm with her godmother. The rest of us followed close behind.

  Cheers rang out as she emerged to a tumultuous welcome from the assembled villagers. Happily, at that moment, the clouds parted and a little watery sunshine filtered through to illuminate the puddles between the ruts of mud and glinted on the brass instruments of the village band. A procession was forming and the band took up its position at the head followed by the bride and her relatives and then the rest of us.

  After a few tentative hoots and honks, the band threw itself into an excruciating rendering of ‘Here comes the Bride’ with an enthusiasm and abandon that quite made up for its lack of musical skill. Behind it, the villagers sang as they splashed through the muddy puddles, dogs barked and chickens scattered at our approach while hordes of children ran alongside the band, shrieking with delight. In this joyful manner, we arrived at the church.

  All I knew about the bridegroom was that his name was Manolo but now I saw him standing at the entrance, a well-built lad with a shock of bushy, black hair. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in what was probably a new suit, but his red face broke into a broad grin at the sight of his bride. With a final, triumphant roll of the drums, the procession halted and the bride joined her husband-to-be. The priest stood beside him and I realised, to my surprise, that the marriage ceremony was to take place then and there, on the church steps, presumably so that the entire village could witness it.There followed an hour-long nuptial mass inside the church during which the choir, alas, proved itself no more musical than the band.

 
When at last the happy couple emerged, now man and wife, into the strengthening sunlight, the waiting villagers at once set about the serious business of celebrating the occasion. Flagons and porrónes of wine were passed round, fireworks let off and the village band, having refreshed itself, struck up once more with renewed enthusiasm. Nobody cared whether or not it played in tune; it was the signal to begin dancing, and in no time everyone was prancing about, oblivious of the mud, laughing, shouting, singing and causing the chickens to rush hither and thither, dodging between flying legs and squawking in alarm. All the villagers joined in the fun, from tiny tots stomping and splashing happily in the puddles to the good-natured old folk who took this opportunity to exercise their stiffening joints.

  Meanwhile, the bride and groom were having their photos taken outside the church. Unfortunately, the bride, overcome with emotion, had dissolved into tears and it was some time before she had composed herself sufficiently to face the camera. Anita and I were also called to pose with the couple alongside her parents, brothers and sisters, grandparents and padrinos (those overseeing the couple, rather as in the U.K. the best man looks after the bridegroom). The photo session over, the bridal party now joined the revels in the village square. At once everyone stopped dancing and stood aside.The cornet player announced that the next dance would be a pasodoble and there was an expectant silence as all eyes turned towards the bridegroom. Someone shouted, “Go on Manolo!” upon which the latter scratched his head and stood looking vaguely about him.

  “What’s he waiting for?” I whispered to Anita. “Why doesn’t he lead off the dance with his bride?”