CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHRISTMAS EVE
The Christmas pudding, sitting in the larder in a place of honour, was an object of great curiosity to young and old. Its presence in our house had quickly been broadcast over the entire neighbourhood and children brought their school friends round to view it.They ran to the larder, opened the door and pointed to it with a mixture of awe and amusement, giggling and whispering among themselves that this strange thing was an English ‘poodeen’. When I made up the jelly it caused even more sensation. I put it in the larder and everyone was amazed at its shape and texture, never having seen anything like it before. The adults regarded it with some suspicion but the children were fascinated, and delighted in prodding it, screaming with delight at its wobbliness.
It was Christmas Eve and preparations for the evening’s festivities were in full swing. The streets were thronged with shoppers, and folk from the countryside dressed in brightly-coloured blankets were selling their produce in the market.Women hurried home with plump, live chickens in their shopping baskets and great flocks of turkeys were being driven along the narrow, cobbled streets.The shop windows were crammed with all manner of festive things: enormous, decorated baskets filled with Christmas turrones (a kind of nougat made from almonds and honey), and various other goodies; sinister boars’ heads, hollowed out and lit up like Jack O’Lanterns, their huge, goggling eyes glowing red, and elaborate crib scenes painstakingly arranged with no detail forgotten, some complete with moving figures and miniature fountains. There were Christmas cards and, to my astonishment, I even came across one solitary but brightly-lit Christmas tree! It seemed the pagan, yuletide symbols of Northern Europe and North America, which so mystified the Captain General’s daughters, were gradually creeping into Catholic Spain.
All was hustle and bustle as the people of Burgos prepared for the night’s feasting and merry-making and there hung in the air a feeling of excitement and pleasurable anticipation. Of course, there were many for whom not even Christmas Eve could bring much cheer.The poor, who were as poor as in Dickensian England, might still be hungry on Christmas Day; and then there were the politically oppressed. In many homes we knew there would be sad-faced women packing up small parcels of food to be smuggled, after dark, into the great political prison outside Burgos, where their men folk languished. Incredibly, some of these men had been incarcerated there since the Civil War and the reports of what took place behind those forbidding walls, the stories of suffering and torture, made one’s blood run cold. One woman told us why her husband had lost the use of his hands. The prisoners were scrubbing the floors one bitterly cold day but their progress was slow as the water was ice-cold and their hands were numb.Angered by this, the guards had punished them by stamping on their hands, crushing them to a pulp under their heavy, hob-nailed boots. Franco’s prisons were bursting with political prisoners. They were mostly left-wing sympathisers or Republican ex-combatants but any with the courage to criticise the dictatorship openly might also be classified as ‘reds’ and were in danger of finding themselves behind bars. The members of Anita’s family were known by the authorities to be ‘reds’ but she had no father, grandfather or uncles to visit in the Burgos prison. They were dead. Nevertheless, it was suspected that a close watch was being kept on the family.
For the past forty-eight hours, our house had become a hive of feverish activity. Food was piling up in the kitchen; different kinds of meat and fish and fruit galore: oranges, huge tangerines, bananas, grapes, pears, apples, pineapples and pomegranates.Then there were giant bottles of anís and other liqueurs, wines and boxes of delicious turrones. People were also beginning to gather in the house for it seemed that numerous friends and relatives had all come to stay, with or without invitation. I was at a loss to imagine how they could all be accommodated with only four beds in the house! But no one seemed unduly worried and each new guest was welcomed with open arms.
Anita and I spent some time decorating the dining room with paper chains and Christmas cards before turning our attention to the magnificent Tree which now stood upright in a tub looking more impressive than ever. Soon it was sparkling with the glass balls and tinsel my family had thoughtfully sent from England and to these were added a few small gifts we had bought for each other. In all these preparations we were assisted by an army of children with shining faces. They rushed around us bumping into each other in their excitement, their eyes sparkling at the sight of The Tree in all its splendour.
Meanwhile, down in the basement,Teo was trying to light the boiler.Although the house had a central heating system, it was only put into operation on special occasions due to the high running cost. Happily, Christmas Eve was deemed such an occasion and after Teo had succeeded eventually in his task, the house was soon glowing with comfortable, even warmth. Domi was in the kitchen attending, as usual, to her frying pan but, at the same time, finishing off a black blouse she was making for me to wear at the party. She was extremely clever with a needle and could create any garment out of odd scraps of material without a pattern.
While all this was going on, the guests kept arriving. There were aunts, a grandmother and a great uncle, cousins complete with their children, friends who had been invited and long-lost friends who happened to be ‘passing through’.
One of the invited relatives was a young girl called Pilar who had come down from Bilbao to be with her husband over Christmas. Manolo, a young man still in his teens, was doing his military service in Burgos. Apparently the young couple had been obliged to get married as Pilar had become pregnant and this had caused a considerable scandal in the family. To add to her misfortunes, the baby, when it arrived, was stillborn.The poor girl was obviously still suffering from the effects of all these traumas for she seemed very tense and her undeniable beauty was marred by a deathly pallor and a drawn, almost haggard look. It was decided that she and her husband should occupy the one precious double bed since they saw so little of each other.
The afternoon was a very busy one for Anita, Aunt Domi and me. As soon as the midday meal was cleared away, we began preparations for the mammoth feast which would have to satisfy so many mouths that night.We spent hours chopping vegetables and preparing meat and fish while Domi swung into top gear with the frying pan, her voice raised in song, competing with the cheerful sizzling sound of her cooking.Teo, perched as best he could on the edge of the table, surrounded by chopped vegetables and fruit, tried to accompany her on his guitar. Great Uncle Jorge sat, toothless and wheezing, contemplating his hands which were gnarled and twisted into arthritic knots. Between bouts of coughing, he chided them bitterly for their uselessness.
Pilar sat in a corner in her dressing gown, her great mass of chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders to her waist. Silent and withdrawn, she was painting her nails a lurid shade of blood red. The resident children ran in and out shouting, laughing and occasionally crying while those from the street still popped in from time to time to make sure all was well with the jelly and the Christmas pudding. Soon, the tiny kitchen became unbearably hot as everyone continued to crowd into it and the blue, smoky haze rising from the pan of olive oil filled the room with its pungent fumes inducing in poor Uncle Jorge a fresh bout of coughing.
During a temporary lull in the noise and congestion, I turned on the radio to see if it were possible to find any foreign stations.To my amazement and delight, I suddenly discerned, between crackles and hissing, a familiar and nostalgic sound, faint at first but, with careful tuning, becoming gradually clearer and louder. It was the unmistakeable and utterly English sound of the choir of King’s College, Cambridge performing their annual carol concert. Miraculously, those cherubic voices rendering ‘The Holly and The Ivy’ had brought into this thoroughly Spanish kitchen all that seemed to epitomize an English Christmas. It reminded me of my family and, for a moment, I drowned in a wave of homesickness, shedding a few tears onto the pimiento I was cutting up.Anita gave me a hug, lent me a hankie and reminded me that there was to be a p
arty, adding mysteriously, that someone called José Luis would be there and he was bound to cheer me up.Although this was the first time I had heard of this individual, she obviously thought that just the prospect of his presence should be enough to revive my spirits.
It was ten thirty in the evening and the long table in the dining room had been set with numerous knives, forks and wine glasses. The famous pudding was now steaming away on top of the stove, watched over by its ever attentive young guardians. Also of interest to them was the large bowl of brandy butter standing nearby. From time to time a surreptitious finger would dive into it followed by noises that seemed to register approval. Manolo had arrived and had disappeared with Pilar into their bedroom. Great Uncle Jorge was dozing in his chair, oblivious to the shrill voices and loud laughter which pervaded the whole house. Teo was playing his guitar and everywhere one looked there was food.
Anita and I had at last escaped to our room to prepare ourselves for the night ahead, a night when nobody would sleep, a night of non-stop merry-making.Anita donned her best grey dress and her new peep-toe shoes. She applied mascara to her lashes, painted her nails, put on her gold, gypsy earrings, smothered herself with a most alluring perfume and placed a fresh carnation among her black curls. The end result was so devastating that I rated my own chances with the much-prized José Luis as negligible with such a rival as this! I told her so as I changed into my new black blouse which Domi had just finished and which fitted me perfectly.
“Nonsense!” she laughed.“I told you he likes blondes. Here – catch!” She tossed another bloom in my direction. “I got one for you too.Wear it in your hair! It will draw attention to it.”
Down in the hall, more people were arriving: Pablo, Anita’s elder brother who had just come off duty at the Provincial Hospital, Carmela, the watch-maker, José Mari, her son and her sister Elvira. These were great friends of the family for the sisters once had a brother who was engaged to Domi long ago but, like so many of that generation, he had died in the Civil War. Domi had never forgotten him, never considered marrying anyone else and had remained friendly with his family ever since. Carmela was a widow and, after her husband’s early death, had bravely taken over his watch-making business to keep her and her small son. Every day found her working long hours in the dark little shop which huddled in the shadow of the cathedral.
When the last of the supper guests had arrived, we all squeezed round the long table and the feasting began.We had soup followed by two kinds of fish served with green peas, pimientos and asparagus; meat with tomato sauce, boiled chestnuts, fruit salad, jelly for the children (which proved very popular) and, of course, the Christmas pudding. The latter inspired some mistrust. Here was something strange and foreign, rather too spicy and rich, something to be approached with caution; but most of the men seemed to enjoy it and the children demanded second helpings. Great Uncle Jorge was sporting enough to try a small helping of the jelly. After the first tentative spoonful, he poured the contents of his liqueur glass over the remainder, announcing that it was better that way. Of course, the whole meal was washed down with several different wines and ended with coffee, liqueurs and turrones.
By the time we finished eating it was one in the morning, Christmas Day already, and I was feeling so bloated with food and stupefied with alcohol that I could barely rise from the table. However, there was no time to sit around and recover as the dishes had to be cleared away and washed and already the guests were beginning to arrive for the party. Anita’s family, who were not religious, had not attended Midnight Mass but a good many of the party guests had done so and were now coming straight from church.
Once the meal was cleared away, we moved the radio into the dining room and pushed the long table against the wall. The children were clamouring for their presents and soon The Tree was stripped of its little parcels while, all the time, more and more guests kept arriving. They included our neighbours, Mari, Miguel and their daughters, our friends Marisol, Gonzalo, Sergio, Felipe and Mari Carmen and last but not least, the celebrated José Luis. He certainly lived up to expectations. Tall, slim and dark with an olive complexion and warm, chestnut eyes, he was impeccably dressed and had about him an air of charm, sophistication, and savoir faire that seemed quite irresistible.
“Ay! José Luis!” cried Anita, taking his coat and hanging it up in the hall.“I’m so glad you could come. Happy Christmas!”
He took her extended hand and raised it to his lips, all the time caressing her with his seductive eyes.“Happy Christmas to you,” he murmured in a warm, sexy voice, “and mine is all the happier for being in such delightful company. Every time I see you, you are more beautiful – if that is possible!”
Anita giggled. “Thank you, José Luis. Now, there is someone I would like you to meet: an English friend who is staying with us.”
He turned his languid eyes in my direction, then stepped forward to kiss my hand, looking me up and down as he did so. I guessed he was an experienced judge of females, the traditional Don Juan type, always on the look out for new conquests. He greeted me with a dazzling smile, revealing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth.“This certainly is my lucky night,” he purred.
Anita had slipped away to welcome more guests. The irrepressible Marisol had arrived and swept past breezily, with lovelorn Sergio in her wake. Her excited laughter soared above the animated conversation of the other guests and her smiling face, still aglow from the chilly night air, was the picture of exuberance. She paused to greet me with a great bear hug.“Where did you find that beautiful tree? I’ve never seen anything like that in this house before.” Not waiting for a reply, she was away again and disappeared into the throng. From the dining room came the sound of popping corks and music.
“Listen! They are dancing,” said the purring voice close to my ear.“Shall we join them?”
José Luis danced smoothly and gracefully. He skilfully avoided the other couples in the crowded room, his remarkably handsome face smiling down at me, his conversation witty and sprinkled with flowery compliments.
“Your hair, it is so beautiful, like gold.” He lifted a hand to stroke my mousy locks. “And so soft! It is as soft and fine as the purest silk.”
“I see you are highly skilled in the Spanish art of flattery,” I suggested.
He looked hurt. “Believe me, this is not flattery, this is the truth.Your hair is beautiful and so is your blouse. Blonde girls look marvellous in black.”
Felipe was dancing with Mari Carmen, Anita with Gonzalo and Marisol with Pablo.Teo was tuning his guitar in a corner and Sergio was standing sulkily by the Christmas tree, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, watching Marisol. Manolo and Pilar were also dancing but with little enthusiasm. The children had finished unwrapping their presents and now joined the dancers, weaving their way between the adults and, occasionally, tripping them up. Most of the older generation stood around in groups, replenishing their glasses and discussing politics.
So the night wore on and the wine kept flowing freely. The music from the radio had now been replaced by Teo and his guitar, his lusty voice rising above the others who joined him in singing popular songs. For the dancers, sensuous, pulsating Latin American rhythms flowed from his guitar and around three in the morning, when everyone was feeling the effects of the wine, these changed to wild flamenco. Gonzalo cleared himself a space in the middle of the floor, tied the ends of his jacket into a knot to simulate the costume of an Andalusian dancer and started to stamp around, tossing his head and clicking his fingers, his face acquiring a haughty and disdainful expression. Unfortunately, the effect was somewhat marred by the fact that his glasses were wobbling precariously at the end of his nose; then one particularly violent toss of the head sent them flying across the room amid delighted squeals from the younger spectators. Fortunately, they were quickly rescued by Sergio before they could be smashed. Marisol and Miguel now joined in the flamenco dancing while the rest of us clapped rhythmically and the children yelled “Olé!”
Soon most of the other guests were clicking and stamping with the notable exception of Felipe who was deeply involved in fighting an imaginary bull in the hall. It was very temperamental, he assured us, and nervous and had to be handled with the utmost skill. To this end, he had found Domi’s table cloth and had taken up a strategic position by the staircase where he stood, shaking the cloth and making encouraging noises at his invisible opponent. José Mari and several other young males watched him, fascinated, and had to be restrained from rushing in to play the part of the bull.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Domi and her friends were packed around the brasero playing cards, surrounded by a crowd of interested on-lookers, gossiping, laughing and drinking. Suddenly, this cosy scene was shattered by Manolo reeling across the room, pushing his way to the back door, his hand clamped to his mouth. Domi leapt from the table and rushed to unbolt the door and only just in time as the contents of Manolo’s stomach shot out across the patio.
José Luis, who never seemed far away, glided up beside me. He shook his head pityingly as he surveyed the undignified spectacle in the patio. “Dead drunk,” he observed. “It’s sad to see how some people react after a few drinks. Have you seen that poor fool in the hall?”
José Luis himself was still in complete control of all his faculties despite having drunk the same as the rest of us and, indeed, he remained annoyingly sober for the rest of the night.
Manolo, having relieved himself at both ends, came back into the house. Pilar rushed over to him sobbing but he pushed her roughly aside and stormed out of the kitchen. He crossed the hall, thrusting his way past Felipe who assumed he was the bull and performed an elegant pase with the table cloth. Thence he staggered up the stairs to their bedroom and slammed the door noisily. Pilar ran up after him screaming and all the guests gathered in the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs to see what would happen next.
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 14
