Terrible sounds came from above: something being smashed against the wall, something being crushed under foot, something being ripped up – all to the accompaniment of Pilar’s hysterical shrieks. Next, we heard the bedroom window being flung open. Anita and I rushed out into the patio to see what would come flying out, spreading our arms wide in case it was Pilar. We saw Manolo’s figure silhouetted against the light of the window, his arms filled with strange bundles. One by one the various articles came hurtling down through the frosty night: a skirt, a dressing gown, two jumpers and a nightie, closely followed by assorted shoes and torn-up nylons. There was a slight pause during which we feverishly tried to gather everything up, then another missile whistled past us, narrowly missing Anita’s head. It landed with a rattle at the far end of the patio and I picked it up. It was a money box, smashed and empty.
Back in the house, a frightening scene confronted us. Manolo and Teo were shouting at each other angrily in the hall while Pilar sobbed uncontrollably in Domi’s arms.
“He’s taken our savings! All the money that we have saved up together – he’s got the lot,” she wailed. “And he’s smashed my jewellery and thrown all my clothes out of the window.”
“Give her the money, imbécil!” shouted Teo, barring Manolo’s way to the front door.
“Out of the way unless you want your face smashed in!” bellowed Manolo.
“Oh, so that’s how you want it!”Teo started to roll up his shirt sleeves. Anita gave a little scream and grabbed her brother by the arm. “No, Teo, Leave him alone! Can’t you see he’s drunk? He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Let him go!”
“The bastard’s not leaving this house till he’s apologised to Pilar and handed over the money.”
“Who do you think you are?” shouted Manolo lurching towards Teo with raised fists. Everyone moved back to give the antagonists room to settle the matter but Anita was determined that violence should not prevail. “Don’t fight him Teo!” she pleaded. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Teo laughed. “Me hurt? By that worm? You must be joking! I’m going to teach him a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry.”
At this, Manolo lunged at him like an enraged beast but his aim was poor and the blow missed Teo’s face by several inches.The children gasped in delight, – there was more than enough entertainment for them that night – and the women screamed. Pilar drew away from Domi and ran forward to stand between the two men, her small arms stretched out in an attempt to separate them.
“Manolo,” she sobbed, “haven’t you done enough damage for one night? Just get out of here! Let him go,Teo! It doesn’t matter about the money. I just want him to go.”
Reluctantly,Teo stepped aside. Manolo slunk past him, spitting insults and struggling into his raincoat while somebody opened the front door. The next moment he had vanished into the night to everyone’s relief. The uneasy hush that had come over the guests during those last tense moments was now broken and everyone started talking at once. Pilar was still crying but, at the same time, between her tears, she was already making plans to return to Bilbao that same night.
“What’s the time? Four o’clock? If I hurry I can catch the five o’clock train. Can you lend me money for the fare, Domi?”
“Nonsense, child! You can’t travel in the state you’re in. You must get some rest.”
“No! no! I want to go home. Please call a taxi! I have to pack my things.”
No one could dissuade her from her decision.She ran upstairs and came down moments later clutching her case, her face swollen and red, her uncombed, tangled hair pulled back into an untidy bunch. She looked very small, young and pathetic: a child trying to cope with the problems of a woman.We never found out whether the young couple had quarrelled during the course of the evening and this was the reason for Manolo’s outrageous behaviour, or whether it could simply have been attributed to alcohol. Pilar went home to her parents that same night and I never saw her or Manolo again.
With her departure, the party resumed. Guests helped themselves to more drinks and music returned to the dining room. By this time it was nearly five in the morning and some were beginning to flag. Great Uncle Jorge had fallen asleep in his chair in the kitchen and the younger children were taken upstairs and popped into one of the beds. Pablo and several others who had partaken of the Christmas pudding announced they were not feeling well and disappeared discreetly to be sick. I guessed the pudding had been made a convenient scapegoat for their over-consumption of alcohol as I noticed that none of the children suffered such ill effects.
Sergio had finally succeeded in dancing with Marisol, and, for the first time that evening, I saw him looking happy as he gazed down at her adoringly. Gonzalo and Felipe were both trying to dance with Anita at the same time, pushing each other away playfully,Anita’s laughter rising above the noisy banter.
Over in the corner, José Luis, still managing to ooze sex appeal even at that hour, was nonchalantly smoking a cigar and chatting up Mari Carmen who stood close to him, spellbound, hanging on his every word.
Out in the hall Domi was saying goodbye to some of the neighbours who had decided to take themselves home to their beds and so, gradually, the party was dispersing. At last there was room to breathe and space to move. I found myself yawning and debated whether or not it might be possible to creep unnoticed up the stairs and surrender myself to blissful slumber.The thought was tempting so I started to edge my way towards the door, in and out of the dancing couples, but my plans were thwarted by Prince Charming who had noticed my retreat. Hastily excusing himself, he left Mari Carmen and came bounding over.
“And where is my enchanting inglesa thinking of going? You are surely not leaving us? Come! You have not danced with me for at least half an hour and my heart is breaking!”
He took me firmly by the hand and dragged me back to join the dancers who were now jerking and gyrating to the beat of a rumba. The heady scent of his after shave mixed with the sickly-sweet smell of cigar tobacco, made me feel even drowsier and I was only half aware of what he was saying as we danced. I heard vaguely: “What are you doing tomorrow? We could go dancing. There is a good dance at the Military Sports Centre…”
“Sorry. Anita and I have to get ready for our holiday,” I yawned,“and we have a lot to do.We’re heading for Andalusia in a few days time.”
“Ah! That is good news.To reach Andalusia you have to travel first to Madrid, don’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“And I live in Madrid so we could see each other. Does that make you happy?”
I smiled to myself, amused at his conceit. “Deliriously,” I replied.
It was morning. Seven thirty in the morning on Christmas Day and most of the guests had departed. Those of us in the house would have to sleep in relays as there were insufficient beds to go round. Great Uncle Jorge had been installed in Teo’s room and Teo planned to sleep on the floor.
“One of you girls will have to sleep with José Mari,” threatened Domi pointing to Anita, me and Carmela’s twelve-year old.
“Well I’m not,” said Anita firmly.“I’m not sleeping with him – and that’s definite.”
“You surely don’t expect me to, do you?” barked her aunt.“I’m not sleeping with a restless child. I need some sleep.” They both looked at me expectantly.
“Alright,” I sighed, “I don’t mind. Nothing could keep me awake.”
So Anita doubled up with Domi and I had no alternative but to share my bed with José Mari. The boy crept in beside me grinning sheepishly and not a little embarrassed; but no sooner had his head touched the pillow than he was out like a light and lay stone-still until four in the afternoon.
“We can sleep until eleven,” Domi had announced as she turned out the lights,“and then we must get up and give someone else a turn.”
As I nestled down into the sheets and lay, listening to the heavy breathing coming from the small, unconscious form beside me, I thought what a strange way to spend Ch
ristmas Day! I had resolved to banish from my head all thoughts of Luis and what he might have been doing that night. Every time such thoughts tormented me, I had just filled up my glass, deadening the senses a little more. Now, drifting into sleep, I still managed to keep them at bay. But once asleep, our unfettered minds go their own unruly way and that night, when I dreamt, it was not of José Luis.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
COWBOYS AND A MONSTER
Aunt Domi ‘s voice, raised in cheerful song, drifted up from the kitchen and roused me into wakefulness. “Ay Señorita, I am single and in love!” I recognised the words and tune as a song from a Spanish zarzuela, a sort of light opera or musical, popular with her generation.
After all the hectic activity of the days leading up to Christmas, I felt entitled to the odd lie-in for there had been little sleep for any of us lately. First, the dawn rising to listen to the Christmas Lottery results and the accompanying disappointment of not finding ourselves instant millionaires, then all the preparations for Christmas culminating in that eventful Christmas Eve party.We now had before us several days respite before embarking on our adventurous journey down to southern Spain. Just one more party, on NewYear’s Eve, and then we would be off, so with no classes for a while, it was time to relax. A glorious feeling of space and freedom told me that Anita was already up and I had the bed to myself. Blissfully, I stretched out my limbs and one of my toes came into painful contact with a cold, solid object at the end of the bed. It was the brick that Domi heated for us in the oven every night when the weather was cold. We would wrap it in newspaper and take it to bed where, with luck, its warmth would last for most of the night.The fact that it was now completely cold, reminded me that I was unforgivably late in waking. Now Anita’s voice was calling from below.
“Wake up! The post has come.”
She ran upstairs and burst into the room clutching a bundle of letters. “There’s one from England – your family, I expect – and one for you from Madrid and one for me from Madrid as well.”
I pulled myself into an upright position to read the letters. The one from my family was an up-date on all their news and the one from Madrid was from a friend I had made while staying in that city the previous spring. I had been introduced to Rafael at the British Club by an English boy called David, doubtless in the hope that Rafael might relieve him of the irksome task of showing me Madrid. David, who had taken me out a few times when we both lived in London, had now found himself a permanent job in Madrid together with a very attractive Spanish girlfriend. He therefore had little time for boring English girls who wanted to be shown the sights. His plan worked, for Rafael seemed only too ready to step into his shoes and we spent an hilarious week together exploring all the night spots before Julio arrived from Logroño and put an immediate stop to our escapades.
‘I’m delighted that you’ll soon be visiting Madrid on your way to Andalusia,’ read Rafael’s letter, ‘and that you are bringing a friend, and that the friend you are bringing is pretty. I have already told Desmond Brocklebank about your friend and he is anxious to make up a foursome.’ I read this last bit out to Anita who was intrigued.
“Who is this Desmond what’s-his-name, and will I like him?”
I laughed.“I very much doubt it! He’s the oddest character I’ve ever met, another member of the British Club and they’re all pretty odd there. His name is English but, in fact he’s half Spanish. I must warn you, he’s about forty, much too old for you, and he’s very strange to look at.Also, he has the most extraordinary ideas. In fact, I think he’s mad.”
Far from being put-off, she seemed even more intrigued. “He sounds interesting,” she mused.“He sounds different.”
“Yes, he’s certainly that. He calls himself an existentialist – whatever that is – and he has a beard and goes around in a duffel coat. No, I don’t think you’ll like him at all.”
“We shall see. I’m looking forward to meeting this strange Englishman. Now, let me tell you about my letter. It’s from some good friends of ours, Demetrio and Auri, and they’ve invited us to stay with them, so that will save us hotel bills while we’re in Madrid. Oh! I’m so excited about our holiday! To think we’ll see all those places: Granada… Seville… I can’t wait!”
Our reveries were interrupted at that moment by Domi screaming up the stairs that it was high time one of us went out to fetch the milk. I washed and dressed hastily then grabbed a couple of large jugs and set out into the frosty morning for the dairy.
A queue of people holding jugs and bottles had already formed, standing in the newly-fallen snow outside the dairy and stamping their feet. The milk was late that morning, probably because of the bad weather. I noticed Marisol was also waiting so I went over to talk to her.
“I’m glad you gave poor Sergio a dance on Christmas Eve,” I said.“You know he’s been so miserable lately.”
“Sergio?” she repeated distractedly, scanning the distance for signs of the dairyman’s approach.“Why? What’s the matter with him?”
“As though you didn’t know! That poor boy’s crazy about you and you’re driving him to drink with your indifference.”
“Ay! Que exagerada!” she exclaimed. “How you exaggerate! That’s all nonsense.Your head is full of silly romantic notions.You shouldn’t take any notice of what he says. Anyway, let’s talk about something more interesting. Are you going to the cinema this afternoon? They’re showing a good western with Gregory Peck and he’s so handsome.”
The sound of trotting hooves and cart wheels grinding in the snow announced the arrival of the dairyman who was full of apologies.
“This weather! It’s terrible for beasts. It took such a long time to get them fed and milked this morning and then the roads; impossible! We could hardly get through in some places.”
He and his round bustling wife started unloading the heavy churns, carrying them into the little dairy while the mules stood stamping and snorting, their warm breath clouding the frosty air. Soon the wife was behind the counter, ready to serve the first customers, ladling the milk straight from the churns into their containers. The women gossiped and laughed as they waited their turn in the queue while the children played hide and seek round their skirts. Most of the women, particularly the older ones, were dressed in black: black dresses, black cardigans and black shawls draped round their shoulders. Standing in the snow outside the little shop, they looked like a flock of crows. I remembered that it was still customary for widows to wear mourning for life and, after the Civil War, there were plenty of widows.
Having agreed to meet Marisol that afternoon at the cinema, I walked very carefully back to the house carrying the jugs. They were full to the brim and I prayed I would not slip on the ice and spill the lot. I arrived at the same time as the baker on his morning round. He had just delivered our daily order of vienas, long greyish-white baguettes, still warm from the oven despite the cold, because the bakery was only just down the road.
Breakfast tasted particularly good that morning: great cups of warm, milky coffee and hunks of crusty bread all enjoyed round the warmth of the brasero.This time, we only found one rusty nail in our bread and two hairs – both blonde.The fact that they were blonde,Teo pointed out as he carefully removed his, proved that the baker’s wife had been responsible for that morning’s baking. Had it been the baker himself, the hairs would have been black, as was frequently the case.
Both the baker and his wife were genial souls and had, on one occasion, obligingly accommodated in their oven an apple pie which I had made as a novel English birthday present for a friend and which would not fit into Domi’s small oven. We had formed a strange procession that day, me at the head, bearing the pie followed by Aunt Domi and Anita surrounded by a throng of excited children and the odd curious neighbour. The baker, having examined the pie suspiciously, agreed it could join the latest batch of his vienas and, when it later emerged, crisp and golden brown, it was baked to perfection and proved delicious.
Breakf
ast over, we went about our respective tasks, Domi and Anita to household chores and I to the station to buy the kilometric tickets that would shortly take us on our journey to adventure in the south. Such tickets could be used to travel anywhere in Spain up to a certain number of kilometres and were extremely economical.
These bought, I next hurried to the cinema to get tickets for the afternoon’s performance. There was only one cinema and the films shown were usually many years old but nobody cared about that. For an unsophisticated audience without instant visual entertainment at the press of a button, a trip to the cinema was the highlight of their week. Since Aunt Domi loved westerns and Anita was a great fan of Gregory Peck, I was instructed to buy three tickets for ‘Duel in The Sun’.
Standing at the top of the steps, outside the cinema, were Sergio and Gonzalo . They were studying a lurid poster depicting Jennifer Jones, semi-clad and bleeding, clawing her way over a dusty ridge towards Gregory Peck, also prostrated and gory. Gonzalo looked round, and at the sight of me, gave a cowboy whoop and raced down the steps, twirling an invisible lasso.
“Hola! Looks good, doesn’t it?” he said indicating the poster with a toss of his head. “Hurry up and get your tickets, and then come and join us for a drink.”
So it was that I found myself in the Espolón, sandwiched between Gonzalo and Sergio among the crowds enjoying a stroll before lunch. The sun was shining brilliantly, casting long, mauve shadows across the glittering snow. The cathedral, with its frosted spires, looked particularly beautiful against a sky of cloudless sapphire. It would have been a perfect stroll had I not, at that moment, spotted among the sea of faces, the one I most dreaded seeing. Gonzalo was still acting the fool in his role as a cowboy, shooting from the hips at the café windows, and Sergio was watching him with amusement. But I was oblivious of their antics, seeing only Luis’s tall figure, wearing the familiar wind-cheater with the collar turned up, his head inclined towards a short girl in a black coat who clung to his arm. She was looking up at him adoringly as they chatted together.
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 15
