“He does but…”
“Well, anyway,” I interrupted bitterly,“if he has any problems at least he has Maruja to comfort him. At least he has her!” I swallowed hard.
Paco stopped walking and caught me by the arm. “Maruja?” He sounded surprised. “You mean the Institute gardener’s daughter?”
“Who else?”
“But I thought you knew. Didn’t you know?”
“Know what? For goodness sake, Paco, stop talking in riddles!”
“It’s just… I thought Luis would have told you. It’s all over between those two. Has been for some time. He broke it off with her months ago, soon after you told him about this what’s-his-name? The one you’re going around with now; that novio of yours from Logroño.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FAREWELL TO THE MIDDAY SUN
Spring came reluctantly to Burgos. April passed but still that relentless cold wind whistled across the meseta.The leaf buds on the trees in the Espolón remained obstinately closed and only unfurled themselves, grudgingly, in early May, forced on by the strengthening sun. During those spring months I threw myself enthusiastically into my work, slaving away for long hours with my pupils, drilling into them the difficult, inconsistent structure of my language and forcing their unwilling tongues to pronounce obscure Anglo-Saxon sounds.To this end I devised various unusual methods which, through trial and error, proved reasonably successful. One was to make them read English with a cigarette or pencil in their mouths, thus preventing them from using wide Spanish vowel sounds. I also confounded them with long lists of verbs based on the word ‘get’ in combination with assorted prepositions and crammed them with all the possible abbreviations of the various tenses. I was determined that if they were to learn English at all, they would learn it properly. (For all this I was accused of being a hard task-master.) One of them, when struggling with the English short vowel sounds, suddenly turned on me in exasperation. “Don’t you people ever get sore throats making such weird noises all day?” Nevertheless, my efforts bore fruit and I was well pleased with the progress they were all making.
All this hard work helped to keep my mind off troublesome thoughts about Luis. I had been greatly disturbed by what Paco had revealed and felt uncertain as to what I should do. Part of me, the sentimental side, told me to write to him and explain that I had lied about Julio; tell him I still loved him and wanted him more than anything in the world. The other half of me, the sensible, protective half, advised caution. After all, just because he had jilted Maruja didn’t necessarily imply that he still loved me – or that he ever had. He might, as Anita believed, be just another playboy, amusing himself with different girls and tiring of them all the time. For all I knew, he might already have another girlfriend in Madrid. Anyway, I had learned to live without him so why burn my fingers in the fire again?
When Easter came I knew he must have been back in Burgos, but I neither saw him nor received any communication from him. I decided my cautious side had been right so I would follow its directive and leave things as they were.
Sundays were usually spent with our group of friends in the bars or at the cinema. Sergio continued his hopeless pursuit of Marisol and it amazed me that it was taking him so long to realize he hadn’t a chance of winning her affections. Felipe was becoming excited at the prospect of a new bullfighting season ahead and bored us all with details of Luis Miguel Dominguín’s latest feats in the rings of Madrid and Seville.
Anita hardly ever joined us as her Sundays were mostly taken up with Desmond who still came regularly to see her. However, of late I had detected something I hardly dared to imagine: a slight waning in her devotion to him. I noticed that she now read his letters with less eagerness and even, occasionally, stifled a yawn or two. Also, by this time, she had found herself a new job at the Provincial Hospital and one of the young newly-qualified doctors there had been paying her considerable attention. I awaited further developments with bated breath.
May was a sad month for the family as we were to lose Teo’s company.The time had come for the army to claim the next two years of his life, interrupting his studies and disrupting his plans. He was studying Law in the optimistic hope that this might, some day, provide him with a worthwhile career. However, he was sufficiently realistic to know that this was unlikely, as finding a good job in Spain depended on who you knew and your political background rather than suitable qualifications. Most institutions were riddled with corruption, something to which the people were now resigned.
The day we saw him off at the station was warm. The wind had, at last, dropped and the sun was making its strength felt. Teo looked uncomfortable and forlorn in his uniform as he stood waiting on the platform, his kit bag beside him, for the train that would take him and his fellow recruits to Madrid on the first stage of their journey to Morocco. When the train arrived, twenty minutes late, Anita clung to him tearfully, loath to let him go, tugging at his jacket as he climbed up to join the other sweating men in the corridor. He fought his way to a window and leaned out.Anita rushed over, grasping his hand and gazing up at him with a tear-stained face as she begged him to write soon.Teo reassured her. He would be okay, of course he would write and no, he hadn’t forgotten his packed lunch and was looking forward to the chorizo sandwiches.
The train pulled out and we ran alongside it, waving frantically until it gained speed and carried him away into the distance. We walked disconsolately back to the house, missing him already and when Anita noticed his guitar hanging lonely on the wall, she broke down completely.Teo was more than a brother to Anita. He was her best friend and they had never been apart before.
“Why should he have to become a soldier?” she cried out angrily when her tears were spent. “Why should he have to take orders from them? He hates them! They killed our father! They’re ruining our country!”
I tried to calm her down but it was several days before she showed signs of recovery and certainly the absence of his jovial presence and lively singing was felt by all of us.That year, also,Anita had begun her servicio social, a compulsory training programme for girls which she had to attend regularly and bitterly resented. She would drag herself off to those dreary evening sessions with extreme reluctance and return from them looking thoroughly fed up. One day I asked her what they did.
“Oh, we learn to be good mothers, good Spanish wives and mothers and then we have political instruction. Well, you can imagine what that is! Oh, and then we have to pray too. But what I pray for in my heart is that we could be a free country again!”
“It sounds very boring. I’m glad we’ve nothing like that at home.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she remarked, getting up from the table where we had been playing cards and going over to the stove to make coffee.
“The worst thing about this evening,” she added, pouring it into cups,“is that I could have been out withVíctor.”
“Víctor?”
“Yes,” she gave one of her dreamy sighs. “He asked me out tonight.”
“You mean that young doctor, don’t you? The one with the glasses and the big smile?”
She sighed again.“Yes. He’s just qualified and he’s going to be a marvellous doctor.This is his first job and do you know what they want him to do?”
I shook my head, secretly delighted at her interest in this new admirer.
“They’re sending him to the bullring every Sunday to see to bullfighters who might get hurt.”
“I bet Felipe will be jealous! Wouldn’t he just love the chance to see all the bullfights in Burgos for free?”
“But Víctor isn’t like Felipe. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever known.”
“I seem to have heard that story before. Surely you can’t be in love again? How about Desmond? I thought he was the great love of your life. I thought you were supposed to be novios?”
Anita put her head on one side, considering her reply. “Well,” she began thoughtfully,“I suppose we are. I know he lo
ves me and he’s very romantic and I’m really fond of him – you know that – but one can’t always be completely sure, can one? I mean you’re not completely sure about Julio, are you?”
“I never have been,” I reminded her. “We’re just good friends and that’s all. It’s nothing serious: not like you and Desmond.”
“Oh, we’re not that serious really,” she said lightly. “It was fun while it lasted but I don’t think it can go on for ever.”
I felt immensely relieved on hearing this and was overcome with gratitude to this smiling, myopic doctor who seemed on course to rescue Anita from a lifetime of Desmond Brocklebank.
It was about this time that I started to feel seriously homesick. Letters from my family reminded me that it was spring in England, something I was sorely missing. Lying stiff and cramped in my bed, I would imagine myself back in the Somerset home of my childhood, warm and cosy in my familiar little bedroom, waking to the call of the cuckoo, listening to the sparrows chattering in the thatch above my window. I imagined myself pulling back the curtains, looking down at the long shadows spreading across the daisy-sprinkled lawn, the ornamental cherry smothered in pink blossoms and the drifts of daffodils nestling among lush grass. In my imagination I could smell the fresh, damp fragrance of an English spring morning and hear the lambs bleating in distant meadows. I dreamt of woodlands carpeted with primroses and then I realised it was May already and there would be bluebells in the woods, cowslips in the meadows and cow parsley lining the country lanes. Never, in these idyllic fantasies, was there room for the reality of my working life, for the depressing world of London bed-sits, the dreary jungle of buildings, the dust and grime, the smell of exhaust, the hustle and bustle of city life to which I would shortly be returning.
These reflections made me aware, also, of just how much I was missing my family; hearing my mother playing the piano, my father listening to the cricket commentary, and bike rides with my sister. I also missed a lot of practical things such as a hot bath, comfortable chairs, a real cup of tea! I missed the luxury of speaking my own language and I was even looking forward to the company of Englishmen again. After the traumas of the past few months, it would make a refreshing change to be among sensible, steady, reliable Englishmen: not passionate, not jealous, not obsessed with pride, honour and machismo. Men who didn’t notice the colour of your eyes or your hair, who treated you like one of the lads, explained to you the finer features of their car engines.
All this nostalgia for home made me stop at the bank one morning on the way to my classes, to ask for a statement of my account. I was relieved to discover that I had already saved enough for my return journey. I was free to go home any time I wished and end this strange life to which I had now become so accustomed. I walked out of the bank into the sunshine, wondering what I should do. I could stay until the beginning of August and then I would have to go whatever happened, as my work permit lasted only one year. Every three months I had to report to the police.They liked to keep tabs on everybody, not only aliens, but their own people too.When Anita and I had stayed in pensiones, we had to surrender our documents: Anita her identity card and I, my passport. They were kept for several hours, usually overnight, so that our whereabouts could be reported to the authorities.
Fortunately, I was on fairly good terms with the police in Burgos, deeming it wise to keep on the right side of them. They knew me and would chat and joke when I visited their headquarters with my passport.“You must like it here,” they would say, “since you want to stay another three months. That’s good! That’s good!”
Now I had to decide whether or not to apply for those last three months till August and I was very torn. I thought back on all the strange events that had happened to me since that hot summer’s afternoon when I stepped off the train at Burgos and first set eyes on Anita, standing there so trim and pretty next to Vázquez. Since that day I had enjoyed such adventures, seen so many places and met so many interesting people and I had become familiar with every nook and cranny of this friendly, crumbling place; so could I say goodbye to it already?
From the bank, I made my way through the narrow back streets towards the Capitanía. Under the hot sun, everything was flooded in a dazzling brilliance and the atmosphere was clear and dry, quite unlike the oppressive, damp heat of an English summer. The harsh, blinding light made the shadows deep and dark. As I emerged into the main square, a group of women were gathered round the communal fountain with their jugs, their animated chatter mingling with the splash of water. I remembered that when I first arrived in Burgos, I was amazed to see that even in a city of this size, so many households were without mains water. Water, something which we took for granted back home, was a precious commodity here and I had learned to respect it. So many things which had seemed strange to me at first, I now accepted as normal. I was beginning to feel like a Spaniard. I was even thinking and dreaming in Spanish!
I no longer feared the house of the Captain General. Those guards who, on the first day had seemed so terrifying, I now knew to be ordinary young men. Some of them I had seen and recognised off duty and they had even paid me the odd compliment! I knew most of the domestic staff by their first names and was confident of a warm welcome when I was shown into the room where the daughters had their lessons. That particular day was no exception.
“How glad we are to see you! We have finished that long translation you gave us but we are not sure of one point of grammar. Magdalena and I have been arguing about it all weekend. Come and settle the matter for us!”
I crossed the room cautiously, keeping a wary eye on one of the cats that was crouching menacingly, behind a chair. Experience had taught me that some of the younger ones were in the habit of springing out on unsuspecting passers-by and clawing at their legs. Because of this, I had had several pairs of nylons ruined and suffered some painful scratches.
“Come and sit down,” said Magdalena. “You look very hot. Would you like some lemonade?”
“Here are our translations,” said Elisa eagerly, gathering up a pile of papers and setting them before me, “I think you will find that I have written that first sentence correctly but Magdalena says I was wrong.”
Their enthusiasm made them easy to teach.To them it was an absorbing hobby, something which had helped them to while away the long Burgos winter, a challenge, a game, an excuse for friendly rivalry. I knew they would miss the lessons enormously when I left.
Having corrected their work, I said:“Señoritas, I have to make an important decision. My parents want me home as soon as possible and I don’t know what to do: whether to go now or wait till August.”
“Wait!” they cried in chorus.
“Don’t leave us now!” pleaded Elisa. “Not yet. Please! Would your parents mind so very much if you waited till August? Would you like us to write to them and ask them if you can stay a little longer?”
I laughed. “It’s entirely up to me. I have a very understanding family and they don’t interfere in my life.”
My pupils looked a little puzzled. In a society where parents still seemed to have complete control over their grown-up offspring, particularly their daughters, this didn’t make sense.
“Anyway,” I said cheerfully, “I can recommend a very good teacher to take my place. Don Federico Suárez.You’ll like him.”
Magdalena shook her head sadly. “It won’t be the same.” she said.
“In the meantime, back to the lesson. I shall read the story on page thirty-one and then you will read it to me in turn.”
As I read the lesson to them slowly, carefully enunciating each word, I was aware of sounds outside in the passage, followed by the door at the end of the room behind me being opened and closed quietly. One of the cats that had been sitting high up on a shelf basking in a patch of sunlight, looked up sharply, staring beyond me into the room. Then it rose to its feet, stretching its legs and arching its back before jumping lightly to the floor and padding past me, tail erect. Someone had entered the room a
nd was now standing close behind me, casting a shadow onto the book. I stopped reading and looked up.
“Hello Papá,” said Elisa. “This is the English señorita – our teacher.”
The Captain General was smaller than I had expected. I had imagined him tall, stiff and tight-lipped with cold, cruel eyes, rather like a head of the German Gestapo as portrayed in films about the Second World War: the kind who stands behind a desk, fixing his cowering victims with a steely stare and informing them they have “vays of making you talk”. I was surprised, therefore, to see a short, stout, grey-haired man with a cat curled round his shoulders. Certainly he was resplendent in an impressive uniform and there was something slightly sinister about his shiny high boots, but he was smiling at me in a friendly manner and it was hard to believe he could inspire such fear.We shook hands and he asked me about his daughters’ progress. “Are you satisfied with them? Are they good students?” I assured him that they were. “Good, good!” he said. “Please, continue your lesson. Do not let me interrupt you.” He remained there for a few minutes, watching us and stroking the cat, then he slipped away as quietly as he had come and I never saw him again.
Sipping ice-cold lemonade at the end of the lesson, the girls asked me if I had come to a decision about returning to England. Two pairs of dark eyes, their lashes sticky with mascara, were looking at me expectantly. I shook my head. “Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.”
Outside the Capitania, I stood thoughtfully for a few minutes, watching the mule carts trundling by and listening to the sing-song voices of the lottery ticket sellers.Then, having checked that I had my passport with me, I set off in the direction of the Police Station.
The days grew longer and warmer and soon we were again sweltering under that pitiless sun I had come to know the previous summer. As the weeks went by, Anita’s interest in Desmond continued to decline at the same time as her passion for Víctor increased. This time, she assured me, she was quite sure of her feelings. This was the real thing and there could never be anyone else in her life. He had proposed to her and she had accepted so that made them novios formales, an engaged couple, planning to spend the rest of their lives together.The only snag was Desmond. Of course, she had tried to soften the blow by hinting in her letters that she was beginning to have doubts, paving the way for the moment when he would have to learn the truth. Naturally, this caused him to become highly suspicious and things came to a head one hot Sunday morning when Desmond, having travelled up from Madrid unexpectedly, came upon Anita and Víctor walking arm in arm along the Espolón.
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 27
