Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  Drop Calum’s hand. Rise grinning. Breast the flood like Kermit the frog. Good grief, Will and Gavin, pond-life, welcoming him to the pond. ‘Hi, guys.’

  Wham! Chest-thump from Gavin. Arse hitting cushions. ‘What’s your game, Peter Jennings? What d’you want from us?’

  Questions bursting in brain like stinking, green bubbles. ‘Want from you?’ Huge rebound of rage propelling him from lily pad, fists and feet like pistons. Gavin’s nose, William’s stomach, Gavin’s thigh, William’s shin. ‘Fuck you, you pair of crabby, Scots, pissing, bastards.’

  Brothers grim. Gasping, bloody, coming at him.

  ‘Cool it. Cool it!’ Owen’s giant hands and shoulder. ‘Enough. Stop right there! I’ll only have to patch you all up.’

  ‘Aye. Calm down, the lot of ye.’ Calum laughing.

  Owen frowning. ‘And you’re no better, Father. Pleased like a woman to be scrapped over, are you? Making a joke of your bad behaviour?’

  Calum’s face falling. ‘Nae, Owen.’

  But Owen persisting, ‘So tell me then, Father, even if no one else cares to know. What new trial did you put our poor mother through?’

  Henry

  A commotion had broken out under the floorboards. Raised voices, loud oaths and yelps of pain.

  ‘For goodness sake!’ Fiona dumped her glass and ran to the door.

  Henry followed her. The corridor was uncarpeted and bare. Fiona had turned left and disappeared. A few yards along, Henry found the staircase in the wall. A quick spiral of steps and he was through the fireplace door again, into the family sitting-room.

  Everyone was on their feet, glaring and growling. Gavin’s nose was bleeding. The old man was pleading with his gigantic son. ‘She didnae know, Owen. She didnae care to know. I was away but two months – Perhaps thou remembers, thou wast twelve years old? I came back. She took me back. She said nae more about it.’

  ‘You think you can do anything, don’t you, Father?’ William’s face was purple, his finger jabbing dangerously. ‘You think, anything you want, oh yes, wade in and take it. Let everyone else pick up the pieces.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gavin took up the chorus. ‘War hero. Long lost poet. You’re so bloody marvellous, you think you’re God.’

  Fiona was tugging at their sleeves. ‘Stop it, the pair of you.’

  They took no notice. The old man shook his head and retreated towards a chair. William and Gavin closed on him, shouting. These younger brothers were bullies, Henry decided, like Peter but lacking his finesse. The buggers were still bellyaching. God, this place got more and more like school.

  Elena had arrived, followed by an excited Hannah and the weirdo chef. Wonderful – a spiked skinhead was all this playground needed. Hannah was barking. The bullies were shouting. Henry could barely string two thoughts together. But the chef seemed uninterested in the fight. Instead he was staring at Elena. He looked alarmed, almost afraid of her. And yes, one glance showed why. Elena’s demeanour was unnerving, fierce as a headmistress about to read the riot act. Henry felt a rush of desire.

  ‘Listen.’ Her voice rang out above the uproar like the school bell. ‘Listen to me.’

  Elena. Of course, Elena. Elena had something original to say.

  Henry had had quite enough of all this noise. He stepped forward and filled his lungs. ‘BELT UP THE LOT OF YOU. LET ELENA SPEAK.’

  They turned to stare at him like silly sheep.

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Elena.’ He pointed to where she stood. ‘Elena, they’re all yours.’

  Elena

  The brother with spikes had been skipping across the hall when she reached the bottom step, drawn by the sounds of battle. But when he turned to look at her, his smile vanished. He held out a hand as though to stop her falling. ‘Dear me, what’s up? Don’t say you’re ill again?’ James. He had forgotten her name. He did not care if she was ill or well. She refused his hand. She held tightly to the postcard. ‘I am not ill, James. I have things to say, worse than you know. I wait all my life to say them. Follow, you will hear.’

  She crossed the hall. Hannah trotted after her, and James also. It was time. They must listen. She had important words to speak. Anyone who looked at her must see this. The passage was dark and narrow like the village well, but at the end of it were light and noise. She had no fear, or shame, or pain. Her rage was clean, and speaking would make her free.

  The door stood open. The room was furious with Urquharts, shouting and snarling. Henry was there. Henry saw her power and raised his arm in welcome.

  ‘Listen!’ she said.

  Some heard and turned. The two angry brothers continued to shout.

  She extended a hand, then withdrew it. She did not like to touch Urquharts. ‘Listen to me.’

  William spun round, scarlet-faced.

  ‘It is my turn,’ she told him. ‘My turn to tell the truth.’

  ‘Well, excuse me,’ he began.

  ‘BELT UP THE LOT OF YOU! LET ELENA SPEAK!’ Suddenly the room was silent. Henry had silenced them. ‘Not me. Elena.’ Their eyes followed his finger. ‘Elena, they’re all yours.’

  They stared at her. Spiked James and angry William. Gigantic Owen and wife Janet. Red-haired, scowling Gavin and girlfriend Kim. False Fiona. Peter, the mirror. And here, at the centre of the room, el malo.

  She did not plan her words. They sprang like fire in dry wood. ‘You are a traitor, Angus Urquhart. A murderer. You leave the men of my village in Spain to die. The old men, the young men, the boy-children. Eighty-nine dead, and one more is ninety. France is nothing. France does not make this right.’

  He stared, mouth open, blue eyes terrified. She went a step closer. ‘Look. Read this.’ She thrust the postcard in his face. She spoke the words on it, mockingly. ‘Trust me, Carlos. Urquhart.’

  ‘Who are ye?’ he whispered.

  ‘I am Elena Martínez.’ The words lifted her like wings. ‘I am Carlos’s granddaughter.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Henry

  My God, she was something.

  William had begun to snarl. ‘What the heck are you on about?’

  Then Gavin, ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  Henry stepped forward, ready to call silence again. But Elena didn’t need his help. Her voice was calm, almost hypnotic. Henry was mesmerised. He adored her.

  ‘Carlos, Angus. Tell me you remember Carlos? Su buen amigo Carlos Martínez y sus niñas, Juanita y Marisa?’

  ‘Si,’ the old man gasped. ‘Me acordo.’

  ‘Juanita was my mother.’ She went closer. Urquhart shrank in his chair. ‘Juanita is seven years old, Angus. Marisa is five. Juanita holds Marisa’s hand. She hides with Marisa en la puerta de la casa. She watches as her uncles, her cousins,’ Elena’s eyes closed, then opened again, ‘as Franco’s bullets rip their flesh.’

  She seemed so defenceless, delivering her story to this circle of strangers, her throat rasping with tears. Henry wanted to go to her, to put his arms around her.

  ‘Miguel is Juanita’s friend, Angus. He is seven years old. He is running to Juanita. But no, he is flying to her, like an angel with no face. His face is falling on the stones like rain. And now he is at her feet. Miguel’s hand touch my mother’s foot. It is Miguel’s hand, exactly as before. There is earth under the fingernails. But his face is gone, his head is gone. Miguel is nowhere, like the flame of a snuffed candle.’

  These were Juanita’s words, Henry realised, not Elena’s; the words of the seven-year-old who had witnessed this horror. The old man was moaning and twisting, trying to escape. But however he squirmed, the tattered postcard followed him, and Elena’s voice. ‘The blood make puddles on the stones of the square. The sky is blue, Angus, blue. Will you wink and smile at this? Red blood, white stones, blue sky?’

  The old man shook his head.

  ‘The smells, the sounds, can you imagine them? No? Then I tell you. There is the stink of smoke, and fear, and blood. Women are screaming, men are groaning. The guns are loud, so loud t
hey hurt your ears. Los estampidos – the explosions – they come, again and again – they are silencing the groans and turning the screams to howls. And then the explosions end, and there is only silence. This silence is as wide as the horizon, as high as the blue sky. There is no sound at all. Even the women make no more noise, listening to the silence of their men.’

  Glancing around, Henry saw motionless faces. Elena – no, Juanita – had transported them.

  ‘The explosions are from Franco’s guns, Angus, only Franco’s guns. My village has no guns, not one. There are no men, no boys. Only puddles of blood under the cold blue sky.’

  Urquhart’s face was pouring sweat. Henry could smell his fear, a shadow of the imagined stench of massacre. Elena with her terrible postcard reared at him, like a cobra dripping venom.

  Urquhart opened his eyes and blinked at her. ‘Franco shot Carlos? Is that what ye’re telling me?’

  ‘No, Angus.’ She uncoiled herself. Pressed closer. ‘Carlos is not here, Angus. He is away in the mountains. He is searching for you, his good friend who brings guns.’

  The old man covered his eyes again. Henry felt for him.

  ‘He does not find you, Angus. He find children dumb with terror. Women who wail and curse and batter him with bloody fists. Eighty-nine corpses. He dip his hands in their spilled blood. He pour it on his head.’ She lifted cupped palms over Urquhart’s white fan of hair. ‘There is a well, Angus. In this my village there is a well. Shall we laugh at this well? No? You not wish to laugh? It is there still. Three months ago I lean and look into it. It is deep and dark. The water is too far to see. Even the echoes die. Carlos, my grandfather, he leave his shoes at the door of the house. He is walking barefoot through the blood, towards the well. His feet make prints, the heels, the toes. Juanita, my mother, she is running after him. She is afraid, she want her father’s arms. But he forget his children. He is standing at the well. He is securing the rope and fastening it round his neck. He is folding his arms, tight across his chest. He is stepping onto the wall. Into the well.’ Elena stood so close, her lips almost touched Urquhart’s fingers. ‘This is how it is done,’ she hissed, ‘the murder of a friend.’

  William moved; Henry was too late to stop him. He had taken rough hold of Elena and was dragging her away from Urquhart. The postcard fell to the floor. ‘Watch yourself, lady,’ he said. ‘That’s not murder.’

  ‘Let her go!’ Henry balled his fists.

  ‘Aye, William. Do as he says. Let go.’ Urquhart had lowered his hands from his face. He leant to retrieve the postcard from the carpet. He read it, turned it, read it again. Then he made a strange sound – half cough, half sob – and stared wildly around, as though seeing the bodies of the dead. ‘A traitor, aye,’ he said at last. ‘A murderer, aye, I am. These things and more. Tis every word of it the truth.’

  Henry shivered as the old man stretched to touch Elena’s cheek. ‘I see it now. Thou art so very like.’

  Elena

  Now would come his supplications. Yes, here they began, creeping like rats from his evil mouth. His eyes pleaded, his bony fingers reached for her. She threw off William’s hands and backed away, lifting her own hands, sticky with Miguel’s blood, where el malo could not touch them.

  But the old man was following her, pushing past those who tried to prevent him. His tears had dried, his eyes burned bright, she could not look away.

  ‘It was revenge, Elena,’ he was saying. ‘It was revenge I was taking. But it was nae use. Believe me, revenge is nae use at all.’

  She would not listen. She would not hear. Revenge would make her free.

  ‘Not bringing guns in someone else’s war?’ William shouted stupid excuses. ‘That’s not murder. How is it murder?’ She swung to face him, mouth wide with fury.

  But Angus Urquhart was answering for her. ‘I took money, William. I promised guns. I smiled and wrote this lying postcard. Look at it. Trust me, Carlos. Urquhart. Picture of Nessie. A grand wee joke, dost thou think?’ He cackled like a soul in hell. He followed each step she retreated. ‘“Adios, mi amigo,” I said to Carlos. “To God, my friend.” While in ma heart I wished him to the devil. I had guns to bring, but I didnae bring them. I ne’er intended to bring them, not to this village. I wanted ma revenge.’

  Almost his look was proud, as though she would applaud him. She stared in horror. He saw her horror. ‘But Miguel, Elena,’ his eyes implored her, ‘it was a terrible war, but I didnae ken that they would kill the bairns.’

  ‘But why? Why do it, Calum?’ Peter it was who asked. Peter, her mirror. ‘Revenge on whom? For what?’

  The old man did not look at Peter; instead he pressed closer still to her. Her back was against the panelled wall. His eyes searched hers, his bloodless lips in the white beard moved to speak again.

  ‘No!’ She shook her head. She almost screamed.

  El malo took her hands. ‘Murder for murder.’ His words cut into her head. ‘Thou art so like, ma heart breaks even now.’

  She stared at him. He did not mean her mother.

  ‘Teresa. They killed ma love. Teresa.’

  Peter

  The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:

  At one stride comes the dark.

  Calum, his father, skinny hand and glittering eye, holding Señorita like the Ancient Mariner. ‘They murdered her for loving me.’

  Of course! Spain! True meaning of the poem! He’d known the truth, held it then lost it, side-tracked by vision of Ma and Calum eagerly begetting him. But no, it would not do. Far far colder, that is how it was. Clapham not cold enough by far. Ma’s heat not hot enough and several bra-sizes too small.

  ‘Teresa.’ Calum whispering the name. Teresa. His Eve, his Aphrodite. Some shadow of her found and lost in Ma. And found now, found again in glorious, angry Señorita. The old man’s fingers hovered over cheeks, lips, shoulders. Elena was a risen ghost. Peter had tasted where his father had feasted.

  ‘Teresa.’ The name was poetry, offered up as prayer. ‘I loved Teresa. She loved me. Thy grandfather, thy uncles – they knew, but they didnae say they knew. They killed her, but they didnae tell me they had killed her. She fell from the mountain path. They wept, and I believed them. I wept too and watched them bury her.’ Calum clutching Señorita’s sleeve, spilling grief. ‘But then, her mother, Teresa’s own poor mother, confessed the truth to me. Whispered how Carlos wasnae ma friend. Told me how Carlos, his brothers, his neighbours, all the men together, carried her sweet Teresa up the mountain and threw her down, screaming out ma name. And they would kill me too, her mother said, the minute they had ma guns.’

  Señorita shrieking, ‘No!’ Ducking through Calum’s arms, landing in Henry’s, who dived like portly Superman for Lois Lane.

  Room full of dumb Muppets. Was no one keeping up here? Would no one state the obvious? ‘But Calum, you still haven’t told them why. Why did Carlos kill Teresa?’

  His father turning, blue eyes vacant, fixed on sobbing Señorita rocked in Clark Kent’s arms. Opening his poet’s mouth again. ‘For the worst of all reasons in the world. Because she was his wife.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Elena

  ‘It’s all right. It will be all right.’

  Henry’s arms were tightening round her. He pulled her to a sofa. She went with him. There was nowhere else to go.

  Nothing had changed. She had told the truth, yet still she had no peace.

  ‘Do ye understand me, Elena?’ Urquhart had followed her. His hand pawed her arm; she could not lift her eyes to see his face. She saw instead his knees, bent sharp and white on the blood-red carpet below the pleats of his kilt. Urquhart kneeling at her feet. Her grandmother’s lover. ‘Tell me ye understand.’

  A selfish old man demanding her forgiveness. A man who robbed a husband of his wife, two children of their mother, murdered a whole village, expecting her forgiveness! A great cry burst from her.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Henry. He was pulling her closer and pushing the old
man away. She could smell the sweat in the soft fabric of his shirt.

  ‘Nae, Elena,’ Urquhart pleaded.

  You think you can do anything. You think you are God. These insults she had heard from the mouths of his angry sons. Sons who had known their father all their lives and did not forgive him.

  ‘Tell me ye understand why I brought nae guns.’

  It was shame that kept her eyes downcast. Understanding this, she was suddenly free of shame. Into her mouth sprang the word that would defeat her enemy. She broke from Henry’s arms to scream in the old man’s face. ‘It is romance. Your heroic deeds, your poetry, the tragic story of your life. It is nothing but romance!’

  She saw his eyes widen with self-knowledge. He had no answer for her. She watched him blink and begin to crumble.

  The Urquharts were muttering and protesting, but –

  ‘Bravo, Elena,’ Henry said fiercely. ‘To hell with romance. You tell it how it is.’

  She took a breath. Hannah came nosing into her lap, but otherwise the room was motionless, waiting for her words.

  At her feet an old man was weeping. In her lap lay the uncomprehending head of a dog. At her side was Henry Jennings. She was in the Scottish Highlands, far from . . .

  Far from where? From home? All her life she had been far from home.

  Tell it how it is? It was difficult, but yes, there was more to tell. Her own story. Her own pain.

  ‘My mother and my aunt,’ she said quietly. ‘Seven and five years old, they see these terrible things. And then they are alone. The women hate them. The priests, returning, hate them. The hatred is for you, Angus. And yes,’ at last she understood, ‘for Teresa and Carlos also. But you are gone. Teresa and Carlos are dead. Teresa’s mother also soon is dead. There is no one left to hate through the years of hunger and the longer years of throwing blame. No one but two little girls. And then me. Another little girl.’

  She understood completely. She spoke with passion to these staring Urquharts. She needed them to understand with her. ‘For that is our sin, also, to be girls. If we are boys, we are dead, like the sons and brothers of these women. But we are alive. This is our shame, which we cannot escape or confess. Which we cannot be forgiven. But it is not our shame. It is not my shame, Angus. It belong to Carlos and Teresa. It belong to you.’