by Diana Rosie
For John, who brings me sunshine.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Reaching through the dense leaves, Alberto grasped the lemon and twisted it off its stalk. The hefty fruit was as large as his hand, and he inspected its waxy pores before lifting it to his nose and sniffing. Nodding, he placed it in the rope bag alongside the muscat grapes. He knew the boy loved to peel the tough grape skins and suck on the sweet pulp inside.
Before he left for the day, he looked down across the stone terraces of his land. Below the lemon trees ran lines of aged almond trees, their branches heavy with nuts. Further down, rows of gnarled grape vines stood stoutly in the dusty ground.
At the bottom, softly shaded by pine trees, lay Alberto’s garden, where herbs and flowers flourished. This small patch took more work than all the rest, and carrying the water from the stone irrigation channel tired him. But whenever he picked a large bunch of scented flowers to leave at his wife’s grave, he knew his garden would be the last thing he would give up.
When his wife was alive, the two of them would walk to their land together. Over the three kilometres he would listen to her good-humoured chatter about the children and the foreigners whose villas she cleaned. These days, however, Alberto’s joints ached at the change of the seasons, and often his own weariness surprised him. He had been reluctantly grateful when one of his daughters and her husband had presented him with a second-hand moped a few years ago. ‘Apu’s put-put’ the boy called it, and Alberto used it regularly to come to the land, and on the odd occasion when he had to go to town.
Now, the old man carefully strapped the bag onto the back of the moped, kicked away the stand with the heel of his espadrille and climbed on. Pedalling briefly to start the rat-a-tat engine, he steered slowly out onto the main road.
Put-putting home in the late sun, Alberto planned how his grandson could help him pick lemons and harvest the almonds. Together, they would visit the local cafes and restaurants on the beachfront to sell their wares. He told his daughter the boy was an extra pair of hands to help him during the school holidays, but they both knew it was more than that.
When he got back to the village, he parked the bike down the alley beside his apartment, locking it behind an iron grille. Carrying the rope bag, he climbed the tiled stairs to his front door but was surprised to find it open. He wasn’t expecting the boy until the weekend.
Inside the cool, shadowy room, his rheumy eyes took a moment to adjust. His daughter was sitting at the table, tugging at a white handkerchief in her hand. Her son stood at her side, stock-still, staring intently with large brown eyes at his grandfather.
Alberto smiled reassuringly at the boy, who seemed to relax a tiny amount.
The old man’s voice was gravelly, but his words were soft. ‘Rosa? What’s wrong?’
His daughter glanced at him briefly. ‘There’s been an accident.’
Alberto sat opposite her, the raffia seat creaking under his weight. ‘Juan Carlos?’
At the mention of her husband’s name, his daughter nodded and began to cry, raising the handkerchief to her face to hide her tears. The child looked at his mother anxiously. Alberto wished his wife were here. She had always known the words to use to ease an emotional situation, how to express sympathy with just the touch of her hand. These small gestures of love and support were a mystery to Alberto, so he waited for his daughter to compose herself.
She wiped her eyes and nose with the handkerchief. ‘He’s been hurt in an explosion,’ she explained. ‘A boiler at Señor Medina’s house. No one knows what happened. Juan Carlos is always so good with the old plumbing.’
Alberto nodded, waiting for his daughter to continue. The boy stood so still and silent the old man had almost forgotten he was there.
Rosa took a deep breath and said, ‘He’s in the hospital. He has very bad burns. He’s stable at the moment, but it’s serious. They will know more in the morning.’
‘Juan Carlos is a strong man,’ said Alberto as kindly as his gruff voice would allow.
His daughter looked at him and sighed. ‘You’re right, Papá. But I have to be with him tonight. Juan Carlos’s mother is at the hospital now and I need to return – but it’s no place for a child.’
Alberto looked at his grandson and smiled at him. The boy stared back. ‘Of course he can stay here.’
‘I didn’t have the chance to pack a bag; you could go round to our apartment—’
Alberto shook his head. ‘No need. He’ll be fine. Now, go to your husband.’
Rosa looked at her father and smiled weakly. ‘Thank you.’
Alberto stood and put a large, leathery hand on his grandson’s small shoulder. The boy looked up at him.
Rosa stood too and turned to hug her son. Alberto watched the child collapse into his mother’s arms, sinking his face into her dark curls. She held him for a few moments before straightening up. Blinking away the tears, she stroked the boy’s soft brown hair and smiled brightly at him. ‘Now, Tino, be a good boy for Apu. And don’t worry about your papá – Grandma and I will be with him tonight.’
She turned to her father and gingerly kissed his bristly cheek. ‘Thank you, Papá,’ she whispered.
As she left the apartment, closing the door behind her, the old man saw the boy stiffen. Quickly he picked up the rope bag, took Tino’s hand and led him into the kitchen. He pulled the fruit out of the bag and put the grapes into the sink. Instinctively, the child leant over to turn on the tap and began washing the dust off the grapes.
Alberto took out the bread he’d bought in the village that morning. He tore the end off the long loaf, then reached up into the cupboard overhead and brought out a small bar of chocolate. Breaking off a few squares, he pushed them deep into the middle of the bread. He turned on the grill of his ancient oven, opened the door and put the bread on the shelf.
The boy had finished washing the grapes, so Alberto passed him a tea towel to dry them while he boiled the kettle. When he’d finished, Tino fetched the bowl from the table in the next room and carefully placed the bunches of grapes in it.
Alberto made the boy a cup of weak tea with milk and sugar, and himself a strong cup of black coffee. The child took great care in carrying the glass bowl full of fruit to the table, then sat on a chair while his grandfather placed his tea in front of him. Alberto felt two large brown eyes follow him as he returned to the oven and lifted out the bread.
Insensitive to the heat, he wrapped the toasted loaf in a paper serviette, brought it to the child and sat down opposite him. Tino held it, looking at it as if trying to decide if he was hungry. But as the thin smell of warm, melted chocolate rose from the toasted bread, he began nibbling its crunchy edge.
Alberto sipped his coffee, watching his grandson blowing at and biting past the crust into the chocolate-coated dough. Alberto remembered eating this once as a child and being comforted by the simple treat.
As the boy munched on, Alberto got up and crossed the tiny apartment to the bathroom, which lay off a corridor. He turned the bath taps on full, and while rusty brown water gushed into the bath, he opened the bathroom cabinet. It was almost bare, housing only his razor and shaving foam; toothbrush and
paste; a plastic bottle of aspirin that his daughter insisted he take, though he rarely did; and some bubble bath he kept for the boy’s visits.
The water had begun to run clear, so he put in the plug and poured out some bubble bath. Then he returned to the boy, who had finished his bread and was holding his mug of tea with both hands.
Alberto placed a hand on the child’s head and gently stroked the soft hair.
Tino twisted his head to look up at his grandfather.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Alberto huskily.
‘Yes, Apu,’ he nodded, attempting a smile.
‘Good. Now finish your tea. It’s time for your bath.’
Clean and sleepy, the boy climbed into bed dressed in his grandfather’s stripy pyjama top with the sleeves rolled up. Sitting on the bed, the old man tucked the sheet in and laid a light blanket over him.
‘Apu?’ whispered the little boy.
‘Yes.’
‘Is Papá going to die?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied after a brief pause. While he knew his daughter often sugar-coated difficult news, he had always been completely honest with his own children.
The child’s large eyes peered up at him.
‘I am not a doctor. The hospital is full of doctors. They will do everything they can to make him better.’
‘But will he be all right?’ Tino persisted.
‘Your father is a good man. And he still has a great many things to do in his life. Like watching you grow up. I know he will fight as hard as he can,’ said Alberto.
The boy nodded thoughtfully.
‘Apu?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old were you when your papá died?’
The question took him aback, and for a moment he studied his grandchild, considering his answer.
‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, shaking his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Well,’ began Alberto, ‘it was the civil war—’
‘Spain was in a war? Who were they fighting?’
‘Themselves,’ said the old man.
‘How can a country fight itself?’
‘When people have different views, it can end in a fight. You must have seen that at school.’
Tino nodded.
‘Some people take the side of one person in the fight, and some people take the other person’s side.’
The boy nodded again.
‘Well, in this case, the whole country took one side or another. And the whole country fought each other.’
‘Who was on the right side?’
‘It wasn’t that simple. It was a fight between the rich and the poor. Between people who believed in God and people who didn’t. Between people who wanted to do things in the traditional way and those who wanted to be more modern.’
‘I would be on the side of the poor people who believed in God,’ the child stated.
‘Well then, you would have been on both sides,’ said the old man.
‘What?’
‘It’s true. In those days, the Church was very rich and powerful. The poor workers and farmers wanted change; they wanted their own land and better working conditions. The Church did not want change. So the two were on opposite sides in the war.’
Tino shook his head, unable to understand.
‘At the time, I think it seemed an easy decision. You were either for freedom – freedom from poverty, freedom from greedy bosses, even freedom from the Church – or you wanted things to stay the same, and for the government to be very strict about keeping it that way.’
‘And what happened? Who won?’
‘The people who wanted to keep things as they were. A man called General Franco won the war.’
‘Does he still run Spain?’
‘No,’ said Alberto. ‘Franco died many years ago and Spain has changed a great deal since then.’
‘Apu?’ said the boy.
‘Yes.’
‘Which side were you on?’
‘I was just a boy. I wasn’t on a side.’
‘But you must have wanted one side to win more than the other.’
‘Well,’ said Alberto thoughtfully, ‘I lived in an orphanage that was run by the Church, so they taught me that we must believe in God and anyone who didn’t was an evil person. But when the war was over, I worked with farmers and workers who had fought on the other side. I knew what it was to be hungry, and can understand why they fought for a better life.’
‘But, Apu, you can’t be on both sides.’
The old man sighed. ‘I do not like violence, but I suppose if I’d had to fight for one side, it would have been the Rojos.’
‘The Rojos? Which side was that?’
‘The Republican side. The ones who wanted change.’
‘Why the Rojos, Apu? Why choose that side?’
‘It’s just a feeling that it was the right side. When it comes to difficult decisions, you can listen to your head or your heart. I am not an educated man, so I listen to my heart.’
The old man smiled at the boy and kissed the top of his head.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘time for sleep.’
‘But, Apu, you didn’t tell me about your papá.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. He probably died in the war. Many people did.’
‘Probably?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember when your papá went to heaven?’ said the boy.
‘I was brought up in an orphanage, but I don’t remember anything before I arrived there. It’s as if my memory was wiped clean. I’ve tried to remember, but I can’t. Not a face, not a name. I tried to find out, but many records were destroyed during the war.’
‘How old were you when you went to live at the orphanage?’
‘About your age, maybe? I don’t know.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said the boy. He shook his head in puzzlement.
‘I know which year I arrived at the orphanage. But I don’t know what year I was born.’
Tino thought for a moment, his brow wrinkled. ‘So,’ he said hesitantly, ‘so you don’t know how old you are? Even now?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t know when your birthday is?’
‘No,’ said Alberto. ‘I don’t have a birthday.’
Chapter Two
ISABEL
Afternoon, 7 March 1937
I look at the pitiful box of vegetables and my stomach sinks. How am I going to feed nearly a hundred orphans on such a meagre amount?
‘Jorge!’ I shout through the open kitchen window.
‘Señorita?’ comes the reply as Jorge’s face appears outside.
‘Are there any more vegetables in the garden? Look at this delivery we’ve just received – I can’t feed them all on this.’
‘There’s not much, señorita, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, Jorge,’ I smile. At least I know I can trust someone to help.
Rummaging around in the pantry, I find some old potatoes. With the eggs, I can make some dumplings. Thank the good Lord for our chickens.
Before she died, my mother had taught me how to make a meal from barely nothing. As the oldest child, it was a skill that helped me feed my father and five siblings. When my sister turned fifteen, I taught her all I could about running the home so that I could leave – our father needed one less mouth to feed.
My sister and I had been in the market one day when I’d overheard two women talking.
‘Did you know they’ve turned the old house on the hill into an orphanage?’ one had said to the other.
‘Yes,’ the second had replied. ‘I heard they were bringing children from both sides.’
‘Republican children too?’
‘That’s right. They want to teach them the mistakes of their parents. And the priests will make them accept God into their lives.’
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it? At least there will be a chance of salvation for the children. Can
you imagine? Those poor things having no Communion, growing up without faith? I think it’s disgusting. What kind of parent—’
I had interrupted the women to ask if they thought the orphanage would be taking on staff, and they told me where I could go to find out.
I’d been hired by Señora Peña, a large, red-faced woman whose husband was an administrator for the Nationalists. The orphanage had already taken in children from all around the region and she needed a cook to run the kitchen.
As the war has gone on, I’ve noticed more children arrive, and the food boxes become smaller. Every mealtime is a challenge, but I do my best to see these children have as good a meal as I can serve them.
As I set to preparing the dinner, the señora waddles into the kitchen and places a large silver tray on the table.
‘The bishop has finished taking coffee with the father and is doing a tour of the classes. He wishes to visit the dining room when the children are eating their dinner, so make sure the meal is on time and plentiful.’
‘Yes, señora,’ I reply. There is little point in showing her the half-empty box of vegetables; she would only say there was more than enough for such small stomachs.
‘And tidy this mess up in case he wishes to see the kitchen.’ She waves her plump hand over the tray before bustling out of the room.
I finish making the dumplings and prepare a stew with the vegetables from the box. Jorge arrives with a handful of carrots, which I gratefully accept and add to the stew.
‘Jorge, you deserve a cup of coffee,’ I say, picking up the coffee pot.
‘There’s coffee?’ asks Jorge, surprised.
‘The bishop is here,’ I reply.
‘Ah,’ says Jorge, nodding as he sits at the long kitchen table.
While the stew and dumplings bubble and the coffee brews, I clear the best china from the tray. As I pick up the plates, a glint of colour catches my eye. There, nestling under a saucer, is a piece of paper I recognize immediately. It is a chocolate-bar wrapper.
Holding my breath, I gently pull the paper, praying it isn’t empty. It isn’t. Unnoticed, the last few squares of chocolate have been left, hidden and forgotten.
‘Look, Jorge,’ I whisper, holding up the chocolate.
