Alexandra was alone once more, looking out of the window at the hustle and bustle on the platform. She was reminded of the old woman’s conversation about chaperones when she noticed a boy and a girl, obviously novios from the way they were gazing at each other, walking together on the platform, not arm in arm as they would in England but with a modest air of submission on the part of the girl and a manly proprietorship on his. They were followed by a rotund matron, who was keeping a close eye on them.
As the train jerked into motion once more, Alexandra pondered everything the old lady had said about the de Fallas, the family she was soon to meet. Perhaps the Duquesa was not so hard as she had always imagined. Still, she was slightly apprehensive at the prospect of meeting her grandmother, the matriarch, not to mention her stepmother, Doña Eugenia, or her ‘spoilt’ younger half-sister, if the picture the old woman had painted of them were true. Was this the reason for the growing sense of disquiet that murmured indistinctly beneath her thoughts?
What had Vanessa de Falla’s life really been like among those who had made her so unhappy? ‘It wasn’t easy for her, I suppose, being English and trying to fit into a close-knit noble Spanish family,’ her father had admitted over that same breakfast at Hazlitt’s.
‘Impossible, by all accounts,’ Alexandra had noted bitterly.
‘You mustn’t believe everything your Aunt Geraldine says. She doesn’t understand the ways of our family.’
The ways of our family. Their ways had made Vanessa de Falla so wretched that she had taken her only child back to London after just three years at El Pavón.
Although her mother was English, she was ‘as fiery and passionate as any Spaniard’ her father used to say. Perhaps that was what had first attracted Vanessa to Don Alonso de Falla, making her dream of an exotic life in Andalucía — at least that was what Alexandra had always imagined. And now, she was following her mother’s footsteps into the dream of another life, not knowing where it would lead her. But one thing she did know: she was embracing a longed-for freedom, the chance to throw off the stuffy atmosphere of England, and of that she was glad.
* * *
The train shuddered to a halt with a great screeching of brakes. Alexandra opened the door. A breath of fresh air, overlaid with the faint tang of iodine, greeted her. She ventured hesitantly on to the platform and stood there motionless, holding a suitcase in one hand; with the other, she shielded her eyes against the blinding glare of the Spanish sun. There were no porters in sight, nor were there any trolleys. With difficulty, and a mounting sense of irritation, she carried the rest of her luggage from the carriage. This is ridiculous, she thought; she should have listened to Aunt Geraldine and travelled by plane from England. Maybe coming to Andalucía alone was not such a good idea after all.
The station at the small port town of Puerto de Santa María swarmed with the oddest characters. Water sellers with huge earthenware pitchers and merchants selling wine, sweetmeats and shellfish bustled about next to the train. Brown urchins pushing barrows heaped with mountains of luscious fruit called out their offerings. ‘Que vengan todas las Marías, que traigo sandias y melones dulces como el caramel! Come all you Marías, I bring watermelons and melons sweet as caramel!’ Crippled beggars squatted in corners, palms outstretched. There were peddlers hawking their cheap wares of soap, matches, lace and miniature bottles of cologne, plus gypsy knife-sellers with trays of hand-crafted navajas, shouting ‘Afilo cuchillos y Tijeras! Vamos! Barato! I sharpen knives and scissors! Come! It’s cheap!’, plus lottery ticket touts and a host of others.
Presumably, Alexandra thought, in this part of the world, the arrival of the train was the only event of the day to break the monotony of provincial life; and the railway station would be, she supposed, the obvious meeting place for everyone. Her gaze searched the crowd for a familiar face. Travellers hurried along. Newcomers and locals jostled each other as they came and went. A few spectators, leaning idly against the wall or seated on small benches in the sun, looked on as others passed by. She was surrounded by a babble of shouts, exclamations and laughter, but no one seemed to be waiting for her on the platform.
As she stood there, with the sun on her face, taking in the sights and smells that seemed strange, yet curiously familiar, Alexandra felt she had stepped out from the shadows of her old life into the dazzling light of a new world. The momentary annoyance at being left alone with her luggage suddenly vanished. England was never further away than at this moment — a dull moth to the colourful butterfly of Spain — and she ached to unfurl her own wings and discover it all. This was the stuff of novels, and yet here she was. The thought made her stomach tense with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
It was then that a gypsy woman, dressed in bright colours and bearing fans and red roses, accosted her. ‘Hermosa joven, beautiful young lady, buy one of my roses, fresh-picked this morning. It will bring you luck.’
Alexandra met the falcon-dark orbs that were watching her slyly. The gypsy was of an uncertain age with a nest of coal-black hair hanging untidily at her shoulders, her features regular but coarse in a sun-scorched and wind-beaten oval face. Alexandra shook her head and tried to smile politely. ‘Thank you, not today.’
The gitana grabbed her arm, clasping it tightly in long bony fingers. ‘Give me your palm. I can read the heavens and I will tell you the secrets the stars hold for you in the future.’
But that was the last thing Alexandra needed or wanted, remembering the woman on the train and her warning. She knew there was only one way she would rid herself of the old witch. ‘Here …’ She took a few pesetas from her pocket, ‘I’ll buy one of your beautiful roses.’
At this, the penetrating jet-black eyes lit up greedily. The gypsy took the money and handed Alexandra the crimson flower. ‘Que Dios los bendiga, God bless you, kind and generous lady. Que los ángeles te miran, may the angels look upon you,’ she squawked before turning to cast her designs on her next victim. ‘Bella dama … Apuesto caballero …’
Somewhere a bell rang. Doors slammed. The train began to move, its ancient frame creaking. Motionless, Alexandra watched it pull out of the station. As it disappeared she could hear its piercing whistle in the distance, one moment raucous, the next strident, and then there was nothing: a kind of stillness she would have found oppressive had the sun not been shining.
She glanced quickly around her in the hope of finding a porter. Most probably she would be met outside the station. Like actors after the curtain has fallen, travellers and tradespeople had vanished to leave a deserted stage. The platform was empty, the waiting room dark and damp-looking. Alexandra moved briskly towards the exit in search of help.
‘Buenas tardes, señorita,’ beamed the man behind the ticket office window. ‘What can I do for you today?’
‘Buenas tardes,’ she said, smiling back at him, continuing in impeccable Spanish, ‘can you tell me where I can find a porter. I’ve left quite a bit of luggage on the platform.’
‘I’ll come and help you. Manuel, our porter, is usually here but his mother-in-law died and he had to go to the funeral.’
‘Oh dear, poor man.’ She paused, not wishing to seem unsympathetic. ‘Can you please tell me where to go for the bus to Jerez? My guidebook says it leaves from this station.’
‘You’ve just missed it, I’m afraid. The two o’clock bus left ten minutes ago. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.’
‘But there’s supposed to be three a day, and I have to be in Jerez by this evening,’ Alexandra exclaimed. ‘Is there no other way to get there before dark?’
The man eyed her quizzically. ‘You’re not from these parts, that’s for sure,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘You could always try this evening. There’s usually a bus that leaves after seven but there have been works on those roads. Access is sometimes difficult, especially after dark, as most of the main roads have no lights. It can be dangerous, so on some days the evening bus is cancelled. Of course, there’s no way of knowing in
advance …’ He caught sight of Alexandra’s impatient look. ‘Muy inconveniente, estoy de acuerdo, very inconvenient, I agree.’ He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Alexandra was puzzled. Her father had assured her that she would be met at the station, but it looked like she was stranded here for the moment.
‘Do you have a telephone I can use?’
The stationmaster shook his head again. ‘Lo siento! I’m sorry! The lines are down in Puerto de Santa María due to the storm we had two days ago. You’d do better to visit our town,’ he went on in his slurred Andalucían brogue. ‘Puerto de Santa María is the most beautiful port in Andalucía,’ he proudly announced. Then, as Alexandra hesitated, he surveyed her Titian waves of shoulder-length hair, her long legs and lithe slenderness shown off by her elegant suit. With a mixture of curiosity and logic so typically Spanish, he added: ‘Anyway, what’s a nice young lady like you doing on the roads alone, and what do you want in Jerez when you’re already in our excellent town? If you ask me, there’s nothing worth seeing there except its bodegas.’ He grinned enthusiastically. ‘Though if you want to sample a little of our Andalucían wine, señorita, it’s a fine place to start.’
But Alexandra wasn’t listening. Maybe she should hire a car and drive to Jerez, asking the way to her family’s hacienda, El Pavón, when she got there, or she could take a taxi. Still, she did not relish travelling any further on her own; after all, she had no idea what the roads were like. For the time being, the only reasonable course of action was to wait patiently; someone was bound to turn up.
‘Is there a parador close by where I could spend the night?’ she asked.
‘There is one just down the road. Why don’t you take a look around and I’ll look after your baggage?’
Alexandra was tempted. It was a glorious afternoon. If, by next morning, nobody had come for her, she could take the early bus to Jerez. It was rather annoying that the telephone lines were down. Still, in the meantime, she was determined not to let the present circumstances spoil such a lovely day.
‘Muchas Gracias,’ she said when he had helped her with the cases. ‘Voy a seguir tu consejo y visitar el Puerto, I think I’ll follow your advice and visit the port.’
She set out, pensively turning into one of the winding narrow streets that led down to the harbour.
Like most young women growing up during the war, Alexandra had not travelled much outside England. Although she had been slightly perturbed that things had not gone according to plan at the station, now a sense of excitement suddenly took hold of her. She began to thrill to the unpredictability of her new adventure and had the strange sense of being a fictional character in a novel, one of those heroines she knew so well.
Again, thoughts of the past infiltrated her mind as she picked her way through the cobbled streets lined with tall, whitewashed houses with their protruding casement windows. Bright purple bougainvillea cascaded down walls and honey-scented jasmine spilled out of windowboxes, their aroma mingling with the distinctive salty tang of the sea, invading Alexandra’s senses. They took her back to a half-forgotten childhood full of sun, earthy smells and music; memories imprinted on her mind and body like a persistent dream.
She found herself following the bank of the peaceful Guadalete. Gangs of naked brown children ran about, laughing and splashing in the shallow, murky waters of the slow-moving, wide river. On the flat swampy bank, flocks of pink flamingos rested languidly in the sun. She walked a long time through the old quarter — the barrio of fishermen and gypsies — lined with wine and tobacco shops, some with whitewashed walls, others painted in bright colours. The sun was scorching and, although hungry, she was reluctant to buy food or refreshments from any of the streetsellers.
Soon she came to the harbour. It teemed with a picturesque populace, so very foreign to her but so very intriguing. Men in wide-brimmed hats strolled with women in brightly coloured dresses and mantillas, while old men played draughts at quayside café tables. The clamour of fishermen and fishmongers was everywhere. Sea air mingled with the acrid smell of tar and the reek of fishing nets.
In front of her, the ocean disappeared into infinity. Lines of huts, their mouldy wood gracefully draped with white nets drying in the sun, stretched as far as the eye could see on the shore’s expanse of golden sand. In the far-off backdrop of hills loomed the sombre green shadow of pinewoods and, on the opposite side of the harbour, Cádiz, the bright pearl of the Costa de la Luz, lay shining under a scorching sun.
To the north, she could see the vast terrace of a public beach, framed by palm trees, and the parasols and tables of cafés. Out in the turbulent bay, multi-coloured fishing boats and pleasurecraft, sailing boats, small tugs and an enormous liner swayed and bobbed on the phosphorescent waves of the Atlantic Ocean like tipsy dancers in a carnival.
Alexandra joined the bustle on the jetty where the trawlers were moored. She made her way through the unsavoury, eager crowd gathered there to watch the unloading of the big fishing boats. Never before had she seen so many fish. They were of all sorts and all sizes; some grey and silvery, others blue and pink; big fish with thick scales, others thinner and daintier, wriggling and jumping about like quicksilver; crabs, prawns, lobsters, shrimps … all spread out in a slippery, crawling mass of pincers, shells and scales.
Men in shirtsleeves, out of breath and sweating, were piling this abundance into big, flat baskets; then, bent double under their heavy burdens, they loaded them into carts for delivery to the various markets. Fishermen close to the shore were bringing in their nets. Alexandra watched them carry out this endless task, seemingly ill-rewarded, for their catch appeared meagre. It was hard to say how long she spent daydreaming, admiring the strange landscape of light and colour, but she was brought back to earth by the chimes of the town clock. Six o’clock already, it was time to return.
She crossed the road, then turned to get a last glimpse of the flaming sunset. The sea was turning gold, the sky streaked with rose and orange and angry red; a canvas where the supreme artist used colours unknown to any earthly palette. Wanting to imprint this painting on her soul to use it as the opening of the first chapter to her new book, Alexandra stood there breathless and, lifting her face to the sky, she stepped back, inadvertently bumping into someone. Jerked out of her contemplation, she turned apologetically.
‘Lo siento…’ she breathed as she looked straight into the striking grey-blue eyes of a man, a man very different to those she had glimpsed since she had arrived in Spain.
Tall, slim and well built, he was gazing at her intently, the greyness of his wintry eyes emphasized by a tanned complexion.
Alexandra felt the rush of heat burn her cheeks and gave him an embarrassed smile. ‘I was admiring your dazzling sunset, I’ve never seen such amazing colours.’
‘One can just as much be dazzled by a lovely sunset as by the unexpected encounter of a stunningly beautiful woman,’ the stranger murmured almost imperceptibly.
Alexandra knew that these words, spoken by a Spaniard, were just an ordinary compliment that one should not take seriously, a compulsory courtesy that was part of the Latin charm. Besides, as he pronounced them, the stranger’s face had kept its inscrutability and she had seen nothing she could easily interpret in his pale eyes. So why did she feel a secret stirring inside her?
She had no time to answer him. The dark hidalgo had taken Alexandra’s hand and, bringing it to his lips, brushed it with the whisper of a kiss.
‘Adios, señorita,’ she heard him say softly. Turning, he disappeared into the crowd still milling about on the pavement, leaving the young woman in a daze.
Alexandra began to walk and then almost immediately stopped to ask the way. Going back through the same crowded streets did not seem a pleasant option and she was relieved to learn there was a shortcut to the station.
Turning into the Calle de la Iglesia, she was immediately struck by the contrast between the quarter she had just walked through and this one. Here, the street was immers
ed in the shade of giant flame trees and life suddenly slowed to a more leisurely pace. She passed white houses tucked away between clumps of pomegranate trees; orchards hemmed in by dry stone walls; hedges of aloe; secret, leafy patios, the domain of women and their families, where the warbling of birds and the smothered laughter of young girls mingled with the soft murmur of fountains.
She had almost reached the end of the street when bells began ringing the Angelus, calling worshippers to Evensong. To her right was a small chapel. It seemed so welcoming, the garden planted out with roses and mimosas, front doors open, inviting passersby to enter.
On impulse, she went in. Inside, it was dark, quiet and cool. The organ was playing softly and the scent of orange blossom and roses filled the place. Alexandra was overcome by a feeling of great serenity and slowly moved towards the altar.
Her eyes took a few minutes to grow accustomed to the relative gloom. On each side of the main aisle, ten or so rows of oak benches stood in perfect orderly fashion. There were flowers everywhere: in garlands, in dainty crystal vases on the altar, in bunches of various sizes, placed as offerings at the feet of the statues of saints that filled the church. Several candles burned in thanks for prayers that had been answered; all were witness to the faith and gratitude of the devout worshipers who had carefully placed them there.
At first, Alexandra thought she was alone but she soon noticed a man, a few paces away, kneeling on a prayer stool at the foot of Saint Mary of Mercy’s statue. His broad shoulders were hunched beneath a shock of jet-black hair, his face hidden in slender, suntanned hands. It was dark, so why she should think that this was the stranger she had already encountered on the seafront and why her heart was beating so hard against her ribs, she couldn’t say, but she had no doubt at all that it was the same man.
Footsteps and whispering made her turn around. A man began to speak in a nasal singsong voice that echoed strangely from the walls of the little church, disturbing the peace and tranquillity: ‘This is the Church of Santa María. As in most of our Spanish towns, Our Lady of Mercy is its all-powerful and well-loved patron saint, a friend who protects all, be they lords or paupers.’ It was a tour guide who had appeared in the doorway, ushering his party of tourists into the church.
Indiscretion Page 3
