Benefit of the Doubt

by Les Cowan

  “Here. Foot against the edge. That’s fine. Now push. Ok. Up now. Hold my arm. That’s good. Take it easy. Now sit on the edge.” It took a couple of minutes but felt like an hour, the vapour of spilling petrol growing stronger by the second. David jumped down, then helped the older man slide down the coachwork onto the ground.

  David walked him over to a rock some way away and sat him down, and then, aware of a now almost overpowering smell of fuel, ran back to his own car. It was probably not the smartest thing to do but before he knew it he had turned the ignition, slipped it into “drive” and pulled forwards to the sound of tearing, shearing metal. He left the car 50 metres away then jogged back to the old man. Just then night became day with a whoosh as the Fiat transformed into a bonfire, bits of debris pinging into the trees. David instinctively hit the ground while the old man was blown off his perch. Fiat Lux. Let there be light.

  It all turned out to be mainly cuts and bruises, a twisted ankle and shock. The old man wouldn’t stop saying sorry which David found almost as annoying as the damage to his car. He wet a handkerchief from his windscreen wash and dabbed the old man’s forehead and cheeks in the light of the Fiat’s blazing remains, pulled at his tie, and loosened his shoes. By then a couple of other cars had stopped. A retired football physio gave the old man a quick check over and pronounced no broken bones. Still, you need to get to Urgencias, he suggested.

  “Just where we’re going,” David agreed. “Ok,” he continued, crouching down in front of his new responsibility, “having saved your life, maybe I should know your name.”

  “I’m so sorry, I…”

  “And stop saying that. I’m David Hidalgo. You are…?”

  “Francisco. Francisco Garcia Morales. At your service, Señor.”

  “And at yours – as we’ve already seen. Francisco or Paco?”

  “Well, Paco to my friends. Paco.”

  “Ok then, I guess it’s Urgencias. Where do you live?”

  “Congosto. Madrid. Villa de Vallecas. I was on my way home.”

  “Ok. I know it. I have a place in Sta. Eugenia.”

  “Ah. Very nice.”

  An hour later, after a phone call to police, they were in the waiting room in Calle Sierra Gador watched over by a sleepy receptionist in a dirty white coat.

  “Yes?”

  They were pointed to another row of seats. As they sat Paco squinted round.

  “David Hidalgo,” he said quietly.

  “Correct.”

  “David Hidalgo Rodriguez – Rodriguez for your grandfather, because your mother isn’t Spanish. Father: Ricardo Hidalgo Espina. Mother: Helen. I’m sorry, I forget her Scottish family name. Yes. It’s you. You have your father’s eyebrows, you know.”

  Chapter 3

  Buccleuch

  The heavy door of the common close slammed hard as David stepped out onto Bruntsfield Place, the sky thick and dark almost to the point of deep purple. Snow was on its way. Shoppers bustled along, muffled against the wind, not wasting time. The bus queue stamped, shivered, and moaned about the cold, the late buses, the chance of a heavy fall. Everyone seemed to have ice in their bones. For some inexplicable reason however David felt a lightening in his spirits, even a sense of elation. The heating was more or less on upstairs. Everything had finally arrived from Madrid and he’d unpacked most of it – at least the important stuff – pots and pans, books and music. Now he could listen to the lyrical Chet Baker over breakfast in a warm kitchen, as he’d been doing for almost thirty years. And there were compensations: the Edinburgh skyline, the maroon liveried buses, even the penetrating east coast wind – they all took him back to his youth, before what everyone around him referred to euphemistically (but never in his hearing) as “recent events”. They call the seventies the decade that fashion forgot but it wasn’t all bad. Back then things seemed more reliable somehow, whether it was leaving your bike out or having a family around you. Or maybe that was just his experience and his memory. Nowadays it felt like he’d been mugged and every item of value taken. He was like the bewildered American tourists deftly relieved of their wallets in the Puerta del Sol, blinking, groping and looking round in disbelief.

  Anyway here, back home in Edinburgh, there was still some memory of who he used to be resurrected out of the mists. And still a few things he could do. Looking after the spiritual welfare of a clutch of respectable Caledonian nonconformists surely wouldn’t be too taxing. Some Spanish teaching to pay the bills. That was something he’d always enjoyed – but not high school pupils cramming for exams they didn’t want to sit and would instantly forget. This was sharing something you’d discovered with others who wanted to discover it too. He turned up his collar, tucked in his scarf, pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves, screwed his battered fedora down a bit tighter, and headed off down the hill.

  Today was Friday. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from five to six-thirty was Spanish conversation. He might have eighteen-year-olds struggling with first-year degree exams, or ladies from Colinton Mains planning a holiday in the sun. He didn’t mind. He still loved the language, the culture, the music, the food, the climate, the people. It was like popping open your favourite bottle of wine and sharing it round. Today would be a new group, though, which added some interest. Diligent students or lazy ones? Engaging people or boring ones? Those he would learn as much from in other ways or those that made you feel like you were tipping the beauties of the language of Cervantes or Lope de Vega into a bucket of sludge? He’d soon find out.

  He strode past puffing and shivering shoppers. Down Bruntsfield Links by the Chinese restaurants and charity shops towards the Barclay Church with the spire about to head off into orbit. Along Melville Drive, up Middle Meadow Walk, leaving the clogged up arteries of teatime traffic behind, as the first few flakes of snow began to swirl through the branches of the cherry trees. Finally, skirting the back of where the old Royal Infirmary used to be – now studio flats, bistros, and upwardly mobile youngsters – then onto the old Edinburgh cobbles of Buccleuch Place.

  Buccleuch was a street with two faces. On the left, the modern ugliness of George Square university buildings; on the right, the fantastic towering old tenements, bought over in the fifties and now a labyrinth of tutors’ rooms and seminar spaces. Filthy and crumbling outside, but inside narrow, winding stairs spiralled up to high-ceilinged rooms with deep skirting boards and intricate plasterwork cornices. They reverberated with generations of teachers, learners, brilliant academics, dull nonentities, enraged anarchists, bored middle-class Oxbridge rejects, and ordinary kids just trying to pass their exams. The ghosts of the bright, the enthusiastic, the naive, and the impressionable mingled with those of lecherous, ageing, beery tutors and readers. All, in fact, exactly as it should be. David puffed up to the top floor flat of number 17 and knew – despite how it had all happened – this was where he was meant to be right now, and at least for this instant he was content.

  About a dozen had gathered already – hairstyles, dress codes, backgrounds, and abilities as widely mixed as he’d expected. The largest group were upper teens and twenties – the struggling students. Then a gap up to the over-fifties. Apparently only one in between. She looked thirties or maybe more and sat slightly apart in a middle row next to the wall. She was undoing the ties of a black velvet cape and taking off a matching floppy hat with flakes of snow still clinging to it. Jet black hair framed a pale elfin face. She smiled as he glanced around, and mouthed a silent “Hi”. He nodded self-consciously, cleared his throat, and took in the rest of the scene.

  “Good evening everyone. Looks like that’s all of us. Buenas tardes. Welcome to Spanish conversation. I’m David Hidalgo.” He wrote it up on an ancient chalkboard, then turned back, scanning round for hints of interest and enthusiasm. “Spanish is a fantastic and a very romantic language – es un idioma estupendo y muy romantico – I hope we can enjoy it together. Could you all just put y
our names on the list while we do some introductions?” He handed out a clipboard and nodded towards an elderly gent at the back to start the ball rolling. Most were as he’d expected, but halfway round he became dimly aware of only partly listening as contributions drew nearer to the girl with the velvet cape. Finally her turn came.

  “Hi. Buenas tardes everyone.” It was a soft Scottish voice, cultured but not highbrow. She hooked a long strand of dark hair behind one ear and looked round with an expression of openness and warmth. Despite himself he found it completely engaging. “I’m Gillian Lockhart. I teach in the Scots Language Department. I’ve got some family connections with the Basque region near San Sebastian.” David turned and wrote “Pais Vasco” on the board. “I’ve been dabbling a bit for a few years but I’d like to improve and make myself better understood.”

  David nodded. “Gracias, Señorita. To ‘improve’ in Spanish depends on what you’re improving. For most activities it’s ‘mejorar’.” He wrote it up. “Literally – to make better – but for language study we use ‘perfeccionar’. So,” he turned back to Gillian, “I would like to improve my Spanish would be…”

  “Quiero… perfeccionar… mi Español…?”

  “Absolutamente. Perfecto.”

  The next hour followed the usual first night routine gauging levels of ability, picking up points of interest, and scrawling up some vocabulary. One or two, he reckoned, should definitely be coaxed in the direction of a beginner’s group but most seemed up to it. Mrs McGregor in the fur coat wanted vocabulary for foodstuffs and cooking. Baz in the Caftan needed guidance on prepositions. Julie, halfway through first year Spanish, had a note of incipient despair in her voice when David asked how she was doing.

  “¿Y qué te resulta mas dificil?”

  She stared out of the window towards David Hume Tower where Spanish lectures took place – apparently a scene of both terror and torment.

  “Todo,” she replied miserably. “Everything…”

  “Well… bien…” He tried to sound encouraging. “I’m sure we can do something about that…” Julie didn’t look convinced. Her expression of misery only deepened. She seemed close to tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I just can’t keep up.” She paused, then seemed to gather courage till it all came out in a flood. “I can read ok and… and… more or less say what I want… but I just can’t understand a word anyone says to me. So I can’t follow the lectures, I’ve got no idea about the grammar. I… I… I don’t know what to do…” Then, to everyone’s surprise and embarrassment, young Julie completely lost it, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed. There was a stricken silence. For two or three seconds nobody moved – least of all David, who seemed struck dumb and rooted to the spot. Suddenly Gillian – now with the cape draped over the back of her chair – got up, slid out past a row of stunned Morningside matrons, glanced slightly reproachfully at David, gathered up the stricken Julie and got her out the door, all in a matter of seconds.

  “Yes… well… ok…” David stammered. “Bueno… Eh… someone was having problems with por and para? Baz?” He turned and started studiously listing various uses and meanings while everyone did their best to pretend that nothing had happened. A few minutes later, just as he was pointing out por aquí as an exceptional use meaning “around here”, Gillian came back in.

  “She had to go,” she whispered and slid back into her place. The rest of the time was taken up with an activity based on “what would you do if…?” till finally a clock chimed outside and David looked at his watch. Six thirty. Not a moment too soon.

  He wiped the chalkboard clean, as students gathered up their papers, chatting loudly in the release of tension. He sensed someone behind him and turned. Gillian had paused with the cloak slung loosely round her shoulders and the floppy hat in hand.

  “I managed to get her calmed down. Poor thing. She’s at her wit’s end. I get students like that sometimes. She really is about to pack it in. I can tell. I don’t suppose there’s anything else you could suggest? She told me if she can’t get past this term she’s going back to Cupar to work in Boots the Chemist. What a fate.” They smiled as David paused, wondering if there actually was anything that might keep Julie out of the High Street pharmacy.

  “Actually, I think I do know something that might help. I’m in touch with some Spanish people in town. My friend Juan’s wife Alicia is a really clear speaker. Maybe she’d be willing to help – just informally.” Gillian’s face lit up and seemed to David to light the whole room.

  “That would be good. The sooner the better though. She’s definitely on the ropes. She’s probably away back to Halls to worry all night.”

  “Or the Union to blank it out.”

  “Sure – more likely. So how soon could you set something up?”

  “Pronto. No hay problema. I’m going to see them now actually. Juan runs the Hacienda restaurant. I quite often eat there after classes.”

  “Hacienda? South Clerk Street?”

  “Sure. Do you know it?”

  “I love it – I’ve been with friends a few times.”

  “Well – em…” He was about to plunge ahead then stopped himself. Then started and stopped again. There was a second embarrassed pause of the evening. Then, as if it were someone else speaking, he heard himself say, “If you haven’t eaten… would you like to meet Juan and Alicia?” How had that happened?

  Equally against the odds, the girl in the velvet cape didn’t seem surprised or hostile.

  “¡Como no!” she said. “Why not!”

  The air outside was freezing and a chilly draught blew round the half-open door but this time he didn’t notice it.

  “Muy Bien.”

  Chapter 4

  Vallecas

  “What are you talking about?”

  David Hidalgo spun round to examine the old man more closely. In the frenzied moments spent pulling him from the wreckage of his car, then driving the hour or so into Madrid, and now checking in at health centre reception, he hadn’t really taken much notice. Another casualty. Another pain in the neck sent to make his life more complicated. Now the old man – Paco – claimed to know who he was, to know his father and mother plus whatever else. David took a closer look. For starters he wasn’t even that old, maybe mid to late sixties. A bit thin on top with long strands of steely grey hair carefully folded round and grimly holding on despite the events of the night. A light complexion and a squarish face with thick, dark-rimmed, bottle-top glasses. The overall effect was distinctly owlish. Collar and tie had both seen better days but were neat apart from a few spots of blood. Dapper, David would have said in English. Elegante or sofisticado didn’t quite have the same nuance. Dapper, owlish, and surprising.

  “You knew my father?”

  “Well, probably I still know him unless something’s happened since last Thursday.”

  “Sorry.” David shook his head. “This is getting a bit weird. You saw my father last Thursday?”

  “It might have been Friday. Normally near the weekend but never on Saturdays. That’s my preparation day and Sundays I work.”

  David glanced around looking for some fixed point of reference. He tried again.

  “You know my father.”

  “Yes, I think we’ve established that. You’re a lot like him but maybe not so quick on the uptake.”

  David frowned.

  “I think I’m entitled to an explanation before you start insulting me.”

  “Of course. I do apologize. That was quite unfair. You’ve had a rough night… and a rough few months I gather.”

  “Let’s leave my private life out of it, shall we? How do you know my father? We’ll start with that.”

  “By all means.” The old man was enjoying himself now, pulling rabbits out of a hat. “We studied politics and philosophy together at Complutense in the fifties.”


  “Now you’re wrong. My father never studied at Complutense. He went to Alcalá de Henares.”

  “Ah yes, that’s what he liked to say.” Paco chuckled, enjoying himself immensely, not suffering from shock as he should have been. “You know Complutense was founded in Alcalá by Cardinal Cisneros. Complutum – that’s just the Latin name for Alcalá. Your father was born in Alcalá – you know that of course. He always resented the fact that the university had been moved to Madrid so he used to call Complutense the real Alcalá University. It was his joke. Though maybe right and proper too.”

  “And you’ve kept in touch all these years?”

  “Off and on. We were closest at university. Lost touch a bit when he had to make a run for it. I only visited Edinburgh the once when I happened to have a conference there. Now he’s back from Scotland we meet up now and again. Last week I was in Malaga for a meeting. We had lunch together. Caught up a bit. He’s quite worried about you, you know, but he wouldn’t want to interfere.” Paco gazed up at the dingy ceiling of peeling paint and drifted back through the years. “When your father was on the run from Franco for publishing something he probably shouldn’t have he lived with Marisa and me for three months here in Vallecas. Oh, the arguments we had. Wonderful times.”

  “What did you argue about?”

  “Everything really. Your father is an argumentative man. You know that, I suppose. But that’s because of his principles. He was a free thinker. I like to think I am too but my thoughts took me in another direction.”

  “How so?”

  “Look,” Paco said, slowly standing up. “I’m feeling fine now. No broken bones. A bit shaken up but no worse than when Raya Vallecano lose to Real. Which is nearly every time. Let’s get a drink. A little lubrication always helps big speaks. By the way, I must say I am very pleased to make your acquaintance – as a grown up that is. It’s a few years now since I gave you your baby bottle!”