A Trip to Gibraltar

Waking up the next morning, everything seemed the same as usual: the patch of sunlight on the wall, the lap of waves on the pebbles, the shouts of the fishermen. But then I remembered that everything was different—I was no longer a troubled child, pulled in two directions, not knowing what to believe or where to turn.

My father looked very tired and pale at breakfast and coughed a lot. But he seemed cheerful and suggested we take a bus down the coast to the southernmost tip of Spain, where I could see the Rock of Gibraltar and the coast of North Africa, and I could have a swim. I was thrilled, for I loved doing things with my father. He was such good company and knew so much about everything. I grabbed my bathing suit and we went to the bus stop and bought a picnic in the market while we waited.

I shall never forget that day, and yet I didn't know at the time that it was a very special day because nothing very special happened. We were just happy together. The bus rolled along the coast road with the sea on one side and the vineyards and olive groves on the other and sometimes a field of sunflowers facing east. No one could tell stories like my father, and he kept me spellbound telling me about the Spanish Civil War until the rattling bus lurched around a corner and I gave a gasp. There in front of me lay the sapphire blue Straits of Gibraltar and the Rock, like a grand old lion sitting in the sea. Across the Straits, misty but visible, were the high mountains of the North African coast. As the bus rattled into town, Dad started telling me about the habits of the rock apes of Gibraltar and the snake charmers of Tangier.

It was very, very hot down in the town, so we stopped for ice cream outside a little café where about half the customers had dark skin and spoke Arabic instead of Spanish. Then we looked at the shops, and I spent a long time choosing presents for Gran and Grandpa. My father sat on a chair in the shop, smoking and half-asleep, and did not hurry me at all.

Then we sauntered along the water's edge to the beach and I slipped into my bathing suit and raced toward the sea, dashing into the small waves, falling headlong, and striking out toward the deep water. I thought that first cool plunge was the most wonderful feeling on earth.

“Don't go too far,” shouted my father, and I turned and swam back toward him. I wished he would come in, too, but he didn't seem to have the energy. When at last I finished swimming, he had found a shady corner and unpacked the picnic, and I flung myself down beside him, feeling happy and glad to be alive.

“Tell me more about that old woman yesterday,” said my father suddenly. “She interests me.”

I looked up eagerly. “She's a nice old woman. She lives in a tiny house on the other side of the eucalyptus trees. She's got a cat and a goat and a whole basket of kittens and a little granddaughter and a Bible, and I've visited her twice.”

“But how do you communicate? Surely she doesn't know English.”

“Oh no. But I told you, she's got a Bible and we read it together. She pointed to the word Jesus, and it's the same word in English and Spanish.”

“I see. And what happened next?”

“She said Jesus is her Amigo and I know that word too. Rosita calls me her amiga. It means friend.”

“Go on,” said my father, “tell me more.”

I munched my sandwich thoughtfully. “Well,” I began rather shyly, “I wanted Him to be my Friend too. So I went to the cross—”

“The cross? What do you mean?”

“Along the path by the vineyards. There's a farm with a little white pig loose outside and some hens, and near the gate there's a stone cross. And I sat there until I was too hot, and then I sat under a tree.”

“And what did you do under the tree?”

“Well … I said I was sorry. And then … well, I said thank You. And after that … well, I asked Him to be my Friend too.”

“And what happened?”

“I walked home. The cross was behind me, and everything in front was sort of shining from the sunset. And I was happy, because now I've got a Friend and I can tell Him all my troubles.”

“Your troubles, Lucy? I should like to know your troubles too. What are they?”

I turned and faced him steadily. “I asked Him to make you and Gran and Grandpa like each other, so we can all be one family,” I said. “That's my biggest trouble. It's horrible having to choose. Can I have a banana, please?”

He did not ask any more questions. He lay back on the sand and closed his eyes, and I thought he was asleep. Only when I got up to run back in the sea did he speak. “The time's getting on,” he said. “Run and have a last swim and then we must get back.”

We got on the bus in the cobbled square. I sensed that my father was very tired, and we traveled home almost in silence. I leaned my head against his shoulder and gazed for the last time at the Rock, the Straits, and the North African ranges across the sea. Then the bus swung around a corner and they were gone.

My father went straight to bed when we got home, and I went into the kitchen and sat with Rosita under some dried fish hanging from a beam and ate a tortilla. There was great excitement because Lola's brother had come from Barcelona and brought a little rubber boat that one could blow up and float on the waves. Pepito and Pedro couldn't wait for the next morning. Their uncle was a large man with shiny black hair who laughed a lot and drank a lot, and we all got very warm and merry. It was quite late when I left them, still celebrating, and slipped into our own apartment. The moon was shining right over the patio, and I could hear my father's rather fast breathing. I tried to tiptoe in without waking him, but he called to me.

I'd kissed him good night and was leaving the room when he spoke again.

“Lucy,” he said, “if what that old woman told you makes you happy, hang onto it. That sort of thing cheered your mother up when she was expecting you. You may need it … one of these days.”

I asked him to explain, but he said it was time to sleep. I climbed into bed and lay awake for a long time, watching the moonlight on the white wall and wondering what he meant.