The war that had been raging in the rest of Europe had finally ended. Encarnita heard the news from an old man sitting in a doorway. Half the men in Nerja sat in doorways, out of the way of their womenfolk. Señor Quintana was missing a leg. He sat there, most days, from early morning until sundown, enjoying the air, with his trouser leg pinned back and a book in his lap. He was not the only man in Nerja to be missing a limb.
Encarnita had found employment as a servant in the house of a small landowner on the outskirts of Nerja. On her way home from work she would often stop to pass the time of day with Señor Quintana, who lived with his daughter in a slightly-better off street at the eastern end of the town. He had been a school teacher in days gone by. She liked talking to him. They talked about the world that existed beyond Nerja, and he lent her books, some for herself and some for her child. He said it was never too early for the young to start, which Encarnita knew herself. She had already begun to teach Concepción to read a few words. She did not want her father to be ashamed of her when they met. Señor Quintana freely expressed the opinion that children needed books other than those they were given in school, which were based on religious texts and proscribed by the state. The ones he favoured were works of the imagination.
‘Yes, I heard the news about the war on the radio this morning,’ he said. ‘There are to be big celebrations in Paris and London and other cities. Not Madrid, of course,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘I don’t suppose our general will be rejoicing now that his old friends have been beaten!’
‘So the English have defeated the Germans?’
‘The British have, along with the Americans and their other allies. They still have Japan to deal with but that doesn’t seem to be too big a problem, from what they’re saying.’
‘So Europe is a safe place now?’
‘As safe as any place can be until someone decides to start another war. No doubt somebody will. It seems the world can’t get on without them.’
‘The British – that means Scotland too?’
‘It does. You’re interested in Scotland, Encarnita, aren’t you?’
‘It seems a nice country,’ she said, trying to sound off-hand. ‘They have mountains there as well, like us,’ she added limply, remembering Arrieta’s warning about not opening her mouth too much, even when she felt she could trust someone.
‘Was that Scotland you were speaking of?’ asked the man’s daughter, coming from within the house, drying her hands on her black apron. Josefina was a woman of fifty and some years, and had never been married. She broke off when she saw the book on her father’s knee. ‘You shouldn’t be reading that out in the street!’
He held the book up for all the world to see. ‘Federico García Lorca’. He enunciated the name clearly.
‘Papa!’ She glanced up the street. ‘You know very well —’
‘That they have not only murdered our greatest poet but they are doing their best to kill his work too by banning it. Well, our house is one in which it will continue to live. Viva Lorca!’
‘Hush, Papa, por favor! You’ll get us arrested.’
‘Don’t worry, Josefina! They would only take me.’
‘And do you think that would not affect me?’
‘Of course. I’m only teasing you.’ He put the book back, face down on his lap. ‘Let us go back to talking about Scotland. That is a less dangerous topic.’
‘You remember the Scotsman who came here before the war, Papa?’ said Josefina, sounding wistful. Encarnita wondered if she had loved this Scotsman. Looking at her, it was difficult to believe that she might have done. She seemed too prudish, the kind of woman who spent much time on her knees in church and nagged at her father, who seldom went himself, using his disability as an excuse. But perhaps she had become like that because she had been disappointed in love.
‘He told us that he sometimes wore a kilt when he was at home,’ said Señor Quintana. ‘For special occasions. Like weddings. He was an agreeable fellow and he could speak Spanish tolerably well. He visited our house several times. Perhaps visitors from abroad will start coming again now that it will be easier for them to travel.’
Encarnita thought about that as she walked down Calle Cristo. Conal had told the goatherd that he would come back for her. But how would he find her? He had not known where she lived in Almuñecar, except that it was with a woman called Sofia, whose son had been killed by the Nationalists. The goatherd had not known much more but he might not even be alive by now; the blood in his veins might have dried up. Encarnita did not allow herself to consider the idea that Conal might not have survived the clutches of the Guardia Civil, or the warfare that had come to his own land. She presumed that, like young men here, he would have been conscripted into the army and expected to fight for his country.
She carried on to the plaza to see if the man selling loquats would be there. He was. The small yellow fruits were set out temptingly on a tray of cactus leaves while beside them stood a pot of red toffee kept warm by a flame. Encarnita was going to allow herself to be tempted today. She stopped and bought three, one each for Concepción, Arrieta and herself. The man snagged them with a toothpick and then dipped them into the bright red toffee.
On the way back to her own street she saw two members of the Guardia Civil standing on the corner, their hands resting slackly on the pistols at their waists, their rifles slung in the usual cross-wise fashion over their chests. One of them engaged Encarnita’s eye. She looked away at once. She had never seen this guard before. Most she knew by sight. There were about thirty guards in all in the pueblo and they patrolled the streets and beaches ceaselessly, by day and night. As a result, there was little crime, little ordinary kinds of crime, that was, such as theft, which could be punished by a few days in prison, even if the stolen goods amounted to no more than a couple of bunches of grapes from a stall in the market. Smuggling, however, did go on along the coast. Most of the men in the village, Guardia Civil included, smoked contraband tobacco.
‘Got a lollipop for us?’ asked the guard who had eyed her and he made a slurping sound.
Averting her eyes, she forced herself to walk past them, annoyed that they had the power to spoil even the small pleasure that buying the loquats had given her. As she entered the house, she heard a familiar voice. They had a visitor.
‘Sofia!’ She put down the loquats and went forward to embrace her. She had seen Sofia only rarely since leaving Almuñecar. She had come to visit them shortly after Concepción’s birth and two or three other times since. ‘Your legs, how are they?’
‘They don’t look good but they’re still bearing me up. I thought it was time I saw your child again. Miguel gave me a lift. Arrieta tells me the little Concepción is well?’
‘She is! Where is she now, Arrieta?’
‘Down on the beach below the Balcón, with the other children.’
‘I have a letter for you, Encarnita,’ said Sofia, taking it out of her bag. ‘It came to my house a little while ago but I thought I’d wait and bring it to you.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Arrieta, lifting an envelope from the dresser. ‘You had one in the post this morning too.’
‘Two letters!’ Encarnita took them both into her hands. One bore a Spanish stamp, the other a British one. Her heart was racing so fast that she had to put a hand to it to try to still it.
‘Open them, then!’ said Sofia. The sisters never received letters themselves, since neither could read nor write.
Encarnita slit open the British one first and lifted out a sheet of thick white paper. Her eye went straight to the signature. It was not from Conal.
‘Bad news?’ asked Arrieta.
‘I don’t know.’ Encarnita frowned.
‘Who is it from?’
Encarnita looked at the signature. ‘Frank Osborne,’ she said, trying the unfamiliar name on her tongue. ‘It’s in English.’ She read the letter slowly, translating it haltingly into Spanish as she went along. Frank Osborne said that he was writing to all the friends of his aunt, Miss Hermione Osborne, listed in her address book, to inform them of her death. She had been caught in an air raid on London and after some time had died of her injuries.
‘Poor Miss Osborne!’
‘May God keep her!’ said Sofia, crossing herself. ‘She was good to you in the hotel, wasn’t she?’
Encarnita nodded. It had always been part of her plan to go to London first on her journey, and visit Miss Osborne. But that was not to be. She opened the other letter. It was from her friend Luisa. They had exchanged a couple of letters since Encarnita had come to Nerja.
Luisa was still living in the campo outside Yegen, in her childhood home. She was married to a man called Diego, whom Encarnita had known to see in passing, a surly looking fellow, or so she had always thought. The couple inhabited the house with their two young sons, as well as three of Luisa’s siblings and her mother.
Luisa wrote that her mother’s health was poor and Diego had hurt his leg and could not work so she herself was working in the fields. Two of her brothers were causing trouble, getting drunk and into brawls. Luisa feared that they would end badly. Like their father, thought Encarnita. She hoped that Diego was not like him, too.
‘Your friend is well?’ asked Arrieta.
‘Her life is not easy.’
‘Which woman’s life is?’ asked Sofia.
‘Mine is easier than Luisa’s,’ said Encarnita, smiling and touching Arrieta on the shoulder.
At the end of Luisa’s letter there was news of the sisters Maria and Rosario, the housekeepers of Don Geraldo. They had stayed on in Churriana. Antonio, Rosario’s husband, had been entrusted to rent out the house as best he could and to use the rent money to pay taxes and keep what was left over for his own family. They were hoping that Don Geraldo and Doña Gamel would return once the war in Europe was over.
‘The war’s over now.’ Encarnita folded up the letter. ‘Señor Quintana told me.’
The older women were not much interested. They had had enough of wars and that particular one had not touched them, for which they were thankful.
‘Go and find your daughter!’ said Sofia. ‘I want to see her! Tell her I’ve made a little doll for her.’
Encarnita went down to the beach to fetch Concepción. When Encarnita herself was a child she had played amongst trees and flowers where multi-coloured butterflies had whirred and insects buzzed. Her feet had kicked up dirt and enjoyed the softness of damp grass. She had picked wild flowers though had never let her fingers even graze the paper-thin red poppies. She had drunk in the smells of lavender, rosemary and thyme and watched lizards snaking over stones and birds soaring overhead. Her daughter’s childhood was different: Concepción played on gritty sand and in the waters of the Mediterranean sea and knew nothing of plants that grew in the earth. She was running now, in and out of the waves, her shift clinging to her slim body, her red-gold hair shining in the sunlight. Until she was three years old she had worn bonnets fashioned by Arrieta but now she refused to have her head covered and tossed her curls so that they floated freely in the air. Their neighbours, used to her different colouring, scarcely noticed it. In summer, her mother worried about the paleness of her skin which burned easily in the fierce rays of the sun.
Encarnita plunged into the sea to join her daughter, enjoying the cool freshness of the water as it broke over her body. She did not venture far from the shore since she could not swim. Most of the children were able to float with ease on their backs or else they floundered around on their stomachs, thrashing their arms about, showing no trace of fear. They shrieked and laughed. The older boys swam far out, their lithe brown bodies twisting and turning as they dived into the waves and resurfaced, moments later, shaking the drops from their sleek heads.
‘We have a visitor,’ Encarnita shouted to her daughter above the sound of the sea. ‘Sofia, Arrieta’s sister. She has brought you a present.’ She held out her hand for Concepción to take.
They were almost dry by the time they made their way up the steep steps from the beach and across the Balcón. The streets were busy now with carts and donkeys coming back in from the campo. An ox-cart cart had overturned and dumped its load on the ground at the entrance of Calle Generalissimo Franco, causing a furore and much shouting on behalf of other carters who were unable to pass. A municipal guard was trying to sort the problem out. The Guardia Municipal was under the control of the mayor instead of the state and was not feared in the same way as the Guardia Civil. Encarnita knew this guard, Eduardo. She was friendly with his wife, who had a crippled leg and struggled to look after their seven children.
The two civil guards she’d seen earlier were still around and she would have to pass them again. The guard she’d taken an instant dislike to was looking at Concepción and frowning. A stab of fear pierced her heart. He was leaving his companion and coming towards them.
‘Can I see your papers?’ He lifted the hand from his pistol and held it out.
‘I have them in our house.’
‘You don’t carry them?’
‘I was bathing in the sea and didn’t want to get them wet.’
‘Calle Carabeo. Just round the corner.’
‘Right, let’s go!’
‘What is it, Mama?’ asked Concepción.
‘Nothing, love,’ said Encarnita, taking a firm hold of her hand and leading her along the street, with their bodyguard following on behind. When they reached Arrieta’s house she told Concepción to go inside, but the guard intervened.
‘No, let her be. I want to see her papers, too. You go in and fetch them.’
Encarnita briefly told the sisters what was happening, then she took their papers from a drawer and returned to the street. Concepción was standing by the door looking frightened.
Encarnita handed over the papers.
‘So you were born in Yegen? A God-forsaken place that is. I was once there.’
Encarnita said nothing.
‘And the child, she was born in Nerja, I see?’
‘In this house.’
‘It does not state who her father is.’
‘No.’ Encarnita felt the heat creeping up her face into the very roots of her hair.
‘It was like that, was it? Father unknown?’ The officer sniggered. ‘Where do you work? In the street?’
‘No. I work for Señor and Señora Portales.’
That caused him more amusement. ‘I see. Friendly with the señor, are you?’ He studied the top of Concepción’s head. ‘Don’t see many children round here with that colour hair.’
‘I think it is more common in the north.’
‘What, the Asturias? Galicia?’
She raised a shoulder in a half-shrug.
‘You have the look of the gypsy in you. Half of them up in the Alpujarra are, aren’t they? Live in caves like animals.’
Again, Encarnita made no response.
He shoved the papers back at her, wheeled about and marched off down the street.
‘Why do I not have a papa?’ asked Concepción.
‘You do. But I can’t tell you anything about him now. One day I will.’
‘When we go on our journey?’
‘Yes, that will be the time.’ Encarnita put away a few pesetas weekly from her paltry earnings. Concepción loved to help count it and each time would ask how much more would they need to have before they could go. ‘Come on,’ said her mother, ‘let’s go inside. Sofia is eager to see you.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Arrieta anxiously, as they came in. Encarnita closed the door behind them even though it was hot in the room, with the fire blazing. Arrieta was cooking patatas a lo pobre. The smell was mouth-watering.
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Encarnita.
Concepción, who scarcely remembered Arrieta’s sister, stood back shyly, but when Sofia opened her arms she went into them.
‘Come, little one, sit on my lap. See what I have for you!’ From her pocket Sofia produced a rag doll with yellow wool hair and a red and white striped dress. Concepción was delighted.
‘What a lucky girl,’ said Arrieta.
Encarnita found it difficult to fall asleep that night. It was very hot with four of them in the bed. She and Concepción were lying head to toe with the two sisters, both of whom were on their backs and snoring. After a while she got up and went out into the garden. The night air was welcome after the heavy atmosphere inside the house. Somewhere, close by, a jasmine tree was sending out its powerful scent, and an almost-full moon was lighting up the sea, highlighting the ripples. She thought she saw a boat out there. Yes, she was sure there was one, just faintly discernible. Her eyes were sharp. Her mother used to say she was born with eyes that could see to the other end of the world. The boat was showing no lights. Smugglers, probably. As she watched she saw something dark come cutting through the waves towards the shore. A dog. The smugglers used dogs to bring in their contraband; they strapped it in water-proof pouches on their backs.
She went to the edge of the garden and looked down into the beach, immediately drawing her head back. Two civil guards were passing below. Their headgear was unmistakable. Being high up, she had a better vantage point than they did. They might not be able to see the dog who, having spotted them, was lying low in the shallows. As soon as they had gone the dog streaked out of the water and raced off down the beach in the opposite direction. Encarnita smiled.
‘Mama!’ The cry came more as a scream. ‘Mama! Where are you, Mama?’
Encarnita hurried back into the house. The two women were awake and Arrieta was trying to comfort Concepción, who wanted only her mother. Encarnita gathered her up and carried her out into the fresh air.
‘It’s all right, my love,’ she said, rocking her as she had done when she was a baby. ‘Everything is all right. Mama would never leave you, you know that. Whatever happens, you and I will always be together.’