Encarnita's Journey Read online

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s killed somebody!’

  He had. He’d been in a fight on the Balcón and pushed the other man over the rail. The man had been dashed against the rocks below and was found to be dead when they went down to pick him up. Luisa began to wail. Concepción was silent. Her face was paler than her mother could ever remember seeing it. Encarnita rocked Mario, who had dropped off to sleep.

  ‘What a father I picked for my children,’ muttered Concepción.

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have meant to do it,’ cried Luisa. ‘It would have been an accident.’

  It had probably not been intentional, the guard agreed, and so he might have a chance of getting off with a sentence of twenty years or so.

  ‘Twenty years,’ moaned Luisa.

  Jaime was now in custody, here in Nerja, said the guard, but he would be moved to Málaga the next day. They left and Encarnita brought the children in so that they could break the news to them before they would hear it in the street.

  The children took it calmly; they were stunned and could not quite take in the fact that their father was in prison. Concepción did not say that he had killed a man, only that a man had been killed during the fight.

  ‘The other guy might have been trying to push Papa over,’ said Juan, beginning to be angry. ‘I bet it wasn’t his fault!’

  This was the line that he and Antonio would follow and when other boys called their father a murderer they would defend him with these words as well as their fists.

  In the morning, they found out that the man who had been killed had been involved with the same woman as Jaime. The fight had been over her.

  ‘That’s me finished with him now,’ said Concepción. ‘He can rot in jail for all I care!’

  Luisa left for Yegen after being allowed a brief visit to her son. Encarnita and Arrieta sat down together and tried to work out how best to keep the family together. They decided that it would be better for Concepción – as well as the family – if she were to find a job. Arrieta would look after the younger children, which she did most of the time anyway. Encarnita thought she should be able to get Concepción a job alongside her.

  Her daughter was not taken by the idea. ‘I don’t want to clean up other people’s mess. I’ve enough of that here.’ She seldom did do much to keep the house clean but her mother held her tongue on that point. But she was determined to force Concepción to do something to improve herself. She had let herself sag into a constant slouch and often her hair would be tangled and her dress stained. If she were to go out to work each day, Encarnita reasoned, she would have to smarten herself up.

  ‘Look at yourself!’ said Encarnita. ‘Look in the mirror! You’re only thirty years old. It’s not that old.’

  Concepción grimaced at herself in the mirror and straightened herself up. ‘You’re right, Mama, I look a fright!’ She agreed to let her mother go ahead and try to obtain a place for her at Capistrano Village. Encarnita gave her money to go to the market to buy a new dress and to the hairdresser’s to have her hair cut.

  Concepción did not settle into the job as easily as her mother had. She worked well and the supervisor was pleased wit her but, every morning, as they trudged out to the urbanización, she would complain.

  ‘Do something about it then!’ retorted Encarnita, losing patience. ‘Find yourself another job. You can read and write and speak a little English.’ Concepción had shown a facility for picking up English and she could even manage a few phrases in German. Her handwriting, also, was neat. Her teacher had said that Concepción was intelligent enough to go to college and train to be a teacher herself, but there had been no question of that. Apart from the fact that she was pregnant by then, Encarnita could not have afforded it.

  On her day off, Concepción put on her new dress, made up her face, skilfully using lipstick, eye shadow and liner, and went round the town asking at hotels, shops and offices. She came back in the evening to announce that she had a job, with more money than she earned cleaning. She was to work in a haulier’s office as a clerk-receptionist. To celebrate, she had brought in a bottle of brandy and a packet of Chesterfield cigarettes. Juan eyed the latter but was told to keep his hands off them.

  He remained a problem. He had left school but there was nothing for him to do. He hung about the streets, chucked stones at foreign cars and got into fights.

  ‘He’s going to end up like his father,’ said Arrieta. ‘There’s rotten blood in that family.’

  ‘If he could just get a job,’ said Encarnita.

  ‘What could he do?’

  ‘He’s interested in cars and engines.’

  ‘But who’d take him on? Everybody knows what these boys are like.’

  ‘It’s terrible they should be damned before they get a chance.’ Encarnita sighed. Felipe would be different; she felt sure about that. And Concepción was doing well. She liked her new job; she was efficient, good on the telephone and face to face with the customers. Her employer sang her praises when Encarnita called at the office.

  Emilio was a small, stocky man about the same age as Encarnita, twenty years older than Concepción. He was bald and could not have been called handsome but he had a vitality that made him attractive. He was a successful business man; he’d started out with one small rusty van and now had three large trucks with ambitions to expand even further.

  It was obvious to Encarnita on the first meeting that Emilio was smitten by her daughter, who had recovered some of her earlier prettiness.

  ‘She’s an angel, your daughter,’ he enthused. ‘The last one got the books into a terrible muddle and snapped at customers on the phone. I had to get rid of her.’

  Emilio was a widower, with no children. He had a smooth manner and knew how to talk to women, though not in an oily way. Encarnita found him likeable. He took the trouble to flatter her, which she appreciated, even while she knew it was flattery. He had a good sense of humour too, another point in his favour.

  After Concepción had been working for him for a week he invited her out to dinner on the Saturday night.

  ‘We’re going to a new restaurant down the coast, just opened,’ she said, as she brushed her light eyelashes with black mascara. She spoke as if she were used to going out to restaurants. The children watched, fascinated by this new vision of their mother. She had bought a gold lamé blouse with her earnings and gold earrings to match, which swung against her neck as she moved. ‘It’s owned by a friend of his. Its speciality is seafood.’

  He came to call for her in his car, a Volkswagen, brand new. Made in Germany, Concepción informed Encarnita, who already knew that. The younger children clambered over the bonnet while they waited for their mother to emerge in her finery and high heels; the two older ones asked to look in the engine. Emilio was pleased to have the opportunity to be pleasant to her children. When Concepción came out he opened the passenger door and ushered her in with a small bow, like a perfect gentleman.

  ‘I think he is a gentleman,’ said Encarnita.

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ sniffed Arrieta. ‘I just hope he doesn’t get her pregnant.’

  ‘She’s older now,’ Encarnita retaliated sharply. She was quick to criticise her daughter herself but still felt defensive when others, even Arrieta, did. Nevertheless, she was on tenterhooks and did not sleep until her daughter came in, which she did at half past midnight.

  ‘You didn’t go back to his house?’

  ‘No, I did not, Mama.’ Concepción came to kiss her. ‘He’s an honourable man. We had a wonderful evening. The gambas just melted in your mouth.’

  Encarnita raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Concepción had found an old pile of women’s magazines left behind in her office by its previous incumbent and was picking up their language. At mealtimes she would read out recipes and reviews of restaurants in cities like Madrid and Barcelona. She was also interested in beauty tips and had bought an auburn rinse for her hair, to give the colour a lift. Encarnita was not sure about the result bu
t, once more, she said nothing. She sometimes thought that one of the most important things you could have as a mother was the ability to hold your tongue.

  Emilio took Concepción out the following Saturday, and the next again. This time she did not come home until morning.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ demanded Arrieta.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Encarnita said to her daughter, for there was a time to speak as well as to stay silent. She had seen Concepción make one big mistake in her life. In fact, two. The first had been getting pregnant by Jaime, and the second, marrying him. Encarnita had advised her against it at the time but Concepción would not listen. She had been in love.

  ‘Mama, I am not a child!’ she said now.

  ‘We don’t need any more in the family.’

  ‘There are not going to be any. Emilio is very careful, he takes precautions.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Mama, I’m having fun, for the first time in my life.’

  Encarnita could not grudge her that.

  Two months later, Concepción announced that she was moving in with Emilio. He had a very nice modern house in the campo on the way to Frigiliana. It had three bedrooms, a modern kitchen and bathroom, and a small, kidney-shaped swimming pool.

  ‘He’s obviously not short of money,’ said Arrieta.

  ‘I’m not going with him for his money!’ said Concepción.

  ‘What about the children?’ asked Encarnita.

  ‘He says I can bring the little ones, Roberto and Mario, with me, but the older ones might be better staying with you.’

  ‘Better for whom?’ asked Arrieta.

  ‘They wouldn’t fit in,’ said Concepción.

  1985

  Encarnita had changed jobs and now went to work by bus. She enjoyed her daily ride, which took her from the west end of town, through the centre streets, out to the suburbs on the eastern side. She was constantly amazed by how much Nerja had changed, was changing, like all the other old fishing villages along the coast. Buildings were shooting up in all directions, creeping further and further into the campo. The grinding of road drills and the whir of cement mixers mingled with the roar of the ever increasing traffic. That did not bother her too much. She took each new development in life as it came, having realised a long time ago that there was no point in kicking against it.

  Her life was easier now than it had ever been; it had levelled out onto a plain, with fewer bumps to disrupt it. After all the difficult, up-and-down years of looking after Concepción’s three older boys, she lived alone with Arrieta who, at ninety-three, was semi-blind, but still in possession of her other senses. Arrieta spent the day in a rocking chair, inside the house when it was cold, and in warm weather, outside, in the garden, where she could listen to the sound of the sea and the cry of the birds. She seldom complained. Neighbours dropped in to visit her while Encarnita was at work and brought her soup. With only a few teeth left, she could eat little else. When Encarnita was at home they were content with each other’s company; they reminisced about old times, discussed the doings of the neighbours as well as Concepción and her children. On fine evenings Encarnita would push Arrieta out in a wheelchair lent to them by social services.

  Encarnita was feeling especially pleased this morning. In her bag she had three letters: one from her Scottish friend Morna, who wrote regularly; one from Luisa, who did not; and the third from Felipe, who wrote once a month. It was the first time in her life that she had ever received three letters in a week, let alone all at once! They’d been left the day before by the postman with a neighbour who had forgotten to hand them in.

  The bus stopped at Capistrano Village, her former place of work, to drop people off, pick some more up. The tourists were dressed in skimpy shorts and tops and their sandalled feet were bare, in spite of the day being cool, in Encarnita’s reckoning. She was wearing a ribbed jersey with a polo neck and a black leather jacket, and on her feet a pair of soft, supple leather shoes made in Italy. Shoes were her weakness. She saved up until she could afford a decent pair. When she arrived at work she would change them for a pair of alpargatas. The jacket was a present from Emilio. She had been overwhelmed when he had presented it to her on her sixty-fifth birthday. That she should have a leather jacket! She had seen the prices of them in the shops. Her daughter had two, one black, and one honey-coloured, with trousers to match. Concepción’s wardrobe was packed with expensive clothes which she wore when she and Emilio went on expensive holidays to Tenerife, Acapulco and Florida. Recently they had been going on cruises, round the Greek islands and to the Caribbean. Emilio was always saying that Encarnita must come on a trip with them – he knew how much she wanted to travel – but she said she could not leave Arrieta. Sometime then, he said, meaning when Arrieta would no longer be there, which Encarnita did not wish to think about. They had been living together for forty-five years.

  Emilio’s fortunes had increased in keeping with the housing boom. Encarnita had lost track of how many removal vans he had on the road. He had built a new house further into the campo, with five bedrooms, two bathrooms and a shower room, an enormous wrap-around terrace from which you could see the sea and the mountains, and a bigger swimming pool than they’d had before. The house was visible from many kilometers around, sitting up in such a prominent position. Concepción had a car of her own and sometimes she would come down to take her mother and Arrieta out for a run though neither were very happy at being driven by her on the narrow, twisting roads where the edges were unprotected and the drops sheer. They thought she clipped the corners too closely and were relieved when they were returned home safely.

  After its stop the bus carried on to the urbanización of Capistrano Oasis and, finally, to that of Capistrano Playa, where Encarnita alighted to walk the short distance to her place of work. The house was large, detached, and surrounded by a high wall, but it had an elevated situation so that it looked right over the sea. She rang the bell, waited until Jorge answered, then she spoke into the intercom, and the high, electronic gates swung open to let her enter, closing immediately behind her.

  Jorge came down the path to meet her. She told him about her letters straightaway.

  ‘Anything from Felipe?’

  She nodded. Jorge knew her grandson and was always interested in his progress. She opened that one first while they drank their morning coffee.

  ‘Doing well still, is he?’

  ‘Very well.’ Encarnita offered Jorge a churro. She had bought half a dozen, newly fried and hot, on her way to the bus. ‘He’s a good boy.’

  ‘How long now till he qualifies?’

  ‘Another year.’

  ‘And then you’ll have a lawyer in the family!’

  Encarnita smiled.

  ‘You’ve done well by him.’

  ‘He’s done well by himself. He’s worked hard for it.’

  ‘But you put the money up, you and Emilio, so that he could go to university.’

  Felipe had earned some of it himself, Encarnita reminded Jorge; he had taken whatever job he could lay hands on during the vacations, whether it was running pedaloes on the beach or working on building sites. She had contributed the money that she’d put aside each week for her journey, without telling Felipe why she had been saving it. He had not wanted to take it, but she had insisted, and he had said that he would pay back every centimo. It had been obvious from his early years that he was highly intelligent. His teachers had declared him to be brilliant, one of the best students they’d ever had, and they’d said it would be a shame if, somehow, he could not be given the opportunity to continue his education. They had understood that that might not be easy; any grant he might qualify for would not be enough. Encarnita had conferred with Emilio, who had immediately agreed to help and had approved of Felipe’s choice of law as a subject to study.

  ‘It’s always handy to have a lawyer in the family,’ he’d said. ‘You never know when you might need one.’

  ‘Don’t suppos
e Felipe will come back to Nerja, do you, when he finishes?’ said Jorge, helping himself to another churro. ‘Wouldn’t be much here for him. He might decide to stay in Granada.’

  ‘He might,’ agreed Encarnita. ‘It’s a lovely city.’ She had visited it twice, both times to see Felipe. He had taken her to see the gardens of the Alhambra, and she had been enchanted.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll look after you in your old age.’

  ‘I don’t expect anything from him,’ she said, although she knew she would always be able to rely on Felipe for any kind of help she might need. She liked to think he was made in the same mould as his grandfather, an honourable man. She folded up the letter and put it in its envelope. There was nothing new in it – he always reassured her that he was eating well and studying hard – but she would read it again later. She read all her letters several times, savouring each tiny piece of news. And she would reply to all of them, writing slowly and carefully, taking more than one evening for each.

  ‘No news of the other two, Juan and Antonio?’

  Encarnita shook her head. There had been no news from them for three years but she had stopped worrying. They were grown men, getting on for thirty years old, and had to look after their own lives. The last they’d heard they’d been in Badahoz and hoping to go to Madrid to look for work. The next two grandchildren in line were doing better. Roberto, who was nineteen, was working as a car mechanic, while sixteen-year-old Mario was still at school. His grandmother hoped that Emilio might put up the money for him to go to university to study engineering. Both boys lived at home with their mother and stepfather, and their half-sisters, Paulina and Angelina. The girls had been born following the death of Jaime in prison, which had allowed Concepción and Emilio to marry. The children had been his idea, not hers. Before their marriage Emilio, who was a devout churchgoer, had been against bringing illegitimate children into the world.

  ‘That family is doing all right, anyway,’ commented Jorge. ‘No need to worry about them. Oh, I forgot! Thinking of families, Mrs Pilkington phoned this morning to say that Hubert is coming tomorrow with some friends.’ He got up. ‘I’d better get a move on and do a bit of work. The place is in good shape, though.’