Encarnita's Journey Page 23

  ‘I don’t know what you want to go to an old cemetery for,’ grumbled Concepción. ‘It’s not as if you’re going to see him. It’s a bit late for that. Walking about among the dead gives me goose flesh.’

  ‘British cemeteries are different from ours. Morna told me.’

  ‘Morna tells you everything.’ Concepcion did not get on too well with her. The Scotswoman disapproved of her rather flashy clothes and although she did not ever make a remark about them, it was obvious. Morna herself dressed soberly, favouring grey flannel skirts and walking boots in cool weather and loose khaki shorts in the heat. They knew that not all Scottish women dressed like her; the tourists frequenting Nerja were evidence of that.

  ‘Not everything,’ Encarnita rejoined. ‘But she did tell me that they don’t put their bodies into niches. They either burn them or bury them in the ground, in coffins, in proper graves, and they plant trees around them.’

  They passed the bullring and, shortly afterwards, on the other side of the road, they came to the English Cemetery. The high, black wrought-iron gate was locked. There would be no possibility of climbing over it.

  Encarnita went up to it and rattled the bars and peered through but there was no one around to call out to for help. Nothing was to be seen but a drive that rose upward and vanished into trees. A notice informed them that this was the location of the English church was but that was not visible, either.

  ‘You should have known it might be closed,’ said Concepción, who was half-annoyed and half-pleased. She put down her bags and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Maybe there’s another way in.’ Encarnita led the way round the corner. An alley climbed up the side of the cemetery. Feral cats, who had been feeding out of little aluminium trays put down for them by cat-feeders, scampered off as the women mounted the steps. The lane stank of cat pee and rotting food.

  Halfway up, Encarnita stopped and put her face to the railings. Here, it was possible to see into the cemetery.

  ‘It’s a ruin,’ she wailed.

  Concepción joined her. ‘Could do with a clean up,’ she agreed.

  Headstones inclined, half-toppled over and broken, weeds grew between the graves.

  ‘Maybe there are no relatives left to look after it,’ said Concepción. ‘It’s not used any more, is it?’

  ‘It’s a disgrace. To think of a man like Don Geraldo lying in there! And his wife Doña Gamel. She was a lovely lady. They deserve better.’

  ‘They don’t know though, do they? It won’t be bothering them. After all, he let them have his body for medical research, didn’t he? So he can’t have cared what they did to him.’

  Gerald Brenan, having died in 1988 at the age of ninety-two, had been interred here only the previous year.

  Encarnita sighed, her indignation giving way to sadness. ‘Life goes so fast. And then look what happens to us.’

  It was at that moment, as she gazed into the neglected garden where lay the remains of the British dead from times past, amongst them her old friend, who had taught her many things, who had given her ideas to keep her mind alive, that Encarnita finally made her mind. ‘Concepción, we are going to Scotland.’

  ‘Now look, Mama, do you think that’s a good idea? After so many years. Sixty, isn’t it, since you’ve seen him?’

  ‘Sixty-two, getting on for sixty-three. It was the summer of 1939.’

  ‘It’s like a lifetime away. It is a lifetime. What if he is still alive and I meet him what am I going to say to him? Hola, Papa! Here I am and I’m sixty-two years old. I can’t believe it! Sixty-two! He’ll be a stranger. To you, too.’

  ‘I would know him.’

  ‘He might not know you.’

  Encarnita shrugged.

  ‘He might not be pleased to see us.’

  ‘He might not.’

  ‘He might be dead.’

  ‘He might. But I want to find out what happened to him. I don’t even know if he got back to Scotland. The time has come for our journey, Concepción, and I have the money for the flights in the bank.’

  ‘I’d rather go to Lanzarote.’

  Concepción had gone a couple of times with a man who was no longer in her life, to her mother’s relief. He was a drifter, in and out of work, and when he was out he had sponged on Concepción. Since Emilio’s departure she had been involved with various men, most of them unreliable. She had heard only once from Emilio, two years after his departure. A postcard had come from Bolivia saying, ‘Hope you and the children are OK. Will send for you when I have the money.’ It was signed only with ‘E’ and there was no return address. Encarnita had said straightaway that he wouldn’t get the money together so Concepción should not live in hopes of it. Besides, would she want to go to Bolivia? It was one of the poorest and most primitive countries in South America. As far as they were aware, Emilio had not been tracked down by the Guardia Civil, who had ceased calling on them once he’d been gone for a few months.

  ‘We’re going to Edinburgh,’ declared Encarnita. ‘We’re free now that we’re both retired.’ She had given up work seven years ago, when she was seventy-five, at Felipe’s insistence. Concepción had retired only recently and had done so reluctantly, but her boss had wanted to put in a younger woman to manage his leather goods shop. Concepción’s pride had been wounded and her mother thought that was why she had embarked on this hectic shopping spree, blowing all of her last week’s wages. ‘There’s nothing to stop us,’ Encarnita went on. ‘The family are all settled.’

  ‘I don’t know about Paulina. She and Carlos aren’t getting on too well.’ Carlos was a fisherman and Paulina had a job on a supermarket check-out. They lived in Nerja with their two children in a rented apartment on the N-340. ‘Paulina was telling me last night. She says he’s drinking too much. And he’s not bringing in much money. Catches are low.’

  All the more reason to go soon, thought Encarnita. Paulina would have to get on and sort out her own mess.

  Felipe was doing well. He had become a partner in a firm of lawyers in Granada and had married the daughter of the senior partner, a beautiful young woman called Elena, who was herself a doctor, a gynaecologist. Encarnita and Concepción were somewhat in awe of her and although she was very nice to them and invited them up for a week-end every now and then they were unable to feel totally at ease in her company. Felipe and Elena had a splendid house, with views over to the Alhambra, and two pretty children, a boy and a girl, both with hair the colour of their father’s, and of their grandmother’s, when she was young. She dyed hers blond now, to cover the invading strands of grey.

  Felipe never forgot them. He drove down to Nerja in his Mercedes once or twice a month, sometimes bringing the children, but seldom Elena, whose life, they realised, was very busy. He gave them regular amounts of money, maintaining that he was only returning what they had given to him; and the previous year he had paid for them to have a holiday in Morocco in a four-star hotel. They’d crossed by boat from Algeciras, Encarnita preferring that option to flying. She was prepared, however, to fly in order to get to Scotland. Having studied a map of Europe she had realised how long and difficult would be the journey by train and boat.

  ‘I shall write to Morna tonight.’ She had not written for a while and owed her Scottish friend a letter.

  Her other correspondent, Luisa, did not write often nowadays and when she did it would be not be much more than a sentence or two in a shaky hand. She had high blood pressure and arthritis as well as a few other more minor ailments, which meant that she kept close to home. A visit into Yegen, even, had come to be an expedition. Too many hills, she said. Encarnita had visited her a couple of years ago but had found the days long, closeted with her old friend, who could speak of nothing but her grandchildren and their failings. Especially their failings. Encarnita had gone for two or three long walks into the campo by herself. On her return Luisa, a little piqued, had told her she was lucky to be so strong and in such good health. But in spite of everything, they had parted fondly f
rom each other.

  Encarnita composed the letter to Morna in her head on the journey back to Nerja. We are coming, at last we are coming…

  They disembarked at the bus station, which did not, in fact, exist, even though it was so-called; it was merely a few bus stances on the N-340.

  Paulina’s apartment was close by.

  ‘I think I’ll pop up and see how she’s doing,’ said Concepción.

  ‘That could be a mistake,’ said Encarnita.

  ‘You couldn’t take a couple of bags for me, could you?’

  ‘I suppose so. As long as they’re not too heavy.’

  With a bag in either hand, Encarnita crossed the road, avoiding being mown down by a motor cycle ridden by a man with his small daughter on the back and a dog perched on the handlebars, and cut down Calle Granada to the Balcón. It was busy, as usual, with tourists, but she scarcely registered them. Her mind was full of their journey.

  As soon as she went into the house she took her pale blue, lined writing pad from the drawer and sat down to compose her letter. She did not say very much, only that they were coming and she hoped it would still be all right for them to stay. Morna had said many times that she would love to have them and show them her city. Encarnita put the letter into its matching envelope but did not close it. In the morning she would go to a travel agency and book their flights and then add a note giving Morna the date and time of their arrival.

  She had just put the pad and remaining envelopes back in the drawer when she heard them arriving, Concepción, Paulina, and Paulina’s children.

  ‘Mama, Paulina’s been having a terrible time! Look at her eye! Carlos hit her last night.’ One of the children began to cry.

  Encarnita was concerned for her granddaughter. ‘You should make a complaint to the police the next time he does it.’ The Spanish courts had been cracking down on domestic violence after years of more or less ignoring it.

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ said Concepción. ‘Mama, they’ve got to stay here with us. We can’t put them out.’

  They had their luggage with them. It consisted of much more than what Concepción’s brood had brought with them when they’d moved in fifteen years ago. Paulina might always be short of money but the children had more bagfuls of toys than they could carry. Dolls, dolls’ clothes and other accessories, teddy bears, furry squirrels, dogs, cats and koala bears, toy cars, tractors and aeroplanes, jigsaw puzzles, colouring books, and even story books, the latter bought by their grandmother. The children let them spill out all over the floor.

  ‘I’m going out,’ announced Encarnita, lifting her helmet from the shelf and stepping over the display of goods littering the floor. She pulled the door shut behind her and paused to take a breath of air. It was a fine evening to be out, mild, with no wind.

  She found Jorge in the little bar he frequented. ‘Let’s go down to La Herradura,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and have something to eat and drink. I’ll pay.’

  They got a seat outside a chiringuito where they had an uninterrupted view of the sea and the setting sun. The sea was dead calm, with scarcely a ripple to disturb it. A little way out, a man was fishing from a rowboat; his wife was rowing.

  Encarnita sipped her brandy and told Jorge her plans. He did not show much enthusiasm.

  ‘What’s the point in going to see this man after all those years?’

  ‘I’d always planned to.’

  ‘I know.’ He shifted restlessly on his seat. ‘How are you going to find him?’

  ‘It’s not a big country, Scotland.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Morna will help me. She knows how to do things. She’s been a social worker.’

  Jorge was quiet. He gazed out to sea.

  Encarnita put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m not going for ever, you know.’

  ‘How long are you going for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you’ll have to know before you buy your ticket.’

  ‘I thought I’d just buy singles. Well, we’ve no idea how long it’ll take to find him.’

  ‘This is a mad idea, Encarnita, if ever I heard one.’ He sighed. ‘But when your mind’s made up you never change it, do you?’

  ‘Let’s have another brandy!’ Encarnita signalled to the waiter. ‘Don’t let’s be sad, not tonight.’

  They had a good evening and Jorge deposited her, replete with brandy, grilled sole and patatas fritas, at the end of her street. The house was quiet when she opened the door. The children were asleep, Concepción was watching television – bought by Felipe – and Paulina had gone out.

  ‘Mama, I don’t know how I can leave her.’

  ‘Of course you can! She’s perfectly capable of looking after the children on her own. In the morning I go to the travel agent.’

  Encarnita was there when the shop opened. ‘I want to go to Edinburgh,’ she informed the young man, who looked as if he had just risen from his bed. ‘Two tickets, one way only.’

  ‘When do you want to go?’ He couldn’t stop yawning. He had enlarged tonsils.

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  She sat patiently while he fiddled with his machine. Eventually he looked up at her and asked, ‘What about Saturday? Couple of seats left.’

  Encarnita pondered. Today was Wednesday. Three days to get ready; that should be enough. As far as she was concerned, she could be ready to go tonight. Not Concepción, however. ‘Saturday will be fine,’ she said.

  ‘You have an up-to-date passport?’

  She nodded. She had acquired one when going to Morocco.

  ‘Shall I just go ahead?’ asked the young man.

  Again, she nodded. He took all her details, and Concepción’s, and she paid with a cheque, amazed that it was all proving so easy. He told her to come back and collect the tickets on Friday morning and gave her a pen with the agency’s name printed on it as a gift for booking with them.

  ‘Don’t forget you’ll need to change your money into sterling!’ he called after her as she made for the door.

  ‘Of course not!’ she retorted though, in fact, it had not occurred to her. Walking back down the street she felt slightly unsteady and had to stop for a moment to get her breath back before going into the bank. The teller told her the rate of exchange, which meant nothing to her, she signed a cheque, and he slid a bundle of notes bearing the head of the queen of England over to her. No, not just the queen of England, she told herself. Great Britain. She must not make that mistake in Scotland. She remembered Conal telling her how it annoyed the Scots. She was beginning to remember more of the things he had said to her. It was as if a time slip was happening inside her head.

  She found Jorge in the pensioners’ recreation club at the end of Calle Diputación. Sometimes they came evenings when there was dancing and they had a few turns on the floor together. Jorge was not much of a dancer but she managed to steer him around. The villagers in Yegen had loved dances, especially those that Don Geraldo had held in his house. Encarnita often wished she had learned to dance flamenco; the music always stirred her. When Morna came she took her to the Cultural Centre in Calle Granada to performances of genuine flamenco song and dance, which were quite different from those put on in hotels. Morna was scornful of those; she called them chocolate box-flamenco. Morna was much in her mind also this morning.

  Jorge was drinking coffee and reading the paper. Encarnita collapsed into a chair beside him.

  ‘I’ve done it! We go on Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday! That’s quick, isn’t it?’

  That was also Concepción’s reaction when she heard. ‘How am I to get ready in time? I must go to the hairdresser’s, I need my roots done. I can’t go like this! And what about my clothes?’

  ‘You’ve got all those new ones you bought in Málaga.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Better start washing and ironing, then.’

  At nine o’clock in the eve
ning, when Felipe should be home from work, Encarnita went out to a phone booth and rang him. Elena answered. Yes, Felipe was home, just this very minute. He’d had a hard day at the office and was having a small whisky, but she’d call him. First, though, how was Encarnita? Elena hoped there was nothing wrong?

  ‘No, nothing,’ said Encarnita, unwilling to give the news first to Elena. ‘We’re all fine.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that. You must come up for a visit soon with Concepción. You’ve not been to see us for ages. Would you like us to fix a date now? Our diary tends to get filled up well ahead.’

  ‘We’re going away for a while. We don’t know when we’ll be back.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Elena waited to find out if she was to be enlightened further, but when she realised that she was not, she said, ‘Hang on a minute, I’ll fetch Felipe.’

  Felipe said, ‘Elena says you’re going away somewhere. Where to?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘Good for you! What can I do to help?’

  It was arranged that he would come down to Nerja early on Saturday morning, bringing two suitcases equipped with wheels, and then he would drive them to Málaga airport.

  ‘Hasta luego!’ Encarnita put down the receiver.

  In the street, she bumped into Paulina’s Carlos, who was looking gloomy but sober.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit her,’ he said. ‘But she was going on and on at me about not bringing in enough money – as if it’s my fault that the fish are low! – and I’d had a few marcs and I lost my temper. I want her and the kids back.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling she’d like to go back. She and her mother are at each other’s throats. But she’s too proud to do it without being asked. Why don’t you go round and say you’re sorry? And maybe stop drinking so much?’

  ‘I’ll try, Encarnita, really I will.’

  ‘Try hard,’ she said to his retreating back.