Encarnita's Journey Read online

To give him time to make his plea she dropped in on Jorge in the bar. He, too, was looking gloomy.

  ‘You’d think I was going to my doom,’ said Encarnita cheerfully.

  ‘I can’t help worrying about the two of you going off to a strange city like that.’

  ‘Morna will look after us.’

  Jorge asked if he could go with them to the airport. ‘There’ll be a spare seat in Felipe’s car, won’t there?’

  ‘There should be, unless he brings the children.’

  Felipe arrived on his own. Elena was taking the children to visit her parents. They had been invited to lunch with some very old friends of the family who were visiting from Madrid. No doubt Felipe had been expected also. Encarnita wondered if Elena would tell her parents that her husband was taking his grandmother to the airport so that she could go in search of an old lover, his own grandfather.

  The women packed the suitcases Felipe had brought, Concepción taking up part of the space in her mother’s. Even then, she had to leave some items out and sit on the case to close it.

  ‘What marvellous things,’ said Encarnita, pushing her case too and fro and remembering how she’d carried all her possessions on her back from Yegen to Almuñecar. If Pilar were to return to this world now she would not recognise her own country.

  Felipe put their suitcases in the boot and they set off for the airport, Concepción riding in front, and Encarnita behind with Jorge. The two in the front chatted, the two in the back said little. The car purred smoothly along the motorway and in less than an hour they were approaching the airport. Jorge reached for Encarnita’s hand. She was beginning to feel a little sick in her stomach. What was she doing? They were in a lane for airport departures now and Felipe was looking for a suitable space to park.

  The two men escorted the travellers into the airport building, waited with them until they had stood in a long queue and checked in and then walked them to the point where their paths must part.

  ‘Buen viaje!’ said Felipe. ‘Y buena suerte!’ Good journey. Good luck.

  ‘Buen viaje!’ echoed Jorge.

  The women embraced the men.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said Encarnita, unable to stand another minute of this torture. If she had to, she might turn back.

  She took Concepción’s arm and they passed through to the area where only bona fide travellers were permitted to enter.

  At last, Encarnita’s journey had begun.

  THE LAST STAGE: EDINBURGH

  2002

  ‘Welcome to Edinburgh,’ said the captain. ‘We hope you have enjoyed your flight with us today and we look forward to welcoming you on board another time. The temperature in Edinburgh is currently ten degrees.’

  Encarnita let out her breath in a long sigh. She felt as if she had been holding it ever since they had taken off from Málaga. That had been the worst part. When she had peered out of the small window to see the world lying tilted below she had wanted to be released. It had seemed unnatural, to be hanging up there in the sky, higher than the birds who had always been intended to fly. Relax, Concepción had told her. She had tried to and once the plane had straightened itself out she had found the panorama of mountain tops astounding. They had looked so rugged and unconquerable that they were awe-inspiring. She had only ever seen them from below, where – strangely, perhaps – they had seemed more approachable. The roads, the few that there were, were like thin lines cutting through them and the pueblos clinging to their sides, splashes of white. As for man, he was too small to be visible from such a height.

  Once they had landed, Concepción took charge. Their normal roles reversed, with Concepción knowing so much more than her mother about airports, from her travels with Emilio. She wasted no time in finding them a trolley and expertly hauled their suitcases off the carousel while Encarnita stood by feeling bewildered. It was all too hectic for her.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said Concepción, setting off as if she were running a race, steering their trolley in front of her like a battering ram. Encarnita struggled to keep up.

  When they came into the main area of the airport they slowed and looked about, studying the clusters of people awaiting new arrivals. Some were holding placards aloft and although they did not expect to find their name they scrutinised them, nevertheless. There was no sign either of their name or of Morna, not as far as they could see, but, then, the airport was crowded.

  ‘She’s often late,’ said Encarnita, peering into the crowd.

  Concepción leaned on the handles of the trolley, straightening herself up to sigh when Encarnita announced that she needed to go to the toilet. She had refused to go on the plane, being reluctant to get up once she had been seated and strapped in. Also, a neighbour had told her about a woman who had got sucked on to a toilet seat in a plane and was stuck there until they landed.

  ‘All right, Mama, you go and I’ll stay with the luggage.’

  It was fortunate that toilets had universal symbols to guide passengers for Encarnita did not feel confident enough at the moment to try out her use of English. She found one easily. It was peaceful in here. She was tempted to linger. She rinsed her hands and face and combed her hair and allowed herself a brief glance in the mirror, not much liking what she saw. Lines left by the passage of eighty-two years. He would not know her. She shrugged. What was done was done. She went out to rejoin her daughter.

  ‘You took your time!’ said Concepción. ‘There’s still no sign of her.’ The crowd had thinned around the arrival area. ‘When did you write the letter to her?’

  ‘I posted it on Wednesday.’ Encarnita faltered. Three days ago. Not long for a letter to come all the way from the south of Spain to Scotland. Not long enough, perhaps.

  ‘She won’t have got it yet!’

  ‘No, possibly not.’

  ‘Possibly not? So what are we doing standing here waiting for somebody who doesn’t even know we’re here? I always said this journey of yours was a stupid idea.’

  ‘Calm down, Concepción! People are looking at you.’

  ‘They won’t know what I’m saying.’

  ‘How do you know? Lots of people in Edinburgh might speak Spanish. Besides, you’re shouting.’

  A new wave of arrivals was already coming flooding in, threatening to swamp them. They seemed to be standing in the middle of a traffic lane. They moved to the side.

  ‘Now what?’ demanded Concepción.

  ‘I’ve got Morna’s address here.’ Encarnita dug in her bag until she found the piece of paper. ‘St Stephen Street,’ she read out. ‘Morna says it’s an interesting street. It’s got lots of bars and hairdressers and second-hand shops, things like that. Morna said you might find some nice dresses at a reasonable price.’

  ‘Not second-hand!’

  ‘Morna buys second-hand.’

  ‘Morna! She looks as if she’s come out of a ragbag.’

  ‘She says the world needs to recycle.’

  ‘She says! Where is she now?’

  ‘How would I know? We’ll just have to find her street ourselves.’

  ‘Just!’ Grumbling, as was her habit, Concepción said she supposed they could ask at Information. The woman behind the counter did not speak Spanish, which surprised them, but Encarnita was able to muster enough English to explain their dilemma. The address was in central Edinburgh, the woman told them, and she recommended that they take either a taxi or a bus. She pointed in the direction in which they should go.

  Encarnita thought a taxi would be expensive since, according to Morna, everything was much dearer in Edinburgh than in Nerja. ‘We have to watch our money.’

  ‘If we took the bus what would we do after that? I’m not going to stand here arguing. We’re taking a taxi! Or else I’m getting on the next plane back to Málaga.’ Concepción looked thoughtful.

  ‘Let’s find a taxi,’ said her mother hurriedly.

  A short wait in a queue, and then they were bowling along the road from the airport into the city centre. Rain lashed the taxi
’s windows and wind buffeted its sides.

  ‘It doesn’t always do this,’ said the driver. ‘The weather was brilliant until yesterday.’

  As they neared the city centre the traffic thickened and their progress was reduced to a crawl. Rush hour, said the driver, yawning. Every light turned to red as they approached. They lurched from one to the other, with stops and starts. Encarnita watched the lit-up figures in the fare box mounting. Entering Princes Street they caught a brief glimpse of Edinburgh’s famous castle sitting high up on its rock before the driver turned off. They speeded up a little now and rattled over cobbles, past imposing squares and dripping green gardens guarded by black, wrought-iron railings until, finally, they entered a small narrow grey street. It was choked with cars, reminding them of the streets in Nerja. That was the only similarity between the two towns that Encarnita could see.

  ‘Well, this is it, ladies,’ announced the driver cheerfully, managing to find a space to squeeze into at the kerb.

  They could not decide if the fare was high or low without translating it into euros and they had too many other things to concern them. They gazed around. The street was grey, the pavement was grey, the buildings were grey, and so was the sky.

  ‘It will look better when the sun comes out,’ said Encarnita.

  ‘It would look better with some whitewash.’

  When they found Morna’s number Encarnita was greatly relieved. Standing in the airport she had begun to wonder if her Scottish friend existed. There was her name beside one of the bells at the side of the door. Encarnita put her thumb squarely on it and held her head close to the speaking grill. Nothing happened. She pressed again, this time holding it down for a few seconds.

  ‘It seems she’s not in,’ remarked Concepción, sounding almost pleased, so her mother thought. ‘Meanwhile, we’re getting wet standing here.’

  Encarnita tried twice more before conceding that her daughter must be right, on both counts. Concepción suggested they try one of the other names. They studied them and Encarnita chose crazyclean.com.

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’ asked Concepción.

  A voice answered and Encarnita, putting her mouth to the grill, said, ‘Morna’s friends. Can we speak?’

  ‘Come up.’

  The door buzzed, ready to be opened, and they went in, bumping their suitcases up the three dark flights of stairs to crazyclean.com, pausing, on the way, at the door of Morna’s flat on the second landing to try the bell there, even though they realised that there would probably be no answer. There was not. They squinted through the letter box and looked into darkness.

  A young woman with a ring through each nostril was waiting for them on the top landing.

  ‘We look for Morna,’ said Encarnita, puffing from the climb.

  ‘Morna! She’s gone to visit her cousin in Canada.’

  ‘Canada,’ echoed the two visitors.

  The young woman, whose name was Flick, brought them into her flat, from where she ran her cleaning business. Hence the name on her bell, she explained to them and, as regards the business, she was it. ‘I clean like crazy! It’s good money. Women are desperate in the inner city. They’ll pay anything.’ She talked in a high, fast voice so that her visitors were not always able to follow, although they were listening hard. She said she had thought of calling the business squeakyclean but, in the end, she had gone for crazy.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Squeaky?’ Encarnita frowned. ‘Noise of mouse?’

  ‘No, no.’ Flick laughed. Her laugh was also high-pitched. ‘Hair.’ She rubbed a few strands of her own together.

  Encarnita was even more mystified. ‘You work alone?’ she asked. She had not been sure if that was what Flick had meant when she had said she was it. It was all very well knowing some English words and phrases but understanding everything that was being said was another matter. How easy it would be to misunderstand.

  Flick said that she had employed other women, at times, but they had always let her down in the end, either by not turning up or messing up the job, breaking valuables and so forth. Everyone who ran cleaning businesses found the same thing. Encarnita, who had been involved in it for many years herself, was interested, though the situation was different in Nerja, where women were glad of the work.

  Flick was kind, however. She invited them to take off their wet coats and sit on her furry black and white sofa striped like a zebra and she made them coffee and listened sympathetically to their story. Encarnita did not tell the whole story, only that they had intended to come to Edinburgh for a long time to stay with their friend Morna and that they had bought tickets on the spur of the moment and, well, here they were.

  ‘So here you are!’ said Flick brightly, and what a pity Morna was not! Flick was sorry that she couldn’t invite them to stay with her but the flat, as they could see, was small and she shared it with her partner, who would be home shortly. She glanced at her watch. The best thing would be for them to go to a B&B. Bed and breakfast, she explained. Good value for money, unlike the hotels. She knew of one only ten minutes’ walk away that she could recommend.

  Encarnita said that the bed would be enough since they did not eat much breakfast, but Flick explained that the two went together. A good Scottish breakfast would set them up for the day. Encarnita knew about those from her association with her former employers, the Pilkingtons. They still kept in touch with her; they sent a card at Christmas and when they came out to Spain they called to see how she was doing and bring her a present, chocolates or special biscuits from an expensive shop in London. Concepción had seen Harrods mentioned in a magazine. Even Hubert came bearing gifts. He was a successful stockbroker, married, with two children.

  Flick scribbled the B&B address on a slip of paper, along with the name of the landlady, a Mrs Mack, and drew a few squiggly lines for a map, while rattling off a list of instructions which they could not follow. After they had finished their coffee they thanked her and set out. Concepción did not speak as they dragged their suitcases through the wet streets, humping them over kerbs and puddled gutters. They got lost only twice and each time Encarnita managed to ask a woman on the street, by showing the piece of paper.

  The B&B proved to be chilly. The heating did not come on until after six o’clock, Mrs Mack informed them. Guests did not normally come back before then. There was a kettle on the dresser and they were welcome to make themselves a cup of tea, which they did as soon as they had divested themselves of their wet outer layers and kicked off their shoes.

  ‘Mama, this is crazy,’ said Concepción, as they sat on the edge of the bed sipping their tea and contemplating the colourless room. One light bulb glowed weakly above their heads. Beyond the net-curtained window daylight was waning. ‘It’s past six o’clock,’ Concepción went on, putting her hand on the radiator. ‘You can barely feel it.’

  ‘Sometimes life is crazy,’ agreed Encarnita, staring into her cup of tea. ‘Other times, sad. Or it can be both.’ She was thinking of her Uncle Rinaldo and how he had fought to save his country from the forces of General Franco and given his life. In vain, most people would say. About that, she had never been able to decide. They hadn’t managed to liberate themselves from Franco until he died. Since then, Spain had flourished. ‘We can’t give up now, Concepción.’

  Her daughter sighed. Above the bed was a large sign saying NO SMOKING. She was desperate for a cigarette. She was about to indulge in a grumble about it when she looked up and caught her mother’s eye. They both laughed. After that, they felt better.

  Arm-in-arm, they set forth to look for somewhere to eat, ending up in an Italian restaurant where the waiter wielded an enormously long pepper mill and the prices astounded them. They each had a pizza and a glass of red wine.

  ‘At this rate,’ said Encarnita, gazing at the figure at the bottom of the bill, ‘we cannot last long.’

  For once, her daughter did not argue. She was in a happier frame of mind now that she had been
able to smoke. To her mother’s annoyance, she had insisted on sitting in the smoking area.

  In the breakfast room of the B&B there was another large NO SMOKING sign propped on the mantelpiece. Those signs must be big business here, commented Concepción. They were much less frequently to be seen in Andalucía.

  The women sat down to cornflakes, bacon, sausage, black pudding, fried tomatoes, mushrooms and egg, plus toast with marmalade, all of which they consumed, along with several cups of strong tea. They left not a scrap of anything edible on the table.

  ‘You have good appetites,’ observed Mrs Mack, collecting the empty plates. She had told them that she was renowned for her breakfasts. She’d been mentioned in a guide book. ‘You’ll be going out for the day?’

  ‘Can you tell us please the street of writer man Robert Louis Stevenson?’ asked Encarnita.

  ‘You know about him?’ The landlady showed her surprise.

  ‘I have his book.’

  ‘He wrote more than one, you know!’ The woman’s tone was nippy. Softening a little, she offered to show them where it was on the map. ‘No. 17 Heriot Row. It’s not far, just ten minutes up the street, in the New Town. The Georgian New Town,’ she added, emphasising the word Georgian. Encarnita knew that Jorge’s name meant George in English and was puzzled. There was much to learn when travelling in a strange country. Another thing she could not understand was why Mrs Mack was called a landlady. She owned no land, not even a yard.

  Mrs Mack lent them the map, asking them to be careful not to fold it the wrong ways to avoid extra creases. Concepción lit a cigarette as soon as they turned the corner. Encarnita kept her distance. As the landlady had promised, ten minutes walk uphill took them to Heriot Row.

  ‘Doesn’t look very new to me,’ commented Concepción.

  It was a fine, wide street with a garden on one side, edged with the kind of black wrought-iron railings they had noted on their taxi ride. The terraced houses had an unassailable look. They were grand and obviously expensive. The day was bright and crisp with a few wispy white clouds trailing across an otherwise blue sky. Encarnita pointed out that the taxi man had been right, the weather could be quite good.