2004 - Dandelion Soup (17 page)

Miss Drew followed Padraig reluctantly up the stairs.

“Miss Carmichael, while it is abundantly clear that you have unfortunately been robbed, I find it very disquieting that you choose to blame Padraig without a shred of evidence. Padraig is sharing a room with me and I assure you that we do not have a stash of corned beef or anything else hidden there. Now, we are on a pilgrimage, Miss Carmichael, a holy journey, and I will not have it marred by your spiteful accusations.”

Miss Carmichael looked up at the priest. He was very impressive and even more handsome when he was angry. She still thought that Padraig had something to do with the theft of her things, but she wasn’t brave enough, in the face of Father Daley’s anger, to defy him. She’d swallow humble pie for now but she’d be keeping a sharp eye out for Padraig O’Mally and she’d have plenty to tell Sister Veronica when they got back to Ballygurry. He’d get his comeuppance all right and feel the nun’s strap around his blasted backside.

Father Daley turned to Señora Hipola and spoke to her in Spanish. She replied, waving her arms around and wagging her finger at the ceiling. Then she bowed to Father Daley. She gave Miss Carmichael a curious look, crossed herself and went back into her kitchen to attend to dinner.

“Señora Hipola says that there are many thieves about these days. There are all sorts of foreigners and lunatics on the loose all over Spain. She says that by now your things will have been spirited away, probably by gypsies or vagabonds, who knows? She says you can report the theft to the police but that will probably mean that you will need to be interviewed and could mean us staying here a few extra days. She says that you will not need any extra food while you are under her roof; why at this very minute she is preparing you a feast!”

Miss Carmichael smiled weakly and made her way wearily up the stairs.

Father Daley called out, “Miss Carmichael, tell me one thing.”

“Whafs that, Father?”

“Why are there lots of tiny holes punched in the top of your trunk?”

Miss Carmichael said, “My mother used to shut me in there when I was a child if I wasn’t top of the class or misbehaved and, er, other reasons besides. Without the holes I would have suffocated.”

Violante Burzaco had enjoyed a very interesting and yet disturbing day. Pig Lane had been busier than it had been for many years. The place seemed to have thrown off its usual torpor and buzzed with a peculiar and unexplained energy. She was sure that something strange was about to happen in Pig Lane, she could feel it in her waters.

From the balcony of her house opposite Señora Hipola’s lodging house she’d been able to watch all the comings and goings, and it had been better than going to the theatre in Los Olivares.

By early afternoon there was a full house at Señora Hipola’s; usually there was just the occasional travelling salesman staying overnight or a priest on his way to Santiago.

The first person to arrive at Señora Hipola’s was a woman who came hurrying down the lane, head bent, worn-down clogs clacking noisily on the cobbles. The woman had only looked up as she arrived at the lodging house. As she did, Violante noticed that she had a newly blackened eye and a nasty gash on the side of her head. She had no luggage with her and kept looking back over her shoulder as though she was afraid of being followed.

Moments later a man emerged from the Bar Pedro, blinking in the sunlight. He looked up and down Pig Lane and then followed the woman into Señora Hipola’s. He was a peculiar, mincing little fellow and a little the worse for drink. He was definitely not from round these parts, judging from the flimsy city shoes and the tight loud suit.

Then, just as the church clock chimed one o’clock, all hell broke loose. There was a clatter of hooves at the far end of the street as old Antonio turned into Pig Lane with his donkey cart. The cart rattled noisily over the cobbles and the four passengers in the back were bounced around like drunken rag dolls.

The two middle-aged women clung to each other and screeched like harridans. Their screeching was echoed by old Antonio’s hysterical laughter.

Mother of God! Violante Burzaco had never seen such a commotion. These people must be the foreign pilgrims that Sefiora Hipola had told her about. What a motley band of pilgrims they were too! As well as the odd-looking women, who were dressed as if they were going on an expedition to the North Pole, there was a very handsome but flustered-looking priest and a small boy who was holding on to his belly and shaking with laughter.

When the donkey cart pulled up sharply outside Seftora Hipola’s, old Antonio leaped nimbly down and helped the women out. There was more squealing then as the lewd old fellow had a surreptitious feel of the pair of them.

The red-faced priest paid Antonio and the old man shook the priest’s hand energetically. Then he got back up into the cart, flicked his whip, and the relieved donkey clattered off along the lane.

The giggling boy and the flustered priest heaved the trunk through the doorway of Sefiora Hipola’s, puffing and panting as they did so. The two peculiar-looking women followed them quickly inside.

Moments later the boy came back out into the lane. Violante leaned over the balcony and watched him with interest. He walked excitedly up and down, peeping curiously into doorways, peering down into the gutters as if looking for something important.

He had such a smile of happiness on his face, such an excited sparkle in his blue eyes that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Excitement was bursting through his skin. Some children had the marvellous ability to express their joy physically. This boy had such an unbridled appetite for life and a fascination with everything around him that it made her skin prickle…It was as if Pig Lane had been awaiting his arrival. There was something about him, something quite beguiling and intriguing.

Eventually the boy went back inside the lodging house and then moments later reappeared on an upstairs balcony busily snapping away with his camera and singing softly to himself. Then someone had called out to him and he had disappeared quickly inside. Violante was disappointed. She could have watched him contentedly for hours. There was something exceptionally uncomplicated and innocent about him and yet at the same time an intricate complexity.

Violante was about to go back inside when something caught her eye. There was a shadowy figure moving around behind the doorway of Seriora Hipola’s house. She thought it might be the boy hiding behind the curtain so she watched the doorway intently.

A large nose emerged cautiously through the metal beads. Two large, wary green eyes followed the nose. Then they withdrew hastily back behind the curtain.

Violante caught her breath.

Her heart beat rapidly with the shock of what she’d seen.

She tried without success to steady her breathing.

She stared earnestly at the doorway. There! The unforgettable nose and the hypnotic green eyes reappeared. Dear God, she’d know that face anywhere, even after all these years. It couldn’t be! But it was. How could it be so? The owner of those fascinating eyes had been dead and buried for years.

She closed her eyes momentarily and wondered what on earth this could mean. When she opened her eyes again the fly curtains on Seftora Hipola’s house were jingling noisily. There was no sign of the face but she could hear the sound of someone scurrying away down the lane, and though she leaned over her balcony she saw only a pair of hairy, skinny legs and well-worn heels disappearing round the corner.

While she was puzzling over this, Sefiora Hipola’s niece Marta came slowly along Pig Lane, lugging a battered old trunk across the cobbles. She paused for a moment outside the Bar Pedro and looked up towards the balcony where Violante stood in the shadows.

Marta was a beautiful-looking girl but today she looked pale and tearful, her young face smudged with misery. Her heart went out to the girl; it really was quite shameful that she was to be married off to Ramon. Poor Ramon didn’t need a wife, he needed a nursemaid. Violante smiled down at Marta and waved and Marta smiled wanly back, then dragged the trunk angrily through into the house.

Piadora sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Her skull was still throbbing and she could barely see through her swollen eye. She supposed by now that Aunt Augusta would have realized that she’d run away and they would be scouring the fields for her at this very moment, but she wasn’t going back, not even if they sent the army for her.

This morning had been the last straw.

As usual she had got up at dawn, turned out the hens from the barn, fed them and collected the eggs. She had fetched the goats from the stable and led them down to the lower pasture, swept the veranda, watered the many pots of flowers and drawn three pails of cool water from the well in the yard.

By the time she had finished her outside chores, Aunt Augusta was already calling out to be washed and dressed. Piadora had boiled more pails of water and filled the bath, lain out clothes on the bed ready for her aunt to wear. She had made
café solo
into which she had to stir four level spoons of sugar, toasted bread to just the right shade of brown, then drizzled it with two and a half teaspoons of olive oil.

She had been sent to search the house and find a book on the lives of the great saints, to retrieve a shawl from the veranda and do a host of other jobs that Aunt Augusta was more than capable of doing for herself.

By noon she had a severe headache and thought that if she remained inside the house a moment longer her head would explode and her mangled brains would spread out across the recently whitewashed walls. Five minutes more of her querulous aunt whining and complaining and ordering her around and she would have committed murder or suicide.

She had slipped outside to the quiet coolness of the wash-house and defused her pent-up anger doing the washing until gradually the throbbing in her head subsided.

She hadn’t heard Aunt Augusta creep up behind her, and when the old woman jabbed her in the back with her stick Piadora had jumped and cried out in alarm.

“My hot chocolate, girl! I’ve been waiting for almost half an hour. I’ve been calling and calling you until I was almost hoarse.”

“I told you earlier, Aunt, Juanita is late bringing the milk. As soon as she arrives, I will make your chocolate.”

“And soon, when she leaves the Villa Romano to marry, you will have to go down to the farm to fetch it yourself.”

“Well, I’ve thought of that and spoken to Benito; he’s willing to bring the milk up each morning.”

“Benito! You imagine that 111 have him hanging round my house. That dirty, flea-ridden lout of a boy! You think you can moon about making eyes at Benito and neglect your work?”

“Aunt Augusta, for heaven’s sake, Benito is a boy of barely eighteen. I am nearly forty.”

“Don’t remind me! Nearly forty years of age and still unmarried; it’s a disgrace to the family. If you’d had a vocation and become a nun, well that might have saved, the family’s face.”

Piadora had felt her face reddening with anger. If she’d had her way she’d have been married years ago. If her bloody family had allowed her to marry the man she’d loved. But no! Instead she had been sent here with her mother until the baby was born and then afterwards left here to care for Aunt Augusta. She wasn’t supposed to have stayed long, just until everything had been sorted out about the baby. But years had passed and she had never been called home.

“And if I had gone to the nuns, who would have slaved for you, eh? Who would have skivvied and worn their fingers to the bone for a…for a wicked and manipulative old woman who has covered up an enormous lie for the past twenty-odd years!”

Aunt Augusta had stood transfixed, her petulant mouth wide with surprise, the cold, hooded eyes flashing with fury. Then she had struck out viciously with her walking stick and caught Piadora a sharp blow around the side of the head.

When Aunt Augusta spoke, her voice was thick with venom.

“Remember, my girl, that this house and the allowance that goes with it is mine, a gift from your mother, and I can turn you out at any time. Any time at all! And then where would you go, eh? You are not welcome even in your own home after what you did!”

Piadora had raised her hand to her head and felt a trickle of sticky blood run slowly down her cheek.

She had pushed past Aunt Augusta and run out of the wash-house. She did not stop until she reached the crossroads at the end of the lane. She was shaking, her heart thumping painfully.

Then she’d heard the far-off rumble of wheels and the parp of a horn. The battered old bus had come into sight, drawn to a screeching halt. In a split second she’d made her decision and clambered unsteadily on to the bus.

She sighed. Tomorrow she supposed she’d have to swallow her pride and go back to Aunt Augusta.

Padraig stood out on the balcony for a long time, unaware that he was being watched. From a shadowy doorway in Pig Lane a wizened, ragged old man gazed at Padraig in wonder. There was no doubting who the boy was, that was certain. The old man stood there for some time and then slipped in through the doorway of Sefiora Hipola’s house.

Looking out to the right of the balcony, Padraig had a grand view over the rooftops of the huddled old town. On a distant hill a church tower reached towards the vast blue sky. On top of the tower an enormous bird was perched on a scruffy nest. He stared in fascination. It was the stork, the big bird that delivered babies in the dark of night. He’d seen pictures of the stork in story-books. It brought babies for rich people and left them in wooden cribs with lacy pillows and satin bows and it hid the poor people’s babies in cabbage patches and under gooseberry bushes.

He smiled to himself then as he remembered the story his mother had told him. He hadn’t been left under a cabbage bush by the stork. He was a love-child, his mammy had said, and he’d to remember that always. Whatever people said about him, he’d to remember that he was a special child and a wanted child. Although some people might call him other things, illegitimate and worse, he had once had a very brave daddy. For a long time after his mammy died he’d hoped there’d been some mistake and that the wind would change and his daddy would come looking for him, come sailing up the river. He hadn’t thought about his daddy in a long time. He didn’t know that much about him even.