The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (75 page)

Chapter 85

W
hile half of Spain mourned and sought escape, Europe turned its eyes to Germany and to an inevitable war on many fronts. Celia, Ernesto, and Aunt Marie were making plans to return to Valencia. Ernesto’s state of health had continued to improve, although it still gave cause for concern. He was also plagued by questions and worries as he prepared to leave England. What role would he now have to play in a “new” Spain? He was well aware that in order to return to the home he loved, he’d have to publicly support Franco, and he hoped that by so doing, he could also protect his peasants from Spain’s new leader.

Celia hadn’t slept well in weeks, and her every waking hour was filled with the hope for her children’s safe return home. She wrote constantly during long sleepless nights, and on the day before their departure from England, she filled the last page of this particular journal:

1
April
1939

At
last,
we’re
going
home!
How
I
love
the
sound
of
that
word
on
my
tongue:
home
to
La
Glorieta
and
my
children.
It
has
been
more
than
three
years
since
I
said
goodbye
to
Miguel.
He
was
always
in
my
heart,
of
course,
but
never
more
so
than
now.
He
has
become
a
loving
son
once
again,
and
I
can’t
wait
to
hold
him
in
my
arms.
My
children
will
need
me,
and
I
can
only
hope
that
I
can
help
heal
their
wounds
in
some
small
way.

Ernesto
has
been
strangely
quiet.
I
know
he
is
still
mourning
Rosa’s
death,
although
he
won’t
admit
it,
and
I
also
know
that
he
is
a
little
afraid
of
what
he
will
find
in
his
beloved
home
and
country.
I
must
be
strong
for
him,
support
him,
as
he
has
always
supported
me.
I
love
him
so.

I
have
asked
myself
many
times
in
the
last
few
days
if
I
am
sorry
to
be
leaving
my
own
country
at
a
time
when
she
may
face
an
enemy
we
already
know
too
well.
I
tell
myself
that
everything
will
be
all
right
and
that
this
new
war
will
not
last
long,
but
I
know
war
now,
and
I
pray
that
England
will
not
suffer
the
same
fate
as
Spain:
torn,
ravished,
and
perpetually
saddened.

Marta
is
constantly
in
my
thoughts,
and
her
death
is
even
more
unbearable
to
me
now
as
I
suffocate
in
the
knowledge
that
I
will
not
see
her
on
our
return
home.
If
only
we
had
taken
her
out
of
that
convent
before
it
was
too
late!

I
shall
not
return
to
England.
Tonight
I
will
quietly
say
goodbye
to
my
old
country.
Merrill
Farm
shall
remain
in
the
family
and
in
the
future
may
once
again
be
occupied
by
a
new
generation
of
Merrills,
who
will
never
know
the
cruel
history
within
its
walls
 
.
 
.
 
.

On 30 March, María received a telegram brought to her by her father’s friend Francisco. Her parents would arrive on board a Rawlings ship on 14 April, and the ship would anchor offshore and then head straight back out to sea after depositing her parents safely on land. Francisco would make sure, he told her, that all the necessary arrangements were made to facilitate this.

Carlos’s death hung over her like a black shadow, following her everywhere. However, it was her son who filled her thoughts. Would her parents be disappointed in her or would they understand that her child was born out of love, she wondered. She had never told her parents about Carlos. They knew nothing about her love for him. Marta and Pedro were the only two people she had ever told, and they had kept her secret. She accepted that in the dawn of this New Spain, she would most probably be branded as a fallen woman, but how many women like her had fallen from grace over the love of a man in time of war? And how many were now faced with a life without a man by her side? Her parents would come home, and they would love little Carlos, just as she did. Her mother would also understand her grief over Carlos’s death, for Celia, more than any one, had always believed that love was the most precious gift a person could receive whilst on this earth.

The remainder of La Glorieta’s occupants looked to María for answers. They had taken a gamble; they had stood by the republic in war and had lost. María understood that, and so did they. Those who had stayed knew that very soon the uniforms of nationalist soldiers and the Guardía Civil would take over. Some had asked for her protection, while others demanded that protection.

María sat in a high-backed chair by the kitchen fireplace and rocked baby Carlos in her arms. She had promised herself not to get upset for his sake, but her pain ran so deep that it was almost like a physical ache that she just couldn’t still. Ramón sat opposite her and, as always, soothed her with brave words and gentle coaching. He took the baby from her and lifted his tiny body until their eyes met.

“I love you, Carlos,” he said with a catch in his voice. “Never forget your old grandfather.”

María cried and could have kicked herself for her display of weakness. She had tried to talk Ramón out of leaving so soon, but to no avail. She understood why he had to disappear, but he had been like a father to her. He had protected her and with his influence had probably saved her home from an angry mob, who might otherwise have burned it to the ground on that very first night of occupation. Ramón and his wife were her child’s grandparents; he needed them as much as she did.

She wiped her tears but couldn’t bring herself to speak about the horrors that would face Ramón and his wife should they remain at La Glorieta. She had seen the first signs of Franco’s revenge that very morning, when a small garrison of Guardía Civil took to the streets of La Glorieta, rounding up men and women deemed unsavoury in Franco’s eyes. Ramón and his wife had been hiding for four days now, and she knew, as did they, that they couldn’t remain hidden forever. Soon, she thought, she would weep for all the poor souls who had dared to defy the great Generalissimo Franco.

Ramón looked at her now, and she saw her beloved Carlos in his eyes. A wave of sadness washed over her, quickly followed by bitterness and anger. She opened her mouth to say something. She wanted to tell Ramón that he was just as stubborn as his son was and to look where that stubbornness had gotten him. Instead, she bit her lip and then tried to convince him to stay one more day.

“Why can’t you wait until my father returns? He will help you. He will know what to do.”

“María, I’ve already explained this to you,” Ramón told her patiently. “Every minute I spend here puts your life in danger. Do you think that Franco’s henchmen care that your father is Don Ernesto? If they find my wife and me here, you’ll be hauled away with us as a conspirator. Whole families have already been taken because mothers have tried to protect sons, wives their husbands, and daughters their fathers. All get put on the back of a truck, regardless of whom or what they are. You have to be able to say that you don’t know where I’ve gone and believe what you’re saying because, believe me, these people can spot a lie just with a blink of the eye. María, that’s why Carlos left you without a word, why he refused to come near you. It was to protect you! You thought he had abandoned you, but you were wrong. He loved you so much that he denied himself of you to keep you safe!”

María suddenly felt ashamed; Ramón was right. She couldn’t lie to the nationalist soldiers or the Guardía Civil if they turned up at the house looking for him, and they could come at any moment. She had seen with her own eyes that innocent people were being taken simply because of their association with wanted dissidents or indeed anyone who didn’t dance to their tune with fascist salutes. She stared at her baby in Ramón’s arms. He had no father; she would not leave him motherless now too.

“Ramón, at least take the money. How far do you think you’ll get with no money and no food inside you? At least allow me to do that for you and your wife and for your grandson,” she urged him.

Ramón took the brown paper bag from her without a word and then handed the baby back to her. María kissed the baby’s head and wrapped her shawl around him. The kitchens were cold, she thought, for there had been no cooking done there in days. She kissed Carlos again and put him in his carrycot, sitting behind her chair. She turned, looked up, and saw that Ramón had gone.

María and Lucia sat on the front patio. María smiled indulgently at Lucia, shaking her head at the same time. Her friend had been driving her crazy all morning. Pedro was due home any time now, and she wouldn’t sit still for a second or let a second go by without asking what time it was, and since neither of them knew what time Pedro would arrive, it was to María a redundant question.

They sat on the grubby armchairs once used by invalid soldiers, deep in thought and filled with a peaceful contentment that had been absent for so long.

“Whatever happens,” Lucia said, “you and I will always be friends now. We can’t undo the past, María. It’s done, and all we must hope for now is a reasonable future, and that Franco is not as bad as everyone says he is. Do you think he is all bad, as bad as everyone says?”

“Lucia, hush. Let’s enjoy a quiet moment,” María told her. “We need this moment. At least I do.”