There was to be no friendship after that. ‘Luis knows better than to kick a ball around the house. He knows the value of things, whereas that half-wit of a boy Manuel has no more respect for civilised living than a wild animal,’ Dona Sofίa had cried.
‘But Mama. It was me. It was my fault. All my fault,’ her son had told her bravely. ‘Can I see Manu? See if he’s all right?’
But it was no use. No matter how many times he had reasoned with his mother there was to be no shifting Dona Sofίa from her position. It was all Manuel’s fault. She blamed him for everything. And when Luis had run to the village, determined to see how his dear friend was getting on, Dona Sofίa had blamed Manuel some more. Dona Sofίa had always managed to keep her son away from Fuentes de Andalucía and its inhabitants until then.
That Cecilia wasn’t dismissed there and then was a miracle. A miracle brought about by Luis. He’d pleaded with his mother on Cecilia’s behalf and she had given in. But she was determined not to do so again.
Four months after the ball incident Luis was sent away to school. Dona Sofίa wouldn’t have him going to the village again.
The child was ten.
Poor Dona Sofίa. What had she done? She’d waited for a child for such a long time, had feared she might never be able to find one. And then she’d sent him away.
Of course, his mother missed him terribly when he’d gone. And she would pour out her heart to Cecilia whenever she could to shout about the fact. And Cecilia wouldn’t – couldn’t – condemn her for that. But Luis was homesick. And Dona Sofίa’s eyes were forever red and sore, her nose constantly streaming. ‘What should I do?’ the wealthy landowner’s wife asked her penniless housekeeper. An observer would have thought Dona Sofίa regarded Cecilia as a friend. Cecilia made the fatal mistake of thinking so too. As one mother to another. Cecilia dared to give Dona Sofίa her most truthful counsel.
Oh, the insolence.
Cecilia had very nearly lost her job that day. ‘How dare you Cecilia! We’re providing that boy with a first-class education. But then, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’ The housekeeper had put her fingers to her hot cheek, her employer’s red hand print upon it. She had momentarily forgotten her place. She wouldn’t do so again. It was clear that to Dona Sofίa, Cecilia was no more sentient than a wooden sculpture that she’d had fashioned to her pleasing.
And so now, though happy to hear that Luis was coming home, Cecilia kept her excitement well and truly to herself.
Maria looked at the page in front of her; apart from the title, Cumbres Borrascosas, the only marks on it were the rings left by the numerous cups of water she’d had and the ink that had splashed as she’d thrown down her pen. Cumbres Borrascosas. Even that wasn’t original. She’d taken it from the English classic, Wuthering Heights. She looked through her window, exasperated. As she watched the heat vibrate over the expanse of countryside beyond the village, inspiration hit her with its golden arrow. She picked up her pen. Crossed out her first attempt. Replaced it with Campos Sofocantes. There. Sweltering Fields. Much better. Now she could start to write her epic story of love between wonderful strangers from different lands, where the heroine was from Spain and the hero from England. She put pen to paper once more and wrote ‘based on a true story’. She was on fire.
But something had changed, after the picnic. Maria, for all her knowledge of the secrets of the human heart, was the only one who didn’t realise it. Blinded by her own importance she still believed that Richard loved her, and that she loved him, despite her body repeatedly telling her to the contrary – though it had been thankfully quieter of late. Perhaps due to the fact that he wasn’t coming round as frequently as he once had. Not that she minded. In some ways she preferred it. His absence as ever gave her the space to preserve his image, perpetuate the myth that she loved him.
In truth, before the picnic his constant attention and desire to please her had been vaguely irritating. He’d once brushed her fingers with his which she’d found deeply disturbing. And not in a good way. She hadn’t been able to look at him without feeling nauseous for days. She’d convinced herself then that this was because she was lovesick.
But one Tuesday morning, as she anticipated Richard’s visit, she questioned the heavy feeling in her heart. Tuesday was the day when her father would check on the English boy’s health as arranged, and this Tuesday Maria had started to feel anxious about his impending visit the moment her bare feet touched the wooden floor as she got out of bed. She busied herself in the kitchen, peeling the vegetables and getting everything ready for the evening meal. She’d not seen Richard since the Wednesday before; Seňor Suarez had taken him to Seville. She told herself she was looking forward to seeing him, hearing all about his trip, what he’d seen, what he’d eaten, who he’d met. She played at being in love again. But as she set about getting everything ready in the kitchen and as the hour of his arrival approached she could not stop herself from shaking with fear.
This wasn’t love.
She’d gone out to meet Paloma earlier in the day. They’d sat under their olive tree, played their game. But Paloma too had been preoccupied. The heavens were raining down upon her mother up on the estate, thanks to Don Felipe and Dona Sofίa, and something had happened to Lola which she didn’t want to talk about. The future, Maria could see, was not looking bright for Paloma. But her own had also lost its lustre. The thought that she might have to spend the rest of her life with Richard Johnson had turned her winged sandals to stone filled boots. The girls brooded, too ill at ease to let limbs interlace and hopes soar.
They said goodbye and went home, both deep in thought. Dark clouds of their own making were gathering on the horizon for both of them. Little did they realise that these would soon seem as refreshing as summer rain when the real storm broke out.
On 17th July 1936 Spanish soldiers rose up against their own government in North Africa and mainland Spain. The pools of unrest that had been bubbling away under the surface of the country were starting to erupt. Ordinary working men and women gathered around radios in neighbours’ houses and listened for news. Seňor Suarez and Doctor Alvaro poured over newspapers and relayed their contents to the villagers. Father Anselmo prayed for peace. The mayor called an emergency meeting, then another one, followed by another one. Richard Johnson sent a telegram home. Uprisings were stopped in one part of Spain, re-started in another. These were the stutterings of war. The nation watched and waited, hearts in mouths.
By the 19th and 20th of July the rebellion had been defeated in Madrid and Barcelona. ‘Stopped two days after it started. That means that there will be no war,’ Doctor Alvaro assured his daughter, although the meetings that were being held in the village hall signified the opposite. The military uprising, no matter how many assurances Doctor Alvaro gave his daughter, had begun, and though held at bay in key cities, it was sweeping its bloody way up from the south.
For weeks, rumours seeped on ahead, wraith-like. They rustled through the olive groves at first, too remote and far-fetched to be believed. But as the soldiers got closer so the rumours threw up dust on stony roads, stamped their way down streets and round corners, eventually making their way up the stairs and into the study of Doctor Alvaro.
Soldiers, Spanish soldiers, were on their way. They were marching into Spanish towns and Spanish villages, shooting Spanish men, Spanish women and Spanish children.
The