Maria’s father pushed his fingers against his skull, a need to reach into his own mind and stop this madman with a microphone from sullying everything good within but the excited, angry little voice continued. It threw up fervour, passion, bloodlust. Talked of God and country. Threatened punishment. Promised annihilation.
The harsh voice blasted out of the radio and shrieked in their ears.
Maria shivered. Richard felt a chill. Alvaro got up, unable to bear it. He turned the radio off.
‘Can’t we hear the rest?’ she asked, strangely drawn into the darkness of de Llano’s vile world. Richard nodded to show that he too needed to listen. Alvaro turned the radio back on and walked out. He’d heard enough over the past days and no longer had the stomach for tales of squealing Red women with kicking legs. He didn’t want his daughter to know about them either. But war was always evil, ugly. And she had a right to know how evil and ugly it was becoming.
The young pair sat and listened. When the broadcast had finished neither of them said a word, did not even exchange a glance because they could not bear to look at one another. Maria’s body had lost its youthful, hopeful tingle of only minutes before; Richard felt sickened at the memory of his. De Llano had banished them from paradise.
The English boy got up and left the house. It was perfectly understandable that he should go out and get some air.
Doctor Alvaro was apprehensive about the impending arrival of the army to their village, now more than ever. He knew a peaceful takeover had been agreed upon by the leading councillors, that there shouldn’t be any trouble. God knew he’d attended enough meetings, made his voice heard. The mayor would surrender, there would be no violence. People who had done nothing wrong would have nothing to fear. But his contacts from elsewhere in the area thought otherwise. They’d heard the rumours. Of looting, rape, murder, even when villages had gone for peace. And then there were the broadcasts made by the Commander of the South, like the one his daughter and Richard Johnson had not long listened to, where there was more talk of the same.
But, he told himself, they were only rumours in some cases, dangerous boasts in others. These atrocities were surely only carried out in areas where the army had met with resistance. Reason told him this was so. He would not give in to the fever. And Fuentes would show no resistance. They couldn’t. There were a few old hunting rifles to pass round, and an assortment of farming tools. That was all. The village was not equipped to defend itself in any meaningful way. The sooner the Rebels, Nationalists, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, took over, the sooner the war would come to an end. It was the will of the people. That imbecile de Llano had said as much.
But de Llano was a liar. The republican-turned-excellency of the southern territories did not have a reputation for trustworthiness. And so Alvaro – and the rest of the village along with him – watched and waited as the army drew ever closer. They could almost smell the sweat and boot polish, hear the sounds of crackling guns across rivers, on the other sides of mountains, over plains. And it was making everyone go slightly mad.
As for Maria, the shrill voice of de Llano still echoed around the dark recesses of her mind. Around the house she appeared dejected, fearful. Her father didn’t like that he’d disturbed her so but it was timely, necessary. She needed to not draw attention to herself in these most sensitive of times and that the broadcast had subdued her could only be to the good.
Especially when she encountered citizens such as Seňora Gonzalez.
Seňora Gonzalez was married to a businessman of small stature but great wealth. And, as always with those in possession of a great amount of money but very little brain, she believed this gave her the right to make judgements and spread gossip. She had airs. Maria did not like her and made her feelings very apparent, as a rule. And the feelings were fully reciprocated. But where the young woman was mocking so the older woman was vindictive. She bore a grudge and everyone knew about her little black book where she recorded the names and offences of all the people who had ever crossed her. It was said that to be caught looking at Seňora Gonzalez in a strange way was enough to warrant an entry. Before the uprising this would have been seen as a badge of honour by many. But given that her husband was a leading light in the local Falange party, it didn’t do to cross her now. The Falangists were for hierarchy, authority and order; they backed Franco and his generals, the very men responsible for the war that was now eating its way through the country. The Falangists fully supported the rebel invasion no matter the loss of lives. Communism, democracy and liberalism were the enemy.
Like Richard Johnson, Maria had needed some air. She was out in the street and she really couldn’t care less if she upset Seňora Gonzalez or not. She’d heard the radio broadcast only two hours before and her mind was still plagued by nightmarish images. She needed to see Paloma, if only to make sure her friend was all right.
‘Maria!’ The woman’s cry was attacking, in anticipation of the confrontation to ensue. But no confrontation came. Before she could stop herself Maria had said ‘Good morning, Seňora Gonzalez,’ her voice quiet, expression distant. The older woman, mistaking the girl’s tone for deference and her glazed expression for respect, stopped and made a note of it. Quite literally. She took out her notebook and pencil from her bag and wrote down ‘Maria’, adding a tick next to the name. ‘Good morning to you too Maria, my dear.’ Her father would have been proud of her. Maria watched Seňora Gonzalez scuttle away, beetle-like, away from view, then turned and carried on in the direction of Paloma’s.
As she got closer to her friend’s home, Maria crashed into a flustered Cecilia. The collision brought her to herself. Her friend’s mother was pushing a pram piled high with crockery, glasses and necklaces Maria knew she’d never worn. Neighbours from either side ran after her, like ageing bridesmaids their arms full of beads and bowls. ‘Good morning,’ Maria shouted after them as the dimple-armed women ran, hobbled and limped out of sight heading out of the village, weighed down by all their worldly goods. If their intention had been to be discreet Maria didn’t think they’d managed it.
‘I saw your mother and her friends.’ Maria was at Paloma’s house. As she followed her into the kitchen, her young friend swept her arm up towards the empty shelf on the wall, a magician showing her latest trick. ‘She’s taken all the cups and although we didn’t have many glasses she’s taken those too. To hide. In a field. Or somewhere. She’s been acting odd, odder than usual, like a cat before an earthquake. But it was only after Richard left not long ago that she started piling everything into the pram.’
‘Richard?’ Maria asked, surprised. ‘My Richard?’
Paloma reddened, realising what she had said. ‘Unless you know another,’ she answered, hoping directness would disarm Maria and that would be the end of it.
‘What is it to do with him?’ Maria asked. ‘What was he doing at your house?’
‘He was … He wasn’t …’ Paloma paused, momentarily flustered. ‘He told Lola that when the soldiers came there would be looting.’ Her eyes sought out the floor as she spoke her sister’s name. ‘And Lola went and told Mama.’
So Richard had come to warn Lola just as Maria herself was here to warn Paloma now.
‘Mama almost took this too,’ Paloma said, taking something from her pocket and showing it to her friend. ‘Remember?’ she asked her. As Maria looked at what her friend held in her hand, she smiled broadly. It was the enamel sunflower pendant she herself had given to Paloma for her birthday when she was fourteen back in November. ‘But it’s yours, Paloma. I gave it to you,’ she said. ‘I know,’ her friend replied, ‘and it’s very precious to me. I rub it you know, and it brings me luck.’ She smiled. ‘But if you don’t look after it for me she’ll find it and bury it too. You know how fixed she can be.’ It was true, Cecilia was as stubborn as the proverbial mule.