2004 - Dandelion Soup (44 page)

“He was a bad man, wasn’t he, Muli?”

“In some ways, Padraig, he wasn’t cut out to be a monk. If he’d been brave enough he should have done something about it.”

“Once you’re a monk or a priest, don’t you always have to be one?”

“Oh no, Padraig. Mr Leary’s ancestor the monk didn’t remain a monk.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just from stories handed down; remember there have always been nubeiros at Santa Eulalia.”

“So what happened to him?”

“He met a girl, they married, had children…”

“Bloody hell!”

“Santa Eulalia was a busy place in the old days; people came from all over, princes and paupers, Jews and Irish monks. Some passed through on their way to Santiago de Compostela, some fell in love and stayed…”

“Maybe Father Daley won’t be a priest for ever,” Padraig said.

“Maybe,” said Muli.

“Tell me then, Muli, did Brother Anselm know where the statue was hidden?”

“At one time he did, but I confided in one other person about my worries and we decided that something had to be done!”

“Who was the other person, Muli?”

“Your great-grandfather, Federico Luciano.”

“Bloody Nora!”

“Federico and I decided that we had to move the statue.”

“Where was it hidden?”

“It used to be hidden inside the statue of the Blue Madonna, in a hollowed-out space. We removed it and transferred it to a very safe place.”

“So it
was
hidden there!”

“And you were right, Padraig, the statue did used to face up towards the monastery, but working in the dark we cemented her back in facing the wrong way. When Luciano painted that painting of the monastery he must have been remembering the way the statue once was.”

“Wow! Who gets to know about the secret next?”

Muli took both Padraig’s hands in his own and whispered, “It is hidden safely inside the statue of the pissing boy in Camiga!”

Padraig drew in his breath with wonder.

Worming their way in through the dirty net curtain, shafts of weak sunlight brought a smidgeon of warmth into the dreary room.

Donny Keegan crossed to the window and looked out over the cluttered backyards. A train rattled along the railway tracks and an impatient driver honked his horn over on the High Road.

He turned his head and looked across at his daddy, who was sitting at an oilcloth-covered table scouring the newspaper for jobs. He had the stub of a pencil clamped between his teeth and his last Woodbine perched behind his ear.

“Have you found anything, Daddy?” Donny asked.

“No, son, there’s nothing much in here for the likes of me.”

“Will we be all right, though, Daddy?”

“Well, we won’t end up in the workhouse, whatever happens. We’ll pray for a stroke of luck, Donny. Who knows? One day we may be rich like that fellow.”

“What fellow, Daddy?”

“The one here in the paper, look.”

Donny glanced down at the newspaper. There was a photograph of a handsome man with too many teeth smiling down at his pretty, dark-haired bride.

Yesterday in Manhattan, Mr Melville Smith, a self-made millionaire, married an unknown chorus dancer, Felice Olivares. Miss Olivares, an immigrant, met Mr Smith at a Spanish restaurant, where she says it was love at first sight…

“And the size of his cheque book, I dare say,” Jimmy Keegan said. “Listen, Donny, I’ve five bob left to me name, but money isn’t the be all and end all, son. Something will turn up out of the blue.”

“Like you did when you came for me at St Joseph’s?”

Jimmy Keegan looked at his son and smiled.

“Something like that. Here, do us a favour, Donny, and sharpen this pencil.”

Donny took the pencil from his daddy and searched in his pocket for his penknife. Tongue between his teeth in concentration, he sharpened the pencil to a fine point and handed it back.

Then he felt in his other pocket and took out Sister Immaculata’s rosary. He pulled the grimy net curtain to one side and held the rosary up to the light.

The beads were an unusual milky blue colour but as he looked more closely he could see that there were dark shadows at the centre of each bead.

“It looks as if there is something in the middle of these beads, Daddy,” he said.

His father looked up absentmindedly.

“Do you see?”

“You’re right give us a look.”

“Shall I try and get one out?” Donny asked.

Inserting the tip of the penknife into the setting that held the beads in place, he worked carefully to remove one of them. He tipped it into the palm of his hand, then passed it to his daddy.

Carefully, Jimmy Keegan scraped away the layers of grime around the centre of the bead and then pulled it into two pieces. Inside the bead was a hollowed-out space where a dark-red stone nestled.

“Crikey,” said Donny. “What is it?”

Denny’s daddy worked the stone out with the tip of the penknife and set it down on the table.

“That my son, and the other little beauties hidden in there, are, if I’m not mistaken, our passport out of this bloody place!”

Solly and Dancey strolled through the ancient streets of Murteda. Solly, preoccupied with his own thoughts, was silent, but Dancey skipped along beside him, humming happily to herself.

After a while they came to the outskirts of the town and continued walking through the deserted cloisters of a crumbling abbey until eventually they turned into a deserted square.

Dancey ran ahead of Solly, turning occasionally to smile back at him.

Then she stopped suddenly in the middle of the square and turned her head slowly, looking up at an ugly grey building where all the windows were heavily barred.

Solly caught up with her. She stood quite silently looking up at one of the windows.

Solly followed her gaze. A frail old man stood in the window looking sadly down at her through the bars. Beside him a man in a white coat was checking his watch.

Dancey raised her hand and waved at the old man.

Tentatively, the old man raised his hand and waved back.

Dancey smiled up at him, blew him a kiss and then she was off skipping across the square, scattering pigeons.

Solly looked up. The old man stood quite still, more like a statue than a man. Then he smiled, a radiant smile. Marvelling that the smile and hand wave of a young child could give such joy to a perfect stranger, Solly walked quickly on to catch up with Dancey.

At dihner time everyone gathered together in the dining room except for Michael Leary and Nancy Carmichael, who were nowhere to be found.

Sister Perpetua seemed quite agitated as she supervised the postulants in their serving duties and occasionally gave Father Daley a despairing look.

Donahue noticed with relief that another older woman had replaced the peculiar postulant, the one he’d caught looking through the keyhole.

Nancy eventually arrived in the dining room, looking radiant and holding the hand of a sheepish Rosendo, who bowed at everyone and then took his seat next to Nancy.

“Where on earth is Leary?” Solly asked.

“Probably he’s found a bar somewhere and is drowning his sorrows at the thought of going back to Ballygurry,” Donahue said sadly.

Father Daley said nothing; he’d wait a while to see if Leary turned up and if he didn’t then he’d speak to the adults when they were on their own.

Sister Perpetua had spoken to him earlier and was very concerned because Sister Maria had disappeared and old Sister Marguerite swore that she had seen Sister Maria going into Michael Leary’s room.

Then, suddenly, all thoughts of Leary and Sister Maria evaporated as Padraig gasped loudly and pointed with a trembling finger.

An old woman had appeared in the doorway and stood there looking round inquisitively at everyone in the room.

“Padraig, it’s rude to point!” admonished Father Daley, thinking that she must be the pilgrim who had been taking her meals alone in her room.

She was a most odd little woman, dressed in a threadbare brown paisley dress, thick tights and clumpy shoes that had seen better days. On her head she wore a green beret pulled down tightly over her ears. Her small wrinkled face peeped out from beneath it, as shrewd and inquisitive as a monkey’s.

“Dear God in heaven,” declared Nancy Carmichael, “she’s wearing my dress that was stolen off the washing Hne in Ballygurry and my old gardening shoes!”

“Therese Martinez,” whispered Muli, getting unsteadily to his feet.

The old woman nodded in acquiescence.

“Martinez?” said Solly in astonishment. “Not belonging to the family from the Villa Castelo?”

The old woman nodded.

Sister Matilde put her hand to her face and stumbled, and only Solly’s quick thinking saved her from falling.

Padraig was watching Muli with interest.

A tear slid from Muli’s left eye and made its way slowly down his wrinkled brown cheek.

For a moment Padraig saw the whole room reflected in that one fat teardrop. He remembered the words that Muli had spoken to him: “Even a queer-looking thing like me feels loss.”

Padraig sat quite still, afraid to move in case the dream was broken.

Donahue, overcome with all the recent emotion, looked into the twinkling eyes of Sister Immaculata, freshly risen from the dead. He let out a low moan and promptly fainted.

The bell rang out from the monastery of Santa Eulalia and the echo mingled with the clanking of cow-bells down in the valley and the shouts of children at play.

Una
.

Dos
.

Tres
.

A small, dark-haired girl stood in the centre of the courtyard and counted slowly at first, then faster.

Cuatro, Cinco, Sets
.

All around her chickens clucked and pecked among the cobblestones and a three-legged puppy pissed over a pot of geraniums, then scuttled off into the barn in search of rats.

Henri, a wiry, tousled-haired boy, followed the dog into the barn. He looked round, searching out a place to hide, and saw the dust-covered trunk in a far corner. He lifted the lid and peered inside, there was plenty of room to hide. Then he climbed hesitantly into the trunk, pulling the lid back in place.

Siete
.

Ocho
.

Nuevo
…

Veintiuno…Treinta…

The scurrying children squeezed in behind the bleached statues that stood around the courtyard in their mossy niches. A hushed silence, punctuated by the occasional giggle, descended.

“
Ciento!
Coming, ready or not!” the girl cried.

In the barn, inside the trunk, the boy waited.

Slowly, his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and he realized that there were tiny holes in the top of the trunk through which pinpricks of light filtered.

Then he remembered the story that Señor Padraig had told them about the trunk.

Once, many years ago, in a foreign country a brave old nun who had been locked away in a terrible convent decided to escape. She had emptied the trunk of its contents and climbed inside.

Hidden inside the trunk she had travelled across the sea on a boat undiscovered and then when she had arrived in Spain, when no one was looking, she had climbed out and set off on an adventure.

Henri sniffed; the trunk smelled faintly of candle wax and camphor. He shivered and hoped that he’d soon be found, he didn’t fancy spending hours trapped in the darkness.

Señor Padraig had told them that she had been sent away to the convent because her twin sister was a very wicked woman who had done some awful things for which the nun had been blamed. But when the old nun appeared back in Spain she went to her sister’s house where she lay dying. Being the oldest in her family she inherited a fortune. And being kind she had given away all her money to start an orphanage up here in Santa Eulalia.

Outside, beyond the barn, he could hear the shouts and excited yells of the other children as they were discovered in their hiding places.

Inside the trunk he whispered a prayer in memory of the old nun. If it wasn’t for Santa Eulalia he would still be begging in the streets of Naples and wouldn’t have had any chance in life at all.

The smell of beef sizzling in hot oil drifted out from the kitchen windows, and inside the trunk Henri sniffed. Dandelion soup! That must mean visitors were coming. He closed his eyes and waited to be discovered…

In the kitchen the cook helped a small boy to roll up his sleeves, lifted him on to a chair and pulled it up to a scrubbed kitchen table.

“Let’s see what you can remember, Enrico, my little one,” she said as she looked down at the small orphaned boy who had arrived at Santa Eulalia less than a week before.

“I’m not little any more! I’m nearly six. And I can remember! It’s easy, Señora Dancey. Listen!“

“Take a fistful of garbanzds…”

“A clutch of white beans…”

Señora Dancey Martinez clapped her hands together in delight, then pinched the boy’s nose fondly.

“We must hurry, though, eh? We have people arriving this evening and we still have much to do!”

“Who is coming?” the boy asked, looking up at her.

“Sefior Daley and Sefior Fitzallen will arrive very late. They are flying here from England and staying for two whole weeks.”

“Are they nice?” Enrico asked.

“Oh yes, you will like them very much,” she said, looking across at the photograph of the two men that had been taken in their garden in the cottage in Devon where they had lived together for many years.

“Is anyone else coming?” Enrico asked.

“Who knows?” she said mysteriously. “Whoever the wind blows in.”

In one of the guest bedrooms Marta turned back the freshly ironed sheets, plumped up the pillows then walked across to the window.

Far below, the track led down past the Blue Madonna towards the hamlet. The freshly whitewashed houses gleamed in the sunshine and the splash’of colours from the flowerpots on the window-sills gladdened her eye.

The yellow table umbrellas outside Rosendo’s café riffled in the warm breeze. If she listened carefully she could hear the metal curtains jingling above the doorways of the houses where the older orphans lived under the watchful eyes of Nancy and Rosendo. From the barn, the pig, Dolores the third, was calling out plaintively to the boar further down the valley.