Indiscretion (2 page)

Still, as Alexandra uttered those last words, she felt the lie on her lips.

Andalucía, a few months later

T
he hundred-year-old steam locomotive lurched through a parched yellow and brown countryside on worn-out tracks, winding north along Andalucía's rocky coast. The train was crowded but, amazingly, more people managed to force themselves inside at every stop, causing those who were already packed in into even closer intimacy. Spaniards, Alexandra noticed, seemed to journey with an obligatory stock of food, and that of the passengers was now roped on the luggage racks above their seats. At the last station, a huge barrel of a man had boarded the train with a basket from which protruded the head of a protesting goose.

Alexandra had been determined to experience Franco's New Spain like a native, and that meant travelling like one. After all, she was half-Spanish, even if this was her first time in the country since her early childhood. Aunt Geraldine had warned that it was madness for a woman to travel unchaperoned in such a conservative country, not to mention a place still broken and impoverished by civil war, but Alexandra had stubbornly dismissed her concerns. It would be just the kind of adventure she had always longed for, she admitted to herself; besides, she was going to see her family so she wouldn't be with strangers. For the first time since she had left England, she wondered about her compulsion to make such a journey, asking herself why she had accepted this truce with the de Fallas after so many years of stubborn denial.

At La Linea, just outside Gibraltar, where she had arrived by passenger ship, she had found a train heading north, up the coast to Puerto de Santa María, via Cádiz. Coming face to face with the
tren mixto
, Alexandra had momentarily been tempted to switch to the more civilized and comfortable
rápido
. The carriages of the passenger and freight train had been full to bursting with baskets of clucking hens, men whistling and shouting to each other, women with luggage and paraphernalia piled high against the windows, and even the odd goat or two; but after taking a deep breath, she struggled with her cases into the hot and stuffy compartment and gamely squeezed herself into an empty seat next to an elderly woman.

The train had high-backed wooden benches, the seating arranged in cubicles on either side of a gangway. Some of the windows were broken and people climbed through them to grab a seat. A chattering, shouting medley of voices had filled the carriage — there was none of the usual reserved and dignified behaviour Alexandra had read about the Spanish in the books that she'd picked up at her local library. The exotic smells of food, sweat and livestock permeated the atmosphere.

Now, looking around at her fellow travellers, Alexandra made a mental note of their various characteristics so that she might, if she wished, use them in her writing. Some were astonishingly ugly, with screwed-up wrinkled faces and flabby mouths gaping open, but there were so many alert and twinkling eyes, animated by one lively expression after another. Knotted, pudgy or skinny hands gesticulated energetically with each conversation. Accompanying their mothers or grandmothers were a few young boys and girls with bright, dark eyes, red lips and olive skins that had been washed in some cases and not in others. Alexandra had seen such familiar scenes and characters in dozens of Spanish paintings and now it seemed these Goyaesque figures had come to life before her. She suddenly felt very English in her impeccably cut, pale-green suit.

‘Where are you going,
señorita
?' The old lady next to her, crocheting a lace mantilla, had been eyeing her with open curiosity.

‘Puerto de Santa María, I have family near there.' Alexandra shifted uncomfortably in her seat but managed a smile.

‘On your own, are you? Where is your husband?'

Alexandra was starting to get used to cheerful Spanish bluntness and the lack of inhibition with strangers: the couple who had looked after her on the boat from Southampton had asked her dozens of questions about herself and had even given her their address in Gibraltar, should she ever need a place to stay. It was difficult to imagine any English person she knew offering the same to a complete stranger.

‘I have no husband. I'm travelling alone, actually, from England.'

‘Your Spanish is good but, ah, your accent! Yes, English.' The woman smiled but then added: ‘Be careful,
señorita
, young women don't go about on their own here.' She stopped crocheting and nudged Alexandra with her elbow, nodding her head towards a man who had been staring at her from across the carriage. ‘And a pretty, well-dressed girl like you will always attract attention,' she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘
especialmente de los picaros y gitanos
, especially from rogues and gypsies. You stay close to me,
señorita
.'

The old lady patted Alexandra's arm, rested her handiwork on the voluminous bag on her lap, which reached as high as her equally voluminous chest, and promptly dozed off, leaving Alexandra to her own thoughts.

She stared out of the window at the countryside as the train climbed up and up across Spain towards Cádiz. Fascinated, she lost herself in her new surroundings as they slipped by.

They were running over gently undulating ground, which rose and sank in larger billows. The murky Guadalquivir followed the train all the way, through a valley that sometimes widened to the Sierras, blue mountains walling the horizon, their bare, sharp peaks and rainbow-coloured spears of rock — yellow, orange and crimson — stabbing the air. In the distance, Alexandra could see towns, extremely white, beyond the wheatlands and olive orchards that
divided the landscape. One such town nestled brightly at the base of a hill, topped by a Moorish castle, golden against the azure sky.

They passed wide expanses of pasture, where lordly bulls were being hoarded in anticipation of the season of
corridas
and
ferias
. From time to time they passed primitive, winding mule tracks that led up high to a village.

The wildness, the hills, the beautiful images her romantic brain made out of the barren jagged cliffs — the pure foreignness of the place — caught Alexandra by the throat. She still couldn't believe it — how in the world had Aunt Geraldine been persuaded to let her go on this ‘intrepid' journey to the ‘outlandish' place that had been her mother Vanessa's downfall? And yet it had happened.

At first, Aunt Geraldine was horrified by the whole idea and opposed her fiercely: ‘Nothing good can come out of this escapade. You're already twenty-five, darling. Some of your friends are mothers by now. It's high time you settled down, had children and made a home for yourself in your own country, among your own people. This constant soul-searching can only lead to tears. Remember, your mother broke the rules and look how that ended.'

‘I can't ignore my Spanish blood any longer. It's part of my identity.'

‘Listen, my dear, Franco has brought Spain to its knees. It's completely backward in its development,' her aunt protested. ‘They may have a little more freedom and tolerance now but apparently they still lack decent roads. Their telephone system is poor, non-existent in most places. Besides, their ways are totally different to ours,' she went on relentlessly. ‘Believe me, they're narrow-minded and bigoted. You certainly wouldn't have the freedom to gallivant around the place the way you do here. They smothered your mother with all sorts of “dos” and “don'ts”. I really think this is a bad idea, Alexandra. You'll live to regret it one day.'

But Alexandra had persevered and, like the little drop of water that made a hole in the rock, the young woman's persistent pushing had forced her aunt to acquiesce.

She planned to write a third novel on the trip. Already Alexandra María de Falla was a popular name in romantic fiction. When she'd first submitted her short stories to the editor of
Modern Ladies' Romance
magazine he'd found them colourful but unpretentious, and had been surprised by their popularity. After that, with his encouragement, she had published her first two novels. Both were selling well and now she found herself in the lucky position of being financially independent.

Certainly, she had no shortage of ideas for new books, ones that would not involve her travelling to another country to meet a family she hadn't seen since childhood. Still, she'd chosen to go … Curiosity had certainly played its part in her decision-making but, more than anything, the growing need to find her roots had finally made up her mind.

For years, Alexandra had tried to ignore the emptiness that often haunted her, the feeling that there was a whole part of her left undiscovered. Despite the persistent sense that it was her Spanish blood calling to her, she had remained deaf to all attempts made by her grandmother, the
Duquesa
, at reconciliation. She hadn't even answered the letters the dowager sent after Don Alonso's visit to London. Then, a few weeks ago, when early intimations of spring had stirred her restless soul, and while reading Thomas Hardy's ‘Heredity', she came across a verse that made her pause:

I am the family face;

Flesh perishes, I live on.

For days afterwards she had pondered Hardy's profound words. Perhaps it was time to listen to the quiet voice inside urging her on, time to acquaint herself with her own ‘heredity'. The exotic allure of her homeland had always been undeniably potent. Would she discover the missing piece of herself there?

Suddenly, a flood of memories assailed her, bringing with them that sense of loss, crashing back against her heart. Alexandra was five again and Aunt Geraldine was explaining that her mother would not be coming back, that a wicked gentleman had taken her far away. She remembered crying for weeks, hiding her face in her bedclothes,
trying to stifle the sobs. Her only consolation had been the countless fairy stories her aunt read her at bedtime. She'd listened avidly as beautiful princesses went on great adventures and fell in love with handsome princes, or lost children were reunited with their mothers and fathers, stories in which everyone lived happily ever after. Soon she began to make up stories of her own, escaping into the world of her vivid romantic imagination.

Later, she was told that her mother had met a flamboyant French artist and, weary of a husband who was never around and his family who had never accepted her, hadn't hesitated to exchange a life that brought her so little for a love that promised so much. But her newfound happiness had been short lived: a year after running away with her lover, Vanessa had died in a car accident while holidaying on the French Riviera.

‘You mustn't hold it against her,' Aunt Geraldine had told Alexandra years later. ‘I know she would've come back for you when she was settled, but things were difficult for her. Your mother suffered tremendously, you know. She didn't belong in the same world as Alonso, being neither Spanish nor Catholic born. It was almost impossible for the de Falla family to accept such a marriage. In those days, the rules of the Catholic Church were much more rigid. Even if your mother had not left, your parents would have eventually parted. Their marriage was doomed from the start.'

And it was true that while her mother was still alive and they were all together in London, her father had often been away in Spain, helping to run the family wine business.

Three years after Vanessa had died, Don Alonso had announced that he had a new wife, Eugenia, in Spain, and that Alexandra now had a baby sister, Mercedes. He wrote to tell her that she could visit El Pavón and meet them whenever she wanted, if her aunt would bring her.
He might have known Aunt Geraldine would never agree to that
, Alexandra thought bitterly.

Over the next couple of years, her father's visits to London became rarer and, by the time she was ten, he had ceased coming at all. Once
Franco's military uprising had isolated Spain and war swept through Europe, there was no news of him and Aunt Geraldine now occupied her parents' double bed in the London house in Cheyne Walk.

She had tried not to miss him but it was difficult. Over time, even though after the war Don Alonso sent her extravagant presents every now and then with the briefest of notes, he had become a stranger. Her grief channelled itself into anger against his family — they had shunned her mother and then they had taken her father away.

Alexandra was jolted out of her reverie as they reached another station. Bundles were loaded and unloaded, new seats negotiated and, after another interminable halt, the whistle finally blew. She noticed that the bulky silhouette of a
Guardia Civil
had entered the train. On his arrival, the carriage had miraculously emptied, except for the lady beside her, who was asleep, and a few others, who all stopped talking. She glanced up at the man who was the cause of the sudden silence. So it was true what newspapers in Britain intimated about the Spanish Civil Guard — they really were feared. The guard remained standing, leaning affably on his rifle, looking down at the travellers for a few moments, before moving on to the next carriage.

The old woman next to her was now awake and rummaging in her large bag, an elbow scissoring up and down uncomfortably in Alexandra's side. Seeing the window seat opposite was now vacant, Alexandra moved across to face her. She had produced some large slices of bread and chorizo, and a bag of boiled eggs.

‘You hungry,
señorita
?' The woman jabbed a sandwich in the young woman's direction. Alexandra smiled back, shaking her head.

‘That's very kind, but no thank you.'

Now that Alexandra could see the woman more clearly, she noted a fierce and rather ruthless look; there was nothing particularly kindly in her features. Her face was sun-shrivelled, with high cheekbones and an almost male strength of jaw. She wore a black cotton dress and a kerchief covered her grey hair. The only colourful thing she had was a purple crocheted shawl draped around her bulky shoulders.