The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (39 page)

Prices
have
soared
out
of
all
proportion,
and
I
just
don’t
know
how
the
poorest
of
families
are
managing.
I
fear
this
war
will
eventually
attack
the
very
fabric
of
our
society,
I
really
do.
Most
of
all,
I
feel
sorry
for
the
children.
They
are
wondering
why
their
fathers
and
schoolteachers
have
left
them
for
so
long,
and
it
saddens
me
to
think
that
many
of
them
will
never
return.
I
am
now
working
in
one
of
the
schools
in
Bermondsey
and
it’s
giving
me
a
great
deal
of
satisfaction.
The
children
are
so
innocently
unaware
of
the
dangers
we
face
every
day,
and
they
make
such
a
welcome
change
from
the
continuous
depression
that
we
adults
feel
and
cannot
hide.

I
heard
the
sad
news
last
week
that
John
Malone’s
youngest
son,
David,
died
in
the
Battle
of
Loos.
Of
course,
poor
John
is
absolutely
devastated,
and
his
wife
took
to
her
bed
with
laudanum.
My
John’s
friend
Mathew
Gates
was
also
killed
a
couple
of
months
ago,
as
was
Mr
Ayres’s
office
boy,
Jack.
You
remember
him,
don’t
you?
He
was
the
one
with
all
the
freckles.
We
don’t
know
about
anyone
else
from
Goudhurst,
as
news
filters
through
so
infrequently,
but
I’m
in
contact
with
Mrs
Baxter,
and
she’s
more
reliable
than
the
newspapers,
of
course!

Simon
is
busier
than
ever,
and
I’ve
told
him
to
take
it
a
bit
easier
because
he’s
developed
a
terrible
cough,
probably
due
to
London’s
smoggy
skies.
He
is
in
charge
of
our
local
air
raid
shelter
and
looks
very
smart
in
his
uniform
and
hard
hat.
He
sends
you
his
love.

We
both
pray
that
this
horrible
war
will
not
last
too
long,
though
it
seems
that
we
are
plunging
deeper
and
deeper
into
a
bottomless
pit,
with
no
hope
of
climbing
out.

Anyway,
my
darling,
we
both
miss
you
terribly
and
will
definitely
return
to
Spain
as
soon
as
this
is
all
over
and
life
returns
to
normal.
Give
our
love
to
everyone
and
kiss
those
beautiful
children
for
me.
Remember
that
the
war
will
end
one
day
and
we
will
be
together
again.

With
all
my
love,

Aunt
Marie

Part Three

Chapter 38

Valencia,
1936

E
rnesto had dressed early and was not looking forward to the evening ahead. He stretched out his long tired legs, sitting alone and deep in thought in his private sanctuary, the newly built conservatory. He poured himself a sherry and watched the setting sun sink behind the White Mountains, shrouded in a golden red blanket, and felt the first sting of tears drip from his eyes. The dinner tonight was supposed to be a happy occasion. Celia had made him promise not to recriminate, judge, or coerce his daughter into changing her mind, but his youngest child, Marta, was leaving them forever and the sorrow it brought him was like the physical pain of a crushed heart.

The years had been kind to his family. His business had flourished; his love for Celia had grown stronger; his children were healthy, resourceful, and strong-minded individuals; and his guiding influence over them had all but gone. They had all grown into adulthood and were set on their own paths. He could only pray now that the advice and love he’d given them would be enough to stand them in good stead, that they would think with clear heads and act with pure hearts, for the future they faced was both worrying and inevitable.

In his melancholy, he picked up the silver-framed family photos one by one and looked deep into the eyes of those who had gone. His mother, Marta, stared back at him with those soft watery eyes that had loved unconditionally. She had died at the end of 1924, one week before the new year. Her death had been a terrible shock. She had been pronounced as healthy as an ox after a bout of influenza but had died soon after in her sleep. It’s the best way a person could go, his father had said at the time.

Don Miguel, his father, had lingered on for a long time after the death of his wife. He continued to read until his eyes failed him, continued to drink his favourite red wine on a daily basis, and lost the use of his legs entirely in the spring of 1932. He spent his remaining years in a wheelchair, even more grumpy and ill-tempered than before, but his grandchildren gave him great joy, and Celia had always maintained that it was because of them that he’d lived so long. Ernesto mourned his loss even now, and the years since had not dulled his grieving heart. He still went to his father’s salon, talking to the ghostly presence about matters concerning the land, politics, and any other newsworthy subject he felt he had to impart. His father’s books still lined the walls. His brandy bottle and crystal glass still sat on the glass table next to his armchair, and his favourite cigars still smelled fresh in their ornate wooden box.

Rosa was reaching her fifty-fourth year and had, since the death of her father, ensconced herself in the bosom of the Church. She spent her days now praying in her room or in the village chapel and wore the typical black ankle length dress of the old devout Catholic women, the Beatas. Ernesto had not understood her change of character, but he hadn’t objected to her newly found zest for faith either, and that was what now angered him the most. She was distant towards him, had no interest in the world around her. She was a stranger under his roof. Unrecognisable of old, intolerant of any type of sinful behaviour that she herself had committed in days past, such as drinking wine or sherry and enjoying anything that didn’t include praying. She didn’t drink wine anymore, not even at Christmas time or holidays. She wouldn’t eat before praying to God, the Virgin Mary, and all the saints. She had even refused of late to listen to music, other than long-winded hymns and Latin benedictions. She had become anchored in a secular world and had shut out even her own family, except for Marta. In Ernesto’s opinion, she was now even more sinful than before, with her intolerance and ignorance towards her own family.

Ernesto watched the last sliver of the red sun disappear completely from sight and switched on the light. His reflection in the windowpane stared back at him, angry and hurt. He had allowed Rosa to become the fanatical remnant of the woman he’d once adored, and he regretted his indifference now. She had been instrumental in Marta’s decision to leave, and he would never forgive her.

Ernesto switched off the light again and sat in darkness. He saw the headlights of the car even before it turned the final bend that led up the hill to the house. It raced, throwing up a cloud of dirt behind it. It must be Miguel, he decided. He was the only person he knew that drove with such selfish and inconsiderate abandonment. He picked up the photograph and wiped the dust from Miguel’s handsome, photogenic face and then shook his head in disapproval; his oldest son was reckless in just about everything he did and said. He had just turned twenty-five yet still behaved like an irresponsible student. He was a quiet-spoken man, aloof and cynical, rarely displaying emotion. He had Carmen’s character: selfish, arrogant, and self-righteous. He went through women as though they were no more than commodities, women of questionable character and backgrounds. He loved his son, of course he did, but he couldn’t say that he liked him very much at the moment. He was becoming more and more distant towards him. It was as though he had jumped a fence and now stood facing him on the other side of it.

He returned the photograph to its place but stared at it for a while longer. He knew about Miguel’s passion for politics and about his leanings towards the fascist movement—the Falange Española, or Spanish Phalanx. His admiration for Hitler was a constant reminder that they lived in a world that could explode at any time, engulfing them in a fire of hatred and revenge, but Miguel’s ideals would not be shifted.

Miguel’s growing indifference towards Marta and María had also been noted; he hated that aspect of his son’s character. He knew Miguel loved the girls, but he made it quite clear that he thought them incapable of having an intelligent conversation. He was never rude or disparaging towards them, but he had no time for them or for their opinions. Only with Aunt Marie did Miguel show any semblance of respect. He had been sent to her when the Oxford law faculty accepted him, and he remained with her after he graduated, completing his apprenticeship with Ayres and Partners. Marie’s forthright and forceful character made it impossible for him to treat her in the same way he treated the other women in the house, and ironically, she was now the only member of the family he confided in.

Ernesto had philosophically accepted Miguel’s decision not to get involved in the running of La Glorieta. He was the oldest child and rightful heir, but Ernestowas secretly pleased that the family business would not fall to him. He had no interest in the land or in what was grown there. He was a city man through and through, and his colourful lifestyle was well documented throughout Valencia society. Spreading rumours seemed to be a favourite pastime of the rich, lazy bourgeois landowners and politicians, just as it had always been, and Miguel’s name was always at the top of their list of victims.

It wasn’t that Ernesto particularly minded his son’s womanising, his love of champagne, or his nights in the casinos. He wasn’t too old to remember his own wild days as a young man. He did worry, however, about his growing involvement in an extremist group whose only mission in life was to drown the sparks of revolt in the heart of Spain’s workers, and it was high time they had a serious talk about it.

Marie’s voice was heard
outside in the hallway, booming as usual. Ernesto smiled. Aunt Marie had come to live permanently at La Glorieta in 1934 after Simon’s death, and she immediately took over from his mother as the dominant force in the house. No doubt she’d been in the kitchen all afternoon, issuing orders like a general.

Ernesto remembered Marie’s inconsolable grief when Simon passed away: tears that didn’t stop for days, vulnerability replacing strength, and tired acceptance of age replacing youthful hope. She was an old woman now, although her mind was as keen as ever. In a way, she had replaced his father as an accomplished adversary in their never-ending debates on politics and the state of the world in general, and he enjoyed her company immensely.

Marie’s son, John Stein, still visited often with his wife, two daughters, and their husbands. John had survived the Great War, although he had lost the use of one of his arms to shrapnel. He found time to come to Dénia most summers with his family, but those visits were becoming less frequent lately due to the expansion of his law practice, Ayres, Stein, and Associates. John enjoyed a close relationship with all the family, but his bond with Pedro was special.

Whenever Ernesto thought about Pedro, he felt a rush of pride. He had adopted him straight after his marriage to Celia and had always thought of him as the best son a man could possibly have. He was twenty-three years old now, and according to Celia, he bore a striking physical resemblance to his late father, Joseph Dobbs. Pedro was easy-going, kind, and thoughtful. He was honest and had both integrity and high moral principles. He believed, just like him, in a complete modernisation of Spain and its people. He hated the hypocrisy of the Church yet lived by its most basic teachings. Ernesto realised that Pedro would hate the Church even more now.

Pedro had joined the army in 1932, when he was just 19, against his mother’s wishes, and after graduating from the academy, he was drafted to Spanish Morocco as an engineering instructor. He had just been promoted to lieutenant, but unfortunately, his idea of a worthwhile and glorious career in uniform had not materialised, and like thousands of other soldiers, he had become disillusioned and frustrated at the way the Spanish government was treating its fighting force.

Ernesto thought briefly about Pedro’s last visit home. They had discussed the present situation and were both of the opinion that if reforms didn’t come soon, there would be rebellion and chaos in the military ranks such as Spain had never seen. The main problem, Pedro told him, was that out of an official army of one hundred thousand men, thirty thousand were colonial troops based in Morocco. Only about half of them owned uniforms. Most conscripts had had almost no training, and many had never even fired a gun or rifle. Their equipment was old and hard to come by, but worst of all, the morale amongst the lower ranks was verging on rebellion. What worried Pedro most, though, was that every week there seemed to be new conspiracies lurking behind every door and in every corner of every camp. It was well known that the right-wing officers had planned a coup in the previous year, and many of the instigators had even approached Pedro, wanting him to join it.

Pedro was also concerned about the banishment of top generals, such as Francisco Franco and Goded, to small, insignificant commands in the Canary Islands and Balearic Islands. This, in his opinion, was a clear sign that an inevitable rebellion was looming; if not, why would the government be so worried about its top generals?

Ernesto worried about Pedro because he was a sensitive man, a pragmatist, and in truth, he had never understood his son’s desire to join the army, as he hated violence of any kind. Nonetheless, he was a soldier, and he was sure that if rebellion did flare up within the Spanish army, he would be in the middle of two insane forces who wouldn’t give a damn about who was hurt in the crossfire. Ernesto conceded now that a civil war was not far away and that he would have to talk to his youngest son, make him aware that there could be no sitting on the fence anymore, for any of them. They would both have to choose sides. The question was, which one would they eventually choose?

Ernesto looked at his watch; dinner wouldn’t be served for another half hour. He poured another glass of sherry and tried, as so many others had tried before him, to understand the enormity of the plight that faced all Spaniards, rich and poor. He strongly believed in dialogue, not in revenge. He believed also that one should remember the past, learn the lessons there, and correct them. This, to his way of thinking, would be Spain’s only hope of a peaceful, prosperous future. The last ten years had been pivotal, he thought. With the king’s abdication in 1934 and the accumulation of grievances between the classes, a differing of ideology, jealousy, and hatred had grown to the point where negotiation and reasoning no longer existed between government and other factions hell-bent in knocking it down. The word conflict, though not yet spoken aloud, was on everybody’s mind as though predestined to become a reality.

Ernesto’s anger towards those of his own class was well documented, and his public declaration that their unwillingness towards change, especially towards the lower classes, would be their downfall had made him a few enemies of late. The country’s hierarchy clung to their way of life, afraid of losing an inch of power, of land, of upper class superiority and dominance that had existed for centuries.

Feelings were running high amongst all the different factions, and that had been particularly prevalent at a dinner party he’d attended some months earlier at Don Jaime Serrano’s house. The incident still angered him, but more than that, it gave him great cause for concern.

Don Jaime Serrano was a leading member of the Spanish Phalanx Party, influenced by Nazism and Hitler. It had been founded by José Antonio Primo de Rivera in 1933 and was growing at an alarming speed. Ernesto couldn’t put his hand on his heart and say that all the ideals of this relatively new party were bad; there were aspects of the Phalanx doctrine that he did agree with. However, in large part, Don Jaime and men like him were hypocrites. In public, they agreed with and followed the socialist views of the party, but in private, they had added their own agenda, which was to bring back Spain’s old elitist social system. It was a party filled with hard-headed ideologists who believed in violence when political polls and decisions did not go the way they wanted. This was Ernesto’s and other moderates’ main objection to its existence.

On the night of Don Jaime’s dinner party, another guest, Don Jávier Vidal, Vega, had commented that it was an inevitable, if not an entirely fair, assumption that the peasants he provided for would one day rule Spain. Ernesto smiled, remembering what happened next.