The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (77 page)

Pedro
has
remained.
He
was
the
first
of
my
children.
He
was
my
reason
for
living
in
a
time
of
great
despair.
He
brought
me
to
eternal
happiness,
to
a
wonderful
husband
and
children
who
filled
my
life
with
pure
joy.
Pedro
shall
always
be
with
me,
to
comfort
me
and
to
remind
me
that
all
is
not
lost
 
.
 
.
 
.
I
never
thought
I
would
say
this,
but
thank
you,
Joseph
Dobbs.
You
unwittingly
gave
me
a
most
wonderful
life.

Chapter 88

Spain
,
2010

“
Y
our grandmother won’t last the night,” the doctor said matter-of-factly.

“I know, Doctor,” Lucia said, nodding her head in resignation.

“There’s really nothing else I can do. I’m sorry. It’s her time, and she wants to go now.”

Lucia showed the doctor to the door and braced herself to face her grandmother again. She needed more time with her before the rest of the family arrived; her grandmother’s story had not yet ended. She looked at the clock and went through everything in her mind again. She had managed to finish reading the journals and had deposited the old trunk in her attic, where it would remain until it was safe to dispose of it for good. She had also come to a decision that would split the entire family, but she would not back down, not after everything she had learned. She had never felt so sure of anything before, had never been so resolute. Nothing her family could say would change her mind now. Her grandmother would get her dying wish, and
she
would more than likely lose the family she loved.

María lay in bed and watched the curtains sway gently in the breeze. What had happened after Carlos’s return? It all seemed so far away now, and she couldn’t see him or her family in the thick fog that surrounded her eyes. They were like colourful shadows dancing in front of her, like ghosts in a rainbow. Everything was so vague.

“I must concentrate,” she whispered feebly. “I must finish…”

“Yaya, can you hear me?”

Was that Marta’s voice? Was she here again? María wondered, desperately trying to open her eyes.

“Marta… Marta, is that you?”

“No, Yaya, Lucia.”

María smiled. It was her Lucia… She would finish her story now.

María looked out of the window, and the shadows began to dance again. Carlos was smiling. He was always smiling teasingly at her.

“Your grandfather and I were married in England by the same minister that married my mother to Joseph Dobbs. We were refugees, so we were not given any legal papers to sign, nothing to say that we were husband and wife. The marriage was never recognised or legalised in a civil court, but it was recognised in the eyes of God. That was all that mattered to us, that we had been blessed by God.”

“Did your children know that your marriage wasn’t legal?” Lucia asked her.

María tried to shake her head. “No, no one in the family ever found out,” she said, “and we didn’t care to tell them. Oh, I realise now that although it wasn’t important to us, it would have had held great importance for them, for their standing in the community. There was such snobbery in those days, you see. When your uncle Carlos started school, he insisted on being called Charles, for even at that young age, he knew he would be bullied for being a foreigner, for being different.

“Your mother and your uncle Jaime were born and brought up at Merrill Farm, and none of my children ever found out that their father was a fugitive and a communist. My Carlos was always so ashamed of the torture he had committed for the Russians.”

She closed her eyes and then asked for some water before she continued.

“He made me promise on his deathbed never to tell the children anything, and I never have.”

María slipped into a deep sleep, her shallow breathing rattling now and every so often halting completely. Lucia watched her with a mind filled with information and knowledge that would stay with her and her alone forever. She understood now why the others couldn’t read the journals. The rest of the family were ignorant of the fact that Carlos killed Joseph Dobbs, her great-uncle Pedro’s father and grandfather to her cousins. She shook her head, trying to clear it. So many secrets, she thought: Celia’s bigamy with Ernesto, María’s illegal marriage, Joseph Dobbs, Carlos’s exile, and Marta, the aunt no one ever talked about. The family shouldn’t find out now. Her grandmother was right; it was too late, and the secrets of the dead should and would remain hidden with them for all time.

Lucia thought for a while about her mother and two uncles, Charles and Jaime. They had never been interested in La Glorieta and had always been indifferent to Spain, never knowing the country, never wanting to see the place where their parents had been born. They forced themselves to visit their mother only when duty called, and they had planned, just as her grandmother suspected, to sell everything after she died. María and Carlos didn’t set foot in their homeland until they were both in their sixties, after thirty-seven years of exile, wishing for home, Lucia thought. They had paid their dues, mourned their loss with dignity, and had kept secrets too painful to share. María had also kept her promise to Carlos, for his secrets had been in her safe hands all these years.

Lucia wiped the perspiration from María’s whitish-grey skin and gave her most solemn promise. She would do the same for her grandmother; she would keep her secrets safe.

María’s eyes opened again, and her soft shallow breathing filled the silent room. Suddenly she spoke, this time lucidly and without hesitation.

“The rest of the family lived in fear after the war. So many were taken from La Glorieta, and not even my father’s power and influence could stop Franco’s men from stripping our land of the peasants who had nurtured it for so many years. So many were murdered after the surrender, good people’s lives snuffed out to satisfy the whim of our new dictator. Carlos’s father, Ramón, never saw La Glorieta again. My father found out that he had been hanged in some prison a year after being taken.”

“And Grandfather’s mother?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know.” María stopped speaking and grew quiet again. Her eyes closed and a tear balanced itself on an eyelash.

Late in the night, Charles and Jaime stood at María’s bedside with their, sister, Angeles. María’s daughters-in-law and grandchildren sat with bored indifference on the sofas by the window, replacing the old trunk now hidden in Lucia’s attic.

Lucia sat on a chair nearest to the bed, just in front of her uncle Charles. She held María’s cold withered hand and gently stroked her fingers. She was glad that the family had made it in time to say goodbye, and she was also happy that her grandmother was going.

She turned to her uncle Charles and gave him a weak smile. It was time for her grandmother to leave them. Her breath was shallow, and the life force within her body was being snuffed out like a candle. Lucia’s uncle returned her smile and put his hands on her shoulders. A tear fell from his eye. She stared into his face and felt his sorrow. She had never been close to her uncle Charles, she thought just then. He travelled all over the world. He was Sir Charles Merrill, an author and royal biographer knighted by the queen for his literary contribution on the history of the Royal Family.

Lucia put her small hand on top of his. His hands were so large on wrists twice the size of her own. He was in his seventies now, but he was still a bull of a man, with bulging muscles and a full head of red hair, now grey at the front and sides. She had never noticed his hair before or really looked at him as she did now. Lucia smiled again and turned to her grandmother. An old black-and-white photograph from the trunk came to mind: thick red hair, freckles, and the frame of a bodybuilder. She sucked in her breath and held it, afraid that the noise of letting it out would alert her uncle whose, hand she still held. A photograph of Carlos, her grandfather, also jumped into her head. She could see it plainly, as though she were holding it in front of her eyes. Carlos, blue-black hair, of slim build, and with eyes a tunnel of darkness.

She expelled her breath slowly and sat wide-eyed, staring at María with her mouth half-open; she could scarcely believe what she knew to be true. All the secrets were now unimportant. Nobody cared about the Spanish Civil War, and no one in this room would care about the secrets in the journals, for they were from another time, another world. Her grandmother, always so keen to keep her secrets, had shared them all with her, shared them all except for one, the greatest secret of all: Uncle Charles was Jack McFadden’s son!

She leaned forward, swept gentle fingers down María’s cheek, and then pressed her mouth to her ear. “Yaya, I will not allow the family to sell La Glorieta,” she whispered. “I promise it will be your lasting legacy. It will continue to cure the sick and care for the old. I’m going to destroy the journals. I’ll be the keeper of secrets now. I love you.”

María opened her eyes and smiled. She saw faces and heard voices calling her name. They were all there: Carlos, Pedro, and Miguel, grinning from ear to ear. Her mother and father holding hands and Marta beckoning to her just as she used to do as a child…

“I’m coming, Marta,” María said softly. “I’m coming now…”

The
End

About the Author

She is Scottish but has lived in Spain for many years and grew up under the dictatorship of General Franco. When she is not writing, she spends her spare time translating for a charity that helps British patients at the local hospital.

Being ex-military, she takes great interest in studying historical conflicts and the after-effects they had on the country’s population. Her motivation to write began in early childhood, when she first discovered her love of books and history. She also writes factual books and has various projects ongoing, including another book of fiction.

During her career, she has travelled to many parts of the world, and her creative inspiration comes from her love of studying new countries and cultures.