2004 - Dandelion Soup Read online

  “I don’t know about talent but he’s a genius for getting into trouble that’s for feckin’ sure,” Donahue had piped up. “Like the half-pound of senna pods in the harvest supper cider. There was plenty of movement in Ballygurry that night!”

  “It’s about time there was some movement in Ballygurry, the place is dying on its feet,” Michael Leary had said. “The world needs people like Padraig to give it a kick start.”

  Father Daley had been perplexed. He felt that he’d had to advocate a Catholic education, of course he did, and yet he hadn’t liked what he’d seen of St Joseph’s. There was a horrible feel about the place and though it had reminded him of his own prep school there was a subtle difference. The kids at the prep had parents, and, while a degree of covert humiliation occurred daily, the physical brutality was limited to the occasional pinch or rap across the knuckles with a ruler. He wasn’t so sure that it was at St Joseph’s.

  Michael Leary had told him that he’d stayed in Sefiora Hipola’s himself a few years back. It wasn’t too bad a place either, basic but clean and the food was good. Sefiora Hipola did seem a bit of a tartar, mind, and you wouldn’t want to cross her if you could help it. Michael Leary had certainly come up trumps. He had booked them into this place, the monastery of Santa Eulalia, the convent of Santa Anna, and also in to a lodging house in Santiago itself.

  He wondered what would happen to Michael Leary if the village school closed. It wasn’t likely to stay open much longer if the St Joseph’s orphans were shipped off to Australia. There were only a handful of local Ballygurry kids and Siobhan was off to England soon to the convent school in London.

  Still, Michael Leary was a bright and well-qualified man, he could get a position easily in one of the top schools in Ireland, or anywhere else come to that.

  His thoughts turned then to Solly Benjamin. His more than generous help with the money side of things had been an absolute godsend. The man had been an angel. He hoped Miss Carmichael and Miss Drew never found out who had financed this trip or there’d be all hell up. He wondered if Solly had sorted out his hypothetical mystery yet.

  Father Daley yawned. He was tired after the long boat journey and the ride in the donkey cart had almost finished him off. Mind you, the look on the two women’s faces would remain with him for ever.

  Padraig, though, had loved every minute of it. He was having a whale of a time. He’d nearly bust a gut trying not to laugh. He was a smashing little lad, genius or not he was funny and bright and damn good company. Quite how Father Daley was going to put up with a couple of weeks of constant whingeing and moaning from the old biddies was another matter. Nothing seemed to please either of them. Born to moan the pair of them. Still, sod them, he was looking forward to a hearty meal and a glass or two of wine tonight; a good night’s sleep and he’d be fit for anything the following morning. He closed his eyes and sighed and was just drifting off into a pleasant doze when someone started banging urgently at his door.

  The train squealed to a sudden halt and Carlos Emanuel was roused from a deep sleep. He supposed the train must have pulled into a small station or countryside halt any moment now and they would be on their way again.

  Then he heard the sound of loud, vulgar cursing. Carlos went out into the corridor to see if he could find out what was going on.

  A yellow-toothed old crone standing in the corridor grinned at him and he smiled unenthusiastically back. In one hand she held a live chicken, its feet bound together with twine, and in the other a leather wine sack. The red-eyed chicken stared mournfully at the floor; the bewildered creature had shit prolifically during the journey and the corridor was now spattered with the stinking stuff.

  “Going to be a long wait,” said the old woman, giving Carlos a smile.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The guard’s just told me that there’s a body on the line.”

  “A suicide do you mean?”

  The woman gave a loud cackling laugh. Carlos winced; the chicken flinched and lost control of its bowels, spraying liquid shit all down the old crone’s apron.

  He turned his head away in disgust and held his breath; his stomach was weak at the best of times.

  “Not a suicide. Saint’s breath! Just a drunken old nubeiro passed out across the tracks.” The old woman laughed. “Lying flat out and naked as the day he was born and not happy to have been woken.”

  “This is all I need,” Carlos muttered.

  “He’s refusing to move until he’s been paid for his trouble! And he’s threatening to put a curse on the driver to boot.”

  Carlos smiled wryly. A nubeiro! He remembered the word from his childhood. A nubeiro was supposed to be a magical maker of storms and cloudbursts. These ignorant peasants lived in the Dark Ages and believed in all kinds of superstitious nonsense: sprites and goblins and all kinds of ridiculous make believe.

  “Still, these things happen. There’s no rush though, is there? Everything keeps for another day,” the old woman said holding out the wine sack and indicating to Carlos that he take a drink.

  Carlos declined hastily; he could catch something off the filthy old crone: tapeworms, threadworms, the list of contagious possibilities was endless.

  He went-quickly back into the carriage and slumped down on the seat.

  Forty minutes later the train started up and chugged slowly on its journey. As the train built up steam Carlos stared incredulously at the sight of a small wizened old man standing at the side of the track. He was toothless and ancient and stark staring naked! Carlos’s eyes were drawn to the incredible size of the man’s appendages. Holy Saint James! The scrawny old thing was hung like a prize bull.

  The old man saw Carlos looking, grinned at him and made a lewd gesture, and Carlos turned his red face away. These peasant people were a queer, savage lot, barely human.

  The train was an hour late arriving and there was no sign of the car that was supposed to pick him up at the station.

  He managed to get a bus and make the painful arse-juddering ride across country to the small fishing town of Camiga. For most of the journey he was squashed in between a loud-voiced young woman and a tearful matron who had sat with her head in her hands crying quietly all the way. He had to keep a handkerchief pressed to his face to keep out the stink. The reek of sweaty armpits, unwashed bodies, fresh fish, stale garlic, chicken and goat and God knew what else.

  At last the bus pulled into a small deserted square in Camiga.

  He wasn’t going to make it to Los Olivares tonight; he’d missed his next connection. Connection! That was a joke! There was no proper road up to Santa Eulalia so he had been meant to make the trip on a donkey cart. A donkey cart! He hated donkeys and all four-legged creatures. He wished fervently that he were back in the city. He hated everything about the countryside with a fierce passion, the constant smell of shit in his nostrils and all that hearty country food that played havoc with his delicate digestion.

  Tomorrow he’d get to Santa Eulalia somehow, whether he had to walk, crawl or ride bareback on a donkey. He had instructions to find a monk, a Brother Francisco, and ask him, beg or bribe him, kidnap him if necessary, to return with him to the Villa Henri. It was a matter of life and death, though why in God’s name his dying employer had to have confession and the last rites from some piss poor monk when she could have had the bastard Bishop himself was a mystery to him. Still, the idiosyncrasies of the aristocracy were of no concern to him. The Señora was a very wealthy old widow who had promised to leave him a good legacy in return for his faithful service. She had also agreed to pay him very handsomely if he came up with the goods in the form of the monk.

  Lost in his thoughts, he stepped unwittingly in a pile of dog shit, yelped and swore heartily.

  He climbed a steep hill leading out of the town, turned into a narrow lane and paused for a second to regain his breath.

  There was a bar further down the lane, a rough-looking place but as he approached he could smell food cooking. He desperate
ly needed to eat, to have a strong drink to sustain him and an hour’s respite for his aching feet. He stepped eagerly inside the dimly lit Bar Pedro.

  Father Daley, Miss Drew, Miss Carmichael, Padraig and a bemused-looking Señora Hipola stood in the lobby of the lodging house staring down at Miss Carmichael’s open trunk. The trunk was empty except for a few chicken bones and some rotting apple cores.

  Miss Carmichael, shaking with rage, looked up and glared at Padraig.

  “It must have been him!” she screeched, pointing at Padraig. “Those orphans are all light fingered.”

  “I never touched anything,” Padraig growled.

  “What exactly is missing?” Father Daley asked, trying to sound patient.

  “Two dozen tins of sardines, the same of corned beef and Spam, luncheon meat, pineapple chunks, peaches, pears, semolina, rice pudding, prunes…”

  Miss Carmichael drew breath.

  “Four tins of ham, two boxes of candles, a torch, a hurricane lamp, a spirit stove, disinfectant, soap, two cotton frocks and a pair of my best walking shoes, a new hat, oh and…”

  Miss Carmichael tailed off and the colour drained from her face.

  “And, oh God, some very important letters. I want my things back now, you little swine from hell,” she hissed and lunged ferociously at Padraig.

  Padraig ducked as Father Daley intercepted Miss Carmichael’s flailing fists and stood between the trembling boy and the irate woman.

  Señora Hipola stared open mouthed. In the name of the Holy Father, what sort of pilgrims were these?

  “Hang on a minute, Miss Carmichael. Violence won’t solve anything. Besides, I really don’t think Padraig has anything to do with this. What would he want with those things anyway?”

  “I don’t even like corned beef or semolina and I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing a frock.”

  “I bet you like tinned peaches though.”

  “I do but I didn’t steal any.”

  “Miss Carmichael, when do you last remember checking the contents of the trunk?”

  “In Ballygurry. The morning before we left. Miss Drew and I checked together just before Donahue came to take it to the station, didn’t we?”

  Miss Drew nodded her head vigorously and blushed.

  “And you haven’t looked inside it since?”

  “No. I had no need to.”

  “So it’s possible that the things could have been removed in Ballygurry?”

  “No, it isn’t, because the trunk was heavy, you saw that for yourselves. It took two men to carry it on and off the boat and it wasn’t out of my sight on the quayside.”

  “Yes, you’re right. So, your things must have been removed while the trunk was here at Sefiora Hipola’s.”

  “Yes, and we know who is responsible.”

  Father Daley turned to Padraig.

  “Padraig, do you know anything about Miss Carmichael’s missing things?”

  “On my life, Father, cross my heart and swear to die, I don’t.”

  “Thank you. Go up to our room, Padraig, and wait for me there,” Padraig went giving Miss Carmichael a look of utter hatred.

  “Miss Drew, if you don’t mind, I would like to talk to Miss Carmichael alone.”

  Miss Drew followed Padraig reluctantly up the stairs.

  “Miss Carmichael, while it is abundantly clear that you have unfortunately been robbed, I find it very disquieting that you choose to blame Padraig without a shred of evidence. Padraig is sharing a room with me and I assure you that we do not have a stash of corned beef or anything else hidden there. Now, we are on a pilgrimage, Miss Carmichael, a holy journey, and I will not have it marred by your spiteful accusations.”

  Miss Carmichael looked up at the priest. He was very impressive and even more handsome when he was angry. She still thought that Padraig had something to do with the theft of her things, but she wasn’t brave enough, in the face of Father Daley’s anger, to defy him. She’d swallow humble pie for now but she’d be keeping a sharp eye out for Padraig O’Mally and she’d have plenty to tell Sister Veronica when they got back to Ballygurry. He’d get his comeuppance all right and feel the nun’s strap around his blasted backside.

  Father Daley turned to Señora Hipola and spoke to her in Spanish. She replied, waving her arms around and wagging her finger at the ceiling. Then she bowed to Father Daley. She gave Miss Carmichael a curious look, crossed herself and went back into her kitchen to attend to dinner.

  “Señora Hipola says that there are many thieves about these days. There are all sorts of foreigners and lunatics on the loose all over Spain. She says that by now your things will have been spirited away, probably by gypsies or vagabonds, who knows? She says you can report the theft to the police but that will probably mean that you will need to be interviewed and could mean us staying here a few extra days. She says that you will not need any extra food while you are under her roof; why at this very minute she is preparing you a feast!”

  Miss Carmichael smiled weakly and made her way wearily up the stairs.

  Father Daley called out, “Miss Carmichael, tell me one thing.”

  “Whafs that, Father?”

  “Why are there lots of tiny holes punched in the top of your trunk?”

  Miss Carmichael said, “My mother used to shut me in there when I was a child if I wasn’t top of the class or misbehaved and, er, other reasons besides. Without the holes I would have suffocated.”

  Violante Burzaco had enjoyed a very interesting and yet disturbing day. Pig Lane had been busier than it had been for many years. The place seemed to have thrown off its usual torpor and buzzed with a peculiar and unexplained energy. She was sure that something strange was about to happen in Pig Lane, she could feel it in her waters.

  From the balcony of her house opposite Señora Hipola’s lodging house she’d been able to watch all the comings and goings, and it had been better than going to the theatre in Los Olivares.

  By early afternoon there was a full house at Señora Hipola’s; usually there was just the occasional travelling salesman staying overnight or a priest on his way to Santiago.

  The first person to arrive at Señora Hipola’s was a woman who came hurrying down the lane, head bent, worn-down clogs clacking noisily on the cobbles. The woman had only looked up as she arrived at the lodging house. As she did, Violante noticed that she had a newly blackened eye and a nasty gash on the side of her head. She had no luggage with her and kept looking back over her shoulder as though she was afraid of being followed.

  Moments later a man emerged from the Bar Pedro, blinking in the sunlight. He looked up and down Pig Lane and then followed the woman into Señora Hipola’s. He was a peculiar, mincing little fellow and a little the worse for drink. He was definitely not from round these parts, judging from the flimsy city shoes and the tight loud suit.

  Then, just as the church clock chimed one o’clock, all hell broke loose. There was a clatter of hooves at the far end of the street as old Antonio turned into Pig Lane with his donkey cart. The cart rattled noisily over the cobbles and the four passengers in the back were bounced around like drunken rag dolls.

  The two middle-aged women clung to each other and screeched like harridans. Their screeching was echoed by old Antonio’s hysterical laughter.

  Mother of God! Violante Burzaco had never seen such a commotion. These people must be the foreign pilgrims that Sefiora Hipola had told her about. What a motley band of pilgrims they were too! As well as the odd-looking women, who were dressed as if they were going on an expedition to the North Pole, there was a very handsome but flustered-looking priest and a small boy who was holding on to his belly and shaking with laughter.

  When the donkey cart pulled up sharply outside Seftora Hipola’s, old Antonio leaped nimbly down and helped the women out. There was more squealing then as the lewd old fellow had a surreptitious feel of the pair of them.

  The red-faced priest paid Antonio and the old man shook the priest’s hand energetically. Then he go
t back up into the cart, flicked his whip, and the relieved donkey clattered off along the lane.

  The giggling boy and the flustered priest heaved the trunk through the doorway of Sefiora Hipola’s, puffing and panting as they did so. The two peculiar-looking women followed them quickly inside.

  Moments later the boy came back out into the lane. Violante leaned over the balcony and watched him with interest. He walked excitedly up and down, peeping curiously into doorways, peering down into the gutters as if looking for something important.

  He had such a smile of happiness on his face, such an excited sparkle in his blue eyes that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Excitement was bursting through his skin. Some children had the marvellous ability to express their joy physically. This boy had such an unbridled appetite for life and a fascination with everything around him that it made her skin prickle…It was as if Pig Lane had been awaiting his arrival. There was something about him, something quite beguiling and intriguing.

  Eventually the boy went back inside the lodging house and then moments later reappeared on an upstairs balcony busily snapping away with his camera and singing softly to himself. Then someone had called out to him and he had disappeared quickly inside. Violante was disappointed. She could have watched him contentedly for hours. There was something exceptionally uncomplicated and innocent about him and yet at the same time an intricate complexity.

  Violante was about to go back inside when something caught her eye. There was a shadowy figure moving around behind the doorway of Seriora Hipola’s house. She thought it might be the boy hiding behind the curtain so she watched the doorway intently.

  A large nose emerged cautiously through the metal beads. Two large, wary green eyes followed the nose. Then they withdrew hastily back behind the curtain.

  Violante caught her breath.

  Her heart beat rapidly with the shock of what she’d seen.

  She tried without success to steady her breathing.