2004 - Dandelion Soup Read online

  “What about the other, er, younger daughter?”

  “Pah! She wasn’t her daughter, you know. She was the illegitimate child of the daughter Piadora, but the good seftora brought her up as her own. She has been gone from here for years. I never knew her. Upped and off with some rough-necked fellow apparently. Cut off without a penny that one. Neither of the daughters was any good, if you ask me. It’s scandalous, though, that neither of them will be here for their own mother’s funeral, don’t you think?”

  Brother Francisco had bitten his lip to keep silent, to stem the tide of his enormous anger. He had heard many a deathbed confession in his time but none as chilling as the one made by Isabella Martinez.

  When the bell finally stopped ringing and the commotion in the courtyard had died down, the old monks had shuffled off to their work on the land and Padraig settled down on an old stone bench in a small alcove out of the breeze.

  Chickens strutted across the courtyard, dipping and pecking at the cobbles, and a three-legged dog ran across to him and sniffed excitedly round his legs. Padraig stroked the dog and wondered why there were so many three-legged dogs in Spain. How had they all come to lose a leg?

  Padraig looked round about him with interest. The monastery was a real higgledy-piggledy place; it would be a great place to play hide and seek. He imagined the orphans of St Joseph’s running round the courtyard and racing across the meadows that surrounded Santa Eulalia. It would be a lovely place for kids to live.

  The ancient walls of the monastery had been cracked by the harsh winter frosts and the roof bowed by the deep falls of snow. There were bullet holes in a few of the windows and he wondered if the loony Brother Anselm had made them when he was taking pot-shots at flying pigs or shortsighted schoolmasters. Swifts and martins had built their nests beneath the eaves and the summer sun had faded the stone of the walls and bleached the statues of the stone saints in their mossy niches to a deathly hue.

  Padraig took a well-chewed pencil from his pocket and began to draw in the sketchbook he’d bought in Camiga with the money Mr Leary had given him.

  He worked quickly, feverishly, trying to draw from memory. When at last he was satisfied he closed the book and sat for a long time, staring ahead of him, lost in his thoughts.

  A few minutes later Brother Bernardo came out of the barn, scattering corn for the chickens that scuttled behind him clucking and pecking at each other. Seeing Padraig, he waved cheerily and came and sat down beside him, throwing the last of the corn to the frantic chickens.

  “You an artist?” he said, nodding at the sketchbook.

  Padraig blushed to the tips of his ears.

  “I’d like to be one day but I don’t expect I will.”

  “I can look, yes?”

  Padraig handed him the book shyly.

  Brother Bernardo opened it at the first page, looked at the sketch and then looked with surprise at Padraig.

  “This very good, very much, very good.”

  “Thanks,” Padraig replied, blushing again with pleasure and pride.

  It was a sketch of Sister Immaculata that Padraig had drawn from memory. He was very pleased with this drawing because he’d got her large nose just right, and the twinkling crinkled eyes and the lopsided smile. Padraig smiled and said fondly, “That’s Sister Immaculata, she’s an old nun who is real kind to me. I’m going to buy her a nice present while I’m here and take it back for her.”

  The monk turned the page and studied the next sketch.

  Padraig looked down at the drawing he’d done of the little girl in the Dark Wood.

  “This one here, look, like a little nun in her cloak and hood. Ah, see look, she is holding the diente de león.”

  “What’s diente de león?” Padraig asked.

  “In English I think teeth of the lion.”

  “Ah,” said Padraig, “dandelions.”

  “From the diente de león you can make very good soup.”

  “Can you?” said Padraig with a hint of disbelief in his voice. He’d never heard of anyone eating dandelions.

  “Si, one day soon I make the dandelion soup for you, eh?”

  “That’d be grand,” Padraig replied.

  Brother Bernardo began to laugh uproariously as he looked at the sketch that Padraig had just completed.

  “Who in the name of the Holy Father is this?”

  Padraig grinned.

  “Just someone from a dream I had last night.”

  “Very bad dream, eh? Funniest bride I ever seen. Don’t look happy woman this one. I wouldn’t like waking up in bed next to that one, eh?”

  Padraig looked up at the chuckling monk and giggled.

  “No way. She’s another one of the nuns who looks after me. Not a very nice one either,” he said with a shudder.

  The monk scratched his head.

  “She’s a nun. A bride of Christ, eh?”

  Brother Bernardo thought it was a funny thing for a little kid to draw.

  “You should show these to Brother Anselm. He knows lot about art.”

  “Brother Anselm is the old scary man in the bedroom near me, isn’t he?”

  “Si. He studied art in Paris before become a monk. In the dining room you see many of his paintings. One time there lots of artists come to Santa Eulalia. Very good some. Some not good but think they am. Come with me if you like and I show you paintings in the Great Hall. Very old. Very good, I think.”

  Padraig put away his pencil, picked up his sketchpad and followed Brother Bernardo inside the monastery and down a dim, cool corridor to the left of the refectory.

  They stood together in the Great Hall studying a huge fresco on the wall. It was faded and flaking in parts but most of the colours were still bright.

  “Wow,” said Padraig. “Would you look at that!”

  “This was found when we were cleaning the walls, Padraig. Just think, it was hidden away for hundreds of years!”

  Padraig looked eagerly up at the fresco. It seemed to tell a story, as if each of the three sections was a chapter in a book.

  In the first section there was a group of big-bellied monks gathered round a pompous-looking monk who seemed to be telling them a story. All the monks wore cream-coloured robes except for one, who wore brown. The monks in white wore lots of jewellery, large rings and bejewelled crucifixes. Next to the monks stood a group of ragged men with long hair and beards, one of whom was fishing a bone from a cauldron.

  Padraig looked again at the group of monks. They were all standing together under a lemon tree, and in their midst stood a three-legged dog who was piddling over the feet of the storyteller. The dog was almost identical to Quixote. Padraig thought that this artist must have had a good sense of humour.

  “How come there are so many three-legged dogs in Spain?” he asked.

  Brother Bernardo shrugged and said, “I don’t know about Spain but there’s always been dogs like that at Santa Eulalia.”

  “How old do you reckon this painting is?”

  “Hundreds of years, I think. No one really knows.” Padraig looked with interest at the second section, where another group of big-bellied and red-faced monks in cream robes were filling the goblets of two other monks from wine sacks. Next to them a monk sat at a table, counting a huge pile of money. There was the dog again, piddling against the leg of the table.

  The third section was completely mystifying. There was a peculiar little man in the background, a shrivelled-up little fellow dancing naked above what looked like a pile of earth. Above his head were several clusters of dark clouds and in between them was a fork of angry lightning. He looked like some kind of little devil prancing up and down and causing mischief. Beneath him a group of monks were prostrate on the floor, others trampling on them as if trying to escape. A group of laughing children were running away, with the dog at their heels. Behind them the ragged men stood round an overturned cauldron, one of them looking down in wonder at a ring that lay in the palm of his hand.

  Padraig stood
looking up at the fresco for a long time. The artist had really caught the individual expressions of the different people.

  “Brother Anselm thinks this many hundreds year old, but he thinks we should paint over them again.”

  “Why does he want to cover them up? They’re wonderful,” Padraig said.

  “Who knows? Just an old man being contrary.”

  Padraig was absolutely enchanted by the fresco and the closer he looked the more detail he observed. He marvelled at the bright blue of one of the monk’s mischievous eyes, the detail on a red ring that the pompous-looking one wore on his little finger, a rosary one of the ragged children was clutching in her hand. He thought that he could look at the fresco for hours and still find something new to admire.

  “Is it okay if I come again to have another look?”

  “Si. Yes, come soon any time you like in case Brother Anselm escapes and takes a paint brush and covers it all over!”

  “Escapes?” said Padraig fearfully. “Is he meant to be locked up?”

  “No, he’s not dangerous but he sometimes gets forgetful and wanders off. Why only last week we found him wandering down near the Blue Madonna with a hammer.”

  Padraig made a mental note to keep the bedroom door shut and stay well out of Brother Anselm’s way.

  Miss Carmichael took a slow walk down the mountain track towards the hamlet. She was truly enjoying herself, she felt so alive, so happy; she had removed her stockings and garters and the cool breeze felt wonderful on her bare legs. She hadn’t gone about with bare legs since she was a very small child.

  The breeze dropped as she neared the Blue Madonna and the sun felt hot on her face. She kneeled down at the feet of the statue and made the sign of the cross. It was a very old statue by the look of it; the body was quite crudely carved and yet the face was a masterpiece of emotions. She put out her hand and felt the madonna’s cheek; it was smooth and cool to the touch. As she touched the shadowy tear on the face, she felt a tremor of emotion run through her.

  Taking the piece of paper that she had already written on, she placed it on a nail at the feet of the madonna, where it fluttered in the breeze. Then she got to her feet slowly and carried on down the track. The few crumbling houses of the hamlet were run down and looked deserted except for the thin wreaths of smoke that drifted up from the chimneys of two of them. She supposed that years ago it must have been a pleasant little place in which to live, very isolated but exceptionally beautiful. The views down the valley were absolutely magnificent. She walked quickly and quietly past the houses, not wanting to disturb anyone inside. From an opened window a boy of about eighteen watched her curiously, a half-witted boy by the look of him. His mouth hung open and dribble ran down his chin. He waved his hand slowly, laboriously. Nancy waved nervously back and hurried on her way.

  Just past the last house she turned down a narrow track that led towards the river. Taking off her shoes, Nancy felt the grass soft and cool beneath her feet. She walked for a long way down the track that was bordered on the right by a dense pine forest.

  Occasionally she stopped and listened. All she could hear was the sound of birdsong and the occasional clank of what she guessed must be a cow-bell. There was something else, though; she was sure that she could hear the sound of footsteps on the grass some distance behind her.

  What if it was a brown bear? She’d heard that there were bears up here in the mountains. Dear God, she could be eaten alive. For God’s sake, Nancy! Chiding herself for her stupidity, she carried on her way. After a while she arrived at the riverbank and followed the fast-flowing river further down the valley.

  The day was glorious, the sound of the water soothing to her ears. The sun rose higher into the wide blue sky and the last wisps of cloud evaporated above the mountain peaks.

  Further downstream she sat down thankfully for a rest near a sheltered pool. A bee buzzed nearby and a hawk screamed overhead and plummeted to the earth. A dragonfly skimmed the water and a butterfly rested on a quivering blade of grass at her side. She felt as though she was completely alone in the world.

  Nancy lay back on the grass, her head pillowed by a mound of soft moss. She closed her eyes, felt the sun’s rays dappling her eyelids and she began to doze, completely unaware that two pairs of eyes watched her intently from the cover of the wood.

  When she awoke some time later she felt drunk with the heat. It was unbelievably hot. Already her pale shins were turning pink in the sun. Slowly, she slipped off her tweed skirt and jumper and sat in her cotton petticoat and drawers. She wondered if she dared step into the cool water and paddle to cool herself down.

  She kneeled down at the water’s edge and peered into the sparkling water. It didn’t look too deep close to the bank but it was hard to gauge how deep it was further out towards the middle. She was wary of water because she had never learned to swim so she wanted to be sure that it would be safe. She leaned forward, backside in the air, quite unaware of the sudden movement behind her. She had already hit the water face first by the time she realized that she had been pushed.

  She opened her mouth to scream but she disappeared beneath the cold water, the scream never making it past her lips. Water rushed into her nose and throat as she sank deeper into the sparkling, whirling, weedy depths.

  Padraig stayed in the Great Hall for a long time, looking intently at the fresco and trying to work out the story that was being told. Then he left Brother Bernardo to continue with his chores and took a walk down the track to see the statue of the Blue Madonna, hoping that he’d catch up with Nancy, but there was no sign of her anywhere.

  He shrugged, whistling softly to himself; she must have got bored and gone back up to the monastery for a lie down. Grown-ups did a lot of lying down.

  Padraig kneeled down and examined the Blue Madonna and as he did he felt a tingle of excitement run up his backbone. It was a very old statue, that was for sure. He couldn’t tell what it was made from but it was very cool to the touch. He rapped it with his knuckles. Ouch! It was made of something bloody hard. Picking up a small sharp stone, he scratched the paint near the base of the statue. A flake of dark-blue paint fell away, revealing another. Layer upon layer of slightly different shades of blue paint. He scratched the paint again and sighed. There must be twenty layers at least. Underneath the very last layer of blue paint he came to white stone and, sadly, definitely not gold. This one wasn’t the lost Irish virgin either! He’d got quite excited about this statue, wondered if it had been Santa Eulalia where the Irish monks had stayed. He examined the statue inch by inch but there were no clues to be found. He was about to try and squeeze in behind the grotto and get a proper look when he heard a noise nearby. He looked down towards the houses. A man had come out of one of them, crossed into a barn and come back out carrying a large stick. The look on his face startled Padraig; the man looked absolutely furious. Padraig ducked down and watched curiously as the man stalked off down the track and then turned to his left down a smaller track. Padraig didn’t like the look of him one bit! Abandoning his examination of the statue, he decided he’d come back another time and get a better look.

  As he climbed the track he looked up towards Santa Eulalia. The steep walls seemed to have been built into the rock face itself. He could see the arched window of the room where he and Father Daley had slept, the very window that the artist Luciano had drawn in his painting. A few windows along to the left he saw a light shining. For a moment he thought it was the reflection of the sun on a mirror. Screwing up his eyes, he peered up at the window and he knew instantly that he was being watched. Someone was standing at the window with binoculars watching him as he made his way back up the track to Santa Eulalia. He knew instinctively that it was old Brother Anselm, the monk who gave him the willies.

  Despite the ferocity of the midday sun, Brother Francisco walked all the way from the station in Los Olivares to Santa Eulalia. The track was steep and the going hard but he needed time alone to think before he got back to the monaster
y. His mind was in absolute turmoil, racing feverishly to try to make sense of all that he had learned at the Villa Castelo.

  He cursed himself now for his own crass stupidity; his shallow acceptance of what he had been told and foolishly believed without questioning for all those years. What an imbecile he’d been! For God’s sake! He’d just believed everything he’d been told and never thought logically about anything at all.

  He had grown up on the estate of the Villa Castelo; Piadora had been his second cousin. She had been more than that, though! She had been a friend, a soul-mate, indeed for a while as a teenager he’d been quite besotted with her.

  He’d been away studying at the seminary in Barcelona when she’d written to say that she was at a finishing school in Paris and was having the time of her life.

  Then she’d stopped writing and he’d heard that she had been whisked away from Paris to her aunfs house in the country, and he like everyone else had assumed the worst.

  The gossip was that she’d had an unsuitable relationship while she was staying in France, got herself pregnant and been sent off until the baby was born. That she had never returned to the Villa Castelo was natural, the shame would have been too great amongst the aristocratic circles in which she’d moved.

  Her mother Isabella had taken on the illegitimate child as her own. He remembered the child vaguely; he’d seen her on his few trips back while his parents were still alive. She was a very pretty girl but spoiled and petted like a lap dog. Everyone had pitied Isabella when the child turned out badly and had run off at sixteen with one of the labourers. Like mother like daughter they’d said and shaken their heads. Bad blood would out in the end they’d said. The saintly Isabella had done her Christian duty and look how she had been repaid!

  Isabella Martinez! She was no saint, that was for sure. She’d always had a way, though, of fooling people into thinking she was good. He had never liked her when he was a child; he’d been afraid of her withering looks, her caustic tongue. The instincts of children were pretty sure indicators he’d always thought. She was a shrewd, cunning woman who wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way. He remembered his mother telling him that when they were children she’d drowned her own twin sister’s pet rabbit and then put the blame on her. She was a powerful woman and not to be trusted.