2004 - Dandelion Soup Page 33

  “There wasn’t a fresco in the Great Hall as far as I remember,” Leary said.

  “That’s the funny thing, the monks found it by accident when they were scrubbing the walls. It’s really beautiful and yet Brother Anselm wanted them to paint over it again. Isn’t that an odd thing for someone who loves art to do?”

  “He’s not right in the head, though, is he?” Father Daley said.

  “Anyhow,” Padraig continued, “I wondered did whoever paint the fresco also paint the statue all those years ago, on account of the colour being the same?”

  “What would that prove?” Leary asked.

  “Well, that they could be about the same age.”

  “Anything else?” Muli asked.

  “Yes. Nancy gave me a clue.”

  “Did I?”

  “You were humming ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’.”

  “Oh yes, and I was surprised that you didn’t recognize the tune.”

  “Well, I did recognize the tune,” Padraig replied. “It was just that it made me think of something else.”

  “I’m lost already,” Donahue sighed.

  “Well, you see, some of the monks painted in the fresco had blue eyes and some of them had brown. Most of the people over here in Spain have brown eyes. I wondered, like, were these blue-eyed monks in the fresco the ones from Ireland who brought the statue here to Spain?”

  “And were they?” Solly asked.

  “Well, I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, but Nancy pointed out that one of them did look a little bit like Mr Leary. And, you see, I knew that it was one of Mr Leary’s ancestors who had been accused of stealing the statue.”

  “Is that right Leary?”

  Leary nodded and smiled.

  “Anything else, Padraig?” Muli prompted.

  “The three-legged dog. There’s one at Santa Eulalia called Quixote and there was one in the fresco. I asked Brother Bernardo why there were so many three-legged dogs in Spain.”

  “And what did he say?” asked Donahue.

  “Well, he said that there had always been three-legged dogs at Santa Eulalia, and that got me to wondering if the dog in the fresco was an ancestor of Quixote. The same way that I wondered if the squinting monk was an ancestor of Mr Leary’s.”

  “Go on, Padraig,” said Michael Leary, who was fascinated.

  “Well, the strangest thing of all was that Muli was in the picture too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Donahue laughed with derision. “I mean he looks bloody ancient but he can’t have been hanging around for hundreds of years.”

  Muli smiled at Donahue and his eyes twinkled gaily as he said, “There have, like three-legged dogs, always been Nubeiros hanging around at Santa Eulalia.”

  Donahue shook his head and grinned.

  “Thafs about all I found out about the Irish virgin, but there were a lot of things that didn’t seem quite right at Santa Eulalia.”

  “What sort of things?” Michael Leary asked.

  “Well, there was a mark on the wall in the refectory where a painting had once hung. Brother Bernardo said that it was where one of Brother Anselm’s paintings had hung, but it had been stolen about ten years ago.”

  “What’s odd about that?” Donahue said.

  “Well, if you’ve ever seen any of Anselm’s paintings you’ll know that only a halfwit would steal them, because they’re awful. That was strange, because Anselm was supposed to have been an artist himself, wasn’t he?”

  “Thafs right, I remember you saying that he’d studied in Paris,” Father Daley said.

  “So why were they so bad? And even stranger, there’s a painting on the wall by someone called Luciano and it’s brilliant. Surely a thief would have pinched that if he wanted tp make some money? Mr Leary has a painting by him back in Ballygurry that he calls his pension, but he told me that he’d never sell it.”

  “He might have to now his job’s gone, though,” said Donahue.

  “Never,” said Leary emphatically.

  “No one spoke for a while until Michael Leary said, Talking of Luciano, one of his paintings turned up in America last year out of the blue.”

  “How do you mean out of the blue?”

  “Well, he was quite a prolific painter in his time and yet very few of his paintings have been found since his death.”

  “Did it sell for a lot of money?”

  “Thousands,” Leary said.

  Muli turned his attention next to Solly Benjamin.

  “And you, sir, I believe that you have travelled many miles with your companions to try and solve another mystery.”

  “That’s correct. As most of you here know, I was sent a child, a little girl called Dancey, who arrived at my house in the dead of night.”

  “That would be the night that you had the peculiar dream about the dwarves and nuns?” Muli enquired with a grin.

  Solly looked at Muli in disbelief.

  “Yes, it was,” he stammered, but he didn’t elaborate. “Anyhow, she was sent to me by someone whose identity I don’t know. I have been trying to find out where she came from and who sent her, and today we were going to Benita to follow up a clue.”

  Muli looked steadfastly at Solly.

  “But the news has reached you that Señora Isabella Martinez is dead?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Ah, I hear things on the wind, my friend.”

  Solly shook his head and then said, “Padraig, what was it you said earlier about the monk studying in Paris?”

  “Just that Brother Bernardo said that Brother Anselm was an artist before he became a monk and that he studied in Paris.”

  “Madame Mireille!” Solly cried.

  “What about her?” Donahue asked.

  “I remember she said that Isabella Martinez used to bring a man with her to the shop sometimes. She said that he was her brother and he was an artist too. Madame Mireille said that the way he and Isabella looked at each other made her think that he was her lover not her brother!”

  “Good God! You don’t think it could be Brother Anselm, do you?” Leary asked.

  “Why don’t we ask him outright?”

  “Because,” said Father Daley, “he’s locked up and half out of his mind.”

  “Padraig, do you remember the photograph?” Leary said excitedly.

  “What photograph, Mr Leary?”

  “The one in my scrapbook, which was taken outside the café. Remember, the one of the pregnant girl and Brother Anselm!”

  “I do. Blimey, do you think that she might be Dancey’s mammy then?”

  “Maybe,” said Leary quietly.

  “That doesn’t help us know where the mother has gone, though,” Solly said.

  “But Anselm must know who the girl is,” Leary added.

  “Maybe the dirty old sod is Pepita’s father,” posed Donahue.

  “Who’s Pepita?” Father Daley asked.

  “Pepita Amati is Dancey’s mother. Señora Hipola told us her name,” Leary said.

  Suddenly a voice spoke out.

  “I think I may be able to help you with some of your questions.”

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Donahue.

  “My name is Peregrino Viejo, the Old Pilgrim.”

  There was a sudden silence as everyone turned to look at the tall, striking man who must have come quietly into the room some moments before he had spoken.

  Padraig said, “I’ve seen you before outside the church in the square with the fountain. I still have a lovely blue scarf that you left behind.”

  The man smiled at Padraig and said, “Ifs funny, you know, because I was sure that you and I would meet again one day.”

  “What did you mean you could help us? I don’t see how you can, sir, unless you can tell us where we can find the girl’s mother?” Solly said impatiently.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, although I would hazard a guess that she’s long gone from these parts.”

  “Come on
then, man, spit out what you do know,” Donahue urged.

  “I found the child Dancey abandoned up near Santa Eulalia. She was in a terrible state, terrified and barely able to speak. But she managed to tell me how she had become separated from her mother. They were playing a game of hide and seek. Dancey was told to close her eyes, and count to a hundred. When the poor child opened her eyes there was no sign of her mother. She had been abandoned.”

  Nancy Carmichael gasped.

  “What sort of woman could do that to her own child?”

  Michael Leary glanced at Nancy. She would have made someone a great mother. He looked then at Padraig and was transfixed. He looked from Padraig to Nancy hardly believing his eyes! There was most definitely a resemblance between the two of them. He’d never have noticed it before but now that Padraig’s hair was growing longer and the sun had sprinkled his skin with freckles he could definitely see it. It was small wonder that Brother Anselm had thought them related.

  “Anyhow, Dancey and I went in search of her mother but I didn’t really expect to find her. Dancey could tell me very little about her past except that they’d lived in many different places, never staying anywhere long. We were together for many months but in the end I had to let her go.”

  “Why?” asked Padraig simply.

  The Old Pilgrim smiled sadly.

  “There are times when the blackness comes upon me, a deep despair that lasts sometimes for many months. It wouldn’t have been right to subject the child to that.”

  “But why on earth send her halfway across Europe to me, a man you don’t even know?” Solly asked angrily.

  “Because many years ago, Solly Benjamin, you did me a very great favour.”

  “I did? Well, it’s news to me!”

  “You did indeed and I never forgot your generosity.”

  “I’m in the dark still,” said Solly.

  “It was at Rossmacconnarty station, a filthy rainswept day not unlike yesterday. I was a broken man and you gave me something that was precious, and I knew at that moment that you were a man of honour, a good and trustworthy man.”

  “My God,” Solly said, staring hard at the Old Pilgrim. “The man in the waiting room! I remember it as clear as if it were yesterday. You wore a mackintosh and I thought it was odd because your clothes were good quality but they were filthy. I gave you some money and…and the ring. But how did you know where I lived?”

  “Your name and address were written on your suitcase and I never forgot them, always hoped I’d be able to repay you one day.”

  “But how did you know I was still living there; after all, it was years ago.”

  “I had someone check that you were still registered at that address. And now I have something to return to you.”

  He removed the ring from his finger and handed it to Solly Benjamin, who closed his palm tightly round it as his eyes welled with tears.

  “Thank you.”

  Padraig jumped to his feet with alacrity.

  “Would you let me see that ring, Solly?”

  Solly held out the ring for the boy to see and Padraig drew in his breath with astonishment.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked.

  “It’s been in my family for generations. There was some story that it was given to one of my distant ancestors by a holy man to help them flee from persecution.”

  “But your ancestors didn’t ever sell it?”

  “No, but if you look closely there are one or two stones missing that must have been sold at some point,” Solly explained.

  “Solly, in Santa Eulalia there’s a monk in the fresco wearing a ring just like this one. And in the last part of the fresco there’s another bearded man holding the ring in his hand. Maybe, Solly, this is the ring from the fresco!”

  “That’s a bit far-fetched, Padraig,” Father Daley said.

  “Well, if you go to Santa Eulalia and take a look you’ll see for yourselves.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Midi said. “Think about it, Solly. You’ve told us that someone gave one of your ancestors that ring to help them on their way. There were many Jews expelled from Spain, many of them may have fled along the pilgrim trail.”

  “It could be that your ancestors once passed through Santa Eulalia, like Mr Leary’s did,” Padraig said, “and you, Solly, like the monk in the fresco, passed the ring on to someone else in need!”

  “Everything seems to lead back to Santa Eulalia,” Leary said thoughtfully.

  Dancey Amati came slowly down the stairs and paused in the hallway. She sniffed the air excitedly and breathed in the welcome smells of tobacco and horses, wood smoke and hay and, above all else, dandelions.

  Take a fistful of garbanzos

  A clutch of white beans

  A handful of dandelions

  Two wide-brimmed hatfuls of spring water

  A slosh of olive oil

  Some slivers of monastery beef

  Two cloves of silvery garlic

  One enormous wrinkled tomato…

  The words had stayed with her all this time. She had repeated them so many times, over and over in her head, like a charm to keep herself safe.

  She stepped nervously towards the dining-room door, her heart beating wildly. Then she saw him.

  “Peregrino Viejo!” she yelled.

  At the sound of her voice everyone turned to look at her.

  Solly swallowed hard. She’d been silent for so long, he’d thought she might never speak.

  The Old Pilgrim turned round and held out his arms; she ran to him and was caught up in his embrace. He was lifting her up and up, kissing her cheek, stroking her hair, the feel of his warm tears like silk on her own skin.

  “There is no more beautiful sight than a child being reunited with a loved one,” Muli said softly.

  “And now I have a story to tell you about another child.

  “Some years ago, here in Spain, a desperate young man who had come out here to fight in the war asked me to help him.”

  “Who was he?” asked Padraig.

  “Patience, Padraig, patience.”

  Muli continued quietly.

  “I was asked to visit a village in Ireland and wait for a young woman to contact me, a very beautiful young woman as it turns out. I met her there and arranged to take her to a safe house in Dublin and leave her in the care of an old woman called Gerty Wiseman.”

  Michael Leary listened intently.

  “The young woman was unmarried and pregnant and she was fearful of what her father might do to her if he found out about the baby she was expecting. She was terrified that she would be made to give up the child for adoption. She went to stay in Dublin with Gerty and there she waited for the return of her young man, who had promised faithfully to come for her and the child.

  “The child was duly born but the father never came. She would, I expect, have assumed that he had been killed out here in Spain in the civil war and that like many others, his body lay in an unmarked grave.”

  “So do you think the man buried at Santa Eulalia could be…” Father Daley interrupted but then fell into silence.

  “I don’t think that she ever really gave up hope of seeing him again, did she, Padraig?”

  Everyone in the room looked at Padraig.

  Padraig stared at Muli as if he were in a trance.

  “No. She used to say that one day, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, he’d sail up the River Liffey and find us and we’d all be together again.”

  Padraig fell silent and swallowed hard.

  “Then,” Muli took up the story again, “tragically, Padraig’s mammy was run down and killed. Gerty Wiseman, I’m sure, would have looked after him, but she, by this time, was dead. Of course, there was no father’s name on his birth certificate, and Padraig’s mother had already changed her name to avoid being found by her family. It was assumed that Padraig was an orphan and he was whisked off to St Joseph’s orphanage in Ballygurry.”

  Leary interrupted, “It
sounds like this fellow who was buried up at Santa Eulalia could very well be Padraig’s father. What was his name again?”

  “George Fitzallen,”said Father Daley.

  The Old Pilgrim spoke then.

  “George Fitzallen is not this boy’s father.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Because,” the Old Pilgrim said quietly, “I am George Fitzallen.”

  Donahue looked across the room at Nancy, who had paled to the colour of chalk.

  “But George Fitzallen is buried at Santa Eulalia,” Father Daley exclaimed.

  “You’ve a fine complexion for a dead man,” Donahue said.

  “Who the hell is buried in that grave, then, if it isn’t you?” Leary asked.

  “I have no idea. I saw the grave for the first time myself only the other night.”

  “How bloody odd. That must have given you a right turn,” Donahue said, “seeing your own tombstone like that.”

  “Remember Brother Bernardo said that he wrote to the family of the man but he never had a reply,” Padraig said.

  “My father wouldn’t have cared less about my death,” the Old Pilgrim said. “I was not welcome in my father’s house.”

  “George Fitzallen! Bloody hell!” Padraig said excitedly. “I’ve just thought of something else.”

  “What is it?” Michael Leary asked.

  “The trunk that that we found in Señora Hipola’s house in Pig Lane when Miss Drew fell through the stable roof! I thought there was going to be treasure in it, but there wasn’t, was there, Nancy?”

  “No, there wasn’t, just a pile of dirty old clothes.”

  “Can you remember what sort of clothes, though, Nancy?” Padraig asked.

  “Sure, just a filthy old suit and a mackintosh.”

  “Yes,” Padraig continued, “a dirty stinking mackintosh with faded tartan on the inside and leather buttons.”

  “What in the name of Saint Patrick has a pile of old clothes got to do with anything?” Donahue said.

  Padraig looked directly at the Old Pilgrim and said, “They were your clothes, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, they were,” the Old Pilgrim said quietly. “I stayed in Pig Lane when I first arrived in Spain. I wanted to get rid of everything from my past life and I left the trunk behind.”