Daughter of Catalonia Read online

  ‘And, carinyo, I think you know that even if I could get away with it, I can’t leave with you. God knows I love you, and I don’t know how I’m going to manage without you, but I already ran away from one fight. I can’t run away from this one.’

  Elise gazed at him in despair. It was because of her and the children that he had never joined the Republican army in the fight against Franco. She had kept him away from the cause closest to his heart. There was no way she could take him away from France now, and nor could she stay, not with the children. The logic was inescapable and more grievous than she could bear.

  She nodded mutely and held his hand close against her cheek. Tears drenched it, and Luis pulled her into his arms, drying her tears with his lips.

  ‘It won’t be for long, Elise. The tide has turned in this war, and the only reason the Germans are moving in here is because they’re sure the Allies are going to invade. It’ll come soon, from one direction or another. And my love, as soon as that happens I will come for you.’

  Day after day the plans were made, and Elise kept her fears hidden – fear for Luis, fear of the separation, and the horror of returning to her parents’ home in England. The time stretched before her as an endless ordeal, and she felt she could have endured all the dangers of Luis’s future life far more easily.

  As for Luis, he went about forming his plans for them with a determined positiveness which would almost have fooled her, had she not occasionally caught him looking at her off guard, when she recognised her bleakness reflected. That look made Elise even more determined to hide her fears. And so together they smiled and made their plans quietly, in secret from the world.

  They would have to walk across the mountains. The sea route was now impossible – the fishing boats were watched and the beaches guarded, and no one had dared use the boats for escapees for some time. But how to take two small children on a walk of many kilometres across a rough mountain pass in the cold of a November night? The pass being suggested was over fifteen kilometres long, and involved a climb of nearly a thousand metres. And to get to it there were a further fifteen kilometres of heavily patrolled country lanes to be covered. To avoid risk of discovery, most escape parties went on foot to the pass, across the fields. To take a car along the border roads at night was to court arrest. Elise kept a smile on her face because she had to, but was secretly aghast.

  ‘Are we really going to try to cover thirty kilometres with the children?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. Enric says there are evenings when the militia are less likely to be out on patrol – he can watch and tell us. We’ll go as far as the pass by car, without lights. We’ll be OK. We have the benefit of inside knowledge, you see.’

  ‘But there’s still the pass to walk. Can we really do it with the children, Luis?’

  ‘We’ll be fine, don’t you worry. It’s already been done by other groups with children, and Enric has taken two families over before. He wants to help me carry the children – at least Robert – in a kind of makeshift backpack, and if he does so I can carry Madeleine for a good bit of the way. She’ll have to walk some, but my Amazon will cope with that.’

  ‘I just hope she’ll cope with my parents as easily! Can you imagine my father’s reaction when I turn up unannounced with two brown Catalan children with a war history to make their hair stand on end? It’s almost worth going just to see his face!’

  Luis grinned and kissed her. ‘Attagirl! See it as a mission to enlighten the natives.’

  ‘Yes, but let’s hope it doesn’t last too long, this war, or I may be murdered before I can make it back here.’

  ‘Tell them you have a dangerous resistance worker for a husband, and I’ll be coming to get them after the war! Tell me, dear wife, how does it happen that we have no children in this apartment this afternoon?’

  ‘Serge told Philippe he has some apples, goodness knows where from, and so Philippe decided to take the children to buy some. He says this fine weather we are having can’t last – well we know it can’t, we’re nearly in November – so he wanted to treat them both before we leave. Oh God, Luis, we’re really going to leave aren’t we?’

  She reached for him, and he breathed into her neck.

  ‘My love, you may leave, but we will always be together. It doesn’t matter where we are.’

  His voice deepened. ‘How long will Philippe be gone?’

  ‘He said he would take the children down to the shore afterwards. They won’t come back for a while.’ She gave him a smile of pure seduction.

  ‘Show me how you will miss me, Luis.’

  Philippe looked at Madeleine. ‘Do you remember leaving? You probably know more about your journey than me. Luis went with you into Spain, and then left you, and we heard you got to the British Consulate in Barcelona, and from there to Gibraltar and then to England by boat.’

  Visions came to Madeleine of a frightened six-year-old walking in the dark, wet and cold in the November rain, her parents and another man by her side. She remembered being squashed in the back of a cart, then a train, and what must have been a hotel room, and being even more frightened because she didn’t understand anyone around her, or know where she was. She remembered her mother explaining to her that they were going on a boat, and that they were going to England, which she had heard of, but didn’t want to go to. She had cried for her father, missing the man who had never been away from home, but she had no memory of her mother crying, only of her negotiating, arranging, discussing, always in the same quiet, patient voice, in English, French, bits of what must have been Spanish. The journey for her was a memory of confusion and fear and boredom, and always holding hard to her mother’s hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted to Philippe. ‘I’ve always remembered the journey, just snatches, you know, and of course never fully understanding where we were or what was happening. Papa had told me I had to help Maman and look after Robert, so I just kept talking to Robert, and trying to keep him happy, because he was the only person I actually understood! And he cried a lot, probably because it was all so tiring, and nothing was familiar or routine. So I tried to feel superior to him and remember that I could tell Papa later how good I’d been. It sounds insufferable, but I suppose it was just a way of coping. I don’t remember the boat, funnily enough, or arriving in England. I mainly remember the early bits of the journey. Maybe it all became a blur after a while.’

  Philippe nodded. ‘It was such a long time before we heard that you had arrived safely. Luis had left Vermeilla by then, and was living in a safe house, but he kept coming back whenever he could get transport, hoping to get news. In the end it was he who heard first, from the same passeur who had helped you across the mountains into Spain. He’d asked for information, and had it relayed back that you’d caught a boat safely. Luis kept hoping for a letter, but that was impossible, as he knew, really. We could get letters out sometimes with people crossing into Spain, and I know your father sent letters to Elise, but nothing ever came back. So you all just disappeared, and your father followed Allied movements with even more interest, and talked non-stop about when it would all be over, and you would all come home.’

  ‘But we never did.’

  ‘No,’ sighed Philippe. ‘You never came back, and we never again heard from Elise. I wrote to her, of course, as soon as Luis died, and then I wrote again after the liberation, thinking maybe the first letter would not have reached her. But she never wrote, even after the whole ghastly war was history, and letters were flowing normally. I wrote one last time in early 1946, and then gave up.’

  Madeleine wondered what had happened to all these letters. Had her mother received them all? She knew the first letter from Philippe had got through, because the news of her father’s death had broken over them at Forsham just as France was liberated. But letters from her father? Had any letters from Luis ever reached Forsham? It was impossible to know.

  She told Philippe. ‘Your first letter reached us, I know, with the news. The others probably did too.
But my mother wasn’t herself afterwards, you know. I doubt whether she would have had the will to write.’

  Philippe shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How strange,’ he said, ‘to try to think of Elise like that. How tragic. And Luis nearly made it, you know. He only died two months before the liberation. D-Day had just taken place and the allied forces were back on French soil. He was ecstatic the last time I saw him, talking about the end of the war being in sight.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Madeleine asked. Her question hung between them.

  ‘He was shot, my dear. Shot by the Germans who found the camp where he was living. I can tell you a bit more, from the little I know; but not now. It’s lunchtime, and we have raised enough ghosts for now, and should go out into the world and remember the present for a while. Colette will be waiting for us, and whatever she has prepared for us, I would hate to risk keeping her waiting.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The streets of Vermeilla were deserted as they emerged from Philippe’s home and headed back to the Café de Catalogne. Shopfronts were shuttered, and as they passed the entrance to the cave where they had earlier drunk Banyuls, the cavernous arch was filled by heavy wooden double doors. In something of a daze Madeleine realised it really was lunchtime, and the people of Vermeilla were already at table. She hadn’t realised they had been so long in the little apartment, buried in the past.

  ‘It’s a good thing Colette told us lunch would be late today,’ grinned Philippe. ‘We would be seriously overdue otherwise. As it is, we’ll get away with it.’

  He set a fast pace which brought Madeleine briskly back to the present hour. She smiled back at him and answered, ‘We may get away with it, but first we have to get there. My legs are shorter than yours, remember. Could we walk just a bit more slowly?’

  His lips twitched, and he slowed down infinitesimally, just as they rounded a corner and the café came into view. A few couples were eating at the tables outside, and one noisy family inside, but Colette was nowhere to be seen. A waiter and barman seemed to be in complete command. Philippe greeted them and then led her through the café, the length of the polished wooden bar, to a steep, narrow staircase hidden at the rear. Climbing it at his usual pace, two steps at a time, he halted before a door at the top and knocked decisively, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Madeleine followed in his wake.

  They were in a narrow corridor, with two doors off it at the front, and then it opened onto a large living area with more light than Madeleine had expected, coming in through double glass doors opening onto a large balcony with intricate wrought iron railings and the same tiny, dark terracotta tiles which ran through the rest of the building. On the far side of the living area another corridor led to more rooms. Later Madeleine was to learn that the front rooms were two guest rooms which had once been rented out commercially, while the back corridor housed the kitchen, bathroom and separate bedrooms for Colette and her invalid husband. The two sons had rooms up another winding staircase in the tiny attic.

  A large table on the left of the simply furnished room was already laid for lunch, with a starched embroidered tablecloth, and a selection of chairs, none matching, all in differing shades of polished wood. It was overlooked by a picture of the Madonna and child, demure and saintly in a heavy wood frame.

  As they entered the room a young teenager was putting some last articles on the table, overseen by Colette, who followed him around the table adjusting most of the places he had laid, scolding fondly the whole time. To the right, by the open balcony doors, Daniel straddled an easy chair, reading the local newspaper. He got up as soon as he saw them enter, and came across with a smile, ushering them into the room.

  ‘Where will we sit, Maman?’ he asked, turning briefly to Colette. ‘Should we go onto the balcony?’

  ‘No, my son. We are late already. We will take our aperitif at the table. Come, my dear,’ Colette beckoned to Madeleine. ‘Come and be comfortable, and meet my other son, Martin.’ She caressed his hair as she spoke, and turned him towards Madeleine.

  Madeleine looked curiously at this prodigy about whom she had learnt from the Curelées at the hotel. He was of a different build to Daniel, more like his mother, stocky and Catalan, with masses of dark curls and the broad cheeks and dimples which characterised Colette, but more masculine and planed. He might be thirteen or fourteen years old, she thought; a good ten years younger than Daniel. Colette’s fingers still threaded his hair, an attention which he accepted without seeming to notice it. This, thought Madeleine, is clearly the cosseted darling of this household, the late-born child with such huge promise and his mother’s greatest pride. She moved towards him, smiling a greeting, hand outstretched, and as she neared him Martin smiled back, a smile as endearing as Daniel’s, but with an impudent sparkle his brother lacked.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ said Martin conventionally. ‘You have just arrived in Vermeilla? I hope you are enjoying our small village?’

  ‘Very much, thank you. It is such a beautiful place, and I have been so happy to find old family friends like your mother and Philippe.’

  ‘You can’t be in Vermeilla and not meet Tonton Philippe. He is the heart and creative mind of this place.’ He turned to Philippe and held out his cheek easily to be kissed. ‘Bonjour, mon oncle. How is your creative mind today?’

  His manner was nicely deferential yet slightly teasing, his voice reassuringly still that of a child. This, thought Madeleine, was definitely not someone who lacked self-confidence. Philippe kissed him on both cheeks then laughingly took him lightly by the ear.

  ‘Never mind my creative mind,’ he retorted. ‘How is yours? How is the Ovid translation coming on, young man?’

  ‘Coming, Tonton, coming, I promise you, and even faster if I didn’t have to lay tables and all the rest while my brother lounges around.’

  Daniel was waiting on the other side of the table to seat himself when the others were ready, but at this he took a stray piece of string from his pocket and flicked it at his brother.

  ‘Some of us work for a living, you little ass,’ he said, though his voice was more amused than affronted. The resemblance between them was mainly in colouring, and in their eyes, which in both were softer than the usual Catalan mahogany, with long, curling lashes.

  Colette let Martin go, and turned to Madeleine with a shrug. ‘For Martin,’ she acknowledged, ‘laying the table is hard work. He can write some fancy essay, but ask him to do any household chore …’ Her voice was eloquent, but Martin merely grinned back at her.

  Colette gestured them to the table. ‘You must all be very hungry by this hour. Let’s sit down. Daniel, could you go and fetch your father?’ she asked.

  Daniel nodded immediately then disappeared into the back corridor. Madeleine and Philippe sat at the table, while Martin went to the kitchen for the bread and the plate of anchovies which was to be their first course. Some minutes later Daniel reappeared with an old man leaning heavily on his arm. Or at least that was Madeleine’s first impression, but then she realised that what seemed like the shuffling steps of an elderly man were actually the rather rigid, painstaking movements of a man who had only partial control of his legs. His face, too, seemed old at first, lined and set, with deep furrows around the mouth and on his forehead, and thinning grey hair completed the initial impression, but his eyes were a clear blue, and the skin on his arms and the backs of his hands was smooth. In reality Colette’s husband was probably a great deal younger than Philippe.

  Daniel had taken after his father, Madeleine realised, with his fine features and lean build. Only his colouring and eyes were Colette’s. He settled his father into a chair at the head of the table, and once he was sure he was comfortable he took his own place next to him.

  ‘Madeleine, this is my husband Jean-Pierre,’ said Colette in a neutral voice, and then to her husband, ‘Jean-Pierre, we have with us today the daughter of Luis Garriga, who has returned to Vermeilla after all these years. I am sure you will w
ant to welcome her to our house along with the rest of us.’

  The formality of the presentation made the man at the head of the table a stranger. At first he didn’t react, seeming to take time to absorb the information. Madeleine felt the need to speak first.

  ‘Je suis enchantée, Monsieur,’ she said. She was too far from him to offer her hand, so she merely smiled.

  Jean-Pierre Perrens contemplated Madeleine with a disconcerting stare, almost childlike in its directness. Next to him Daniel watched, waiting for his father to speak. The silence extended, and then Jean-Pierre Perrens turned away from Madeleine and muttered to his wife.

  ‘Who did you bring here? Luis Garriga, you said? What has she to do with Luis Garriga?’

  ‘I said she’s his daughter, Jean-Pierre. You remember! Little Madeleine who used to come to the café before the war! She went away to England, and we haven’t seen her since, but now she is a grown lady, and she has come back to visit us. We are all very happy to see her.’

  Colette’s voice was oddly emphatic, as though she wanted to imprint the information on his mind. Jean-Pierre gazed for what seemed like several minutes at his wife, although in reality it could only have been a few seconds, and then looked across again at Madeleine.

  ‘Luis Garriga,’ he said again, and his voice struck an unfathomable note. He looked at her for a few more seconds and then seemed to forget her and turned to contemplation of his napkin.

  As the meal progressed, Madeleine couldn’t figure out whether he was an intelligent man who had withdrawn into himself, or a man with a mind as damaged as his legs. Around him conversation flowed, and the rest of the family seemed to talk as though he wasn’t there. Colette was clearly an indulgent mother, and Philippe the favoured uncle, and the sons therefore spoke and argued more freely than Madeleine had ever felt able to do in the presence of older adults. Her upbringing seemed so stiff in comparison. The conversation here was noisy and ceaselessly energetic, about the poor state of fishing, about the petition to the local council to build a bigger quayside so that they could bring in more modern fishing boats, about the iniquities of the council in not allowing new balcony railings on a neighbour’s house.