Daughter of Catalonia Read online

  She had changed trains twice, and walked platforms whenever stops permitted to breathe in the sun on sleepy platforms with troughs of flowers and empty benches. The further south they reached, the sleepier the platforms, and the less baggage and shouting and engine noise. Her fellow passengers also changed. The commuters and harassed mothers were replaced by peasant women in grey-black skirts and flowered aprons, their square, weathered, rather beautiful faces expressionless as they sat next to their husbands, mahogany-skinned farmers of lean build and bent legs. Conversation between them was muttered and almost incomprehensible to Madeleine, heavily nasal and guttural, and with their mouths hardly seeming to move. It was depressing to think she was heading further south, to Catalonia, where her correct Parisian French might turn out to be quite useless.

  Her seat was next to the window, and she was hemmed in by canvas bags of shopping and farm produce. Her neat, old-fashioned suitcase, brown leather with black stitching, sat on the rack above her head, lost among the jumble of country possessions which spilt over onto the floor. There was no chance of leaving the carriage to walk in the corridor. She shifted once more in her seat, stretched her legs between a large black trunk and the legs of the woman opposite, who smiled at her with surprising friendliness, and closed her eyes to the Cathar country outside. She was weary, and anxious to arrive, and wanted above all to see the Mediterranean appear before them. Soon, soon …

  Only yesterday she had said goodbye to Robert at the Gare du Nord. Ten days with him in Paris, and they had packed the days full of sights and sounds. They had eaten at St Michel, taken coffee at the Café Procope, strolled down the Boulevard St Germain and along the banks of the Seine, visited Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower. All of the obvious tourist attractions, plus all the galleries, and the obligatory visit to the Opéra to see Callas sing. They had bought horrendously expensive, handmade, violet-centred chocolates at a salon de thé, soaked up smells in a cheese shop and charcuterie on the left bank, and everywhere they went they stopped for coffee, to sit on the terraces and pavements and watch Paris go by.

  At Montmartre Robert had insisted on running all the way up the steps to the top, and Madeleine had followed, protesting but laughing, for once happy that her unfashionable skirt and shoes were so much easier to move in than those of the chic Parisian ladies who watched her with haughty amusement. From Montmartre the whole of Paris fell around them, a panorama which was nevertheless small enough to cup in your hands. The city noise was distant, and the little web of streets around the church was an intimate village. If ever she lived in Paris, Madeleine thought, it would have to be here. They drank aperitifs in the square, bathed in sunshine, surrounded by the artists who peddled second-rate portraits. Lunch was disappointing – tourists’ fare at inflated prices – but it didn’t matter. The moment was as perfect as it needed to be.

  Tante Louise had wanted Madeleine to stay at least long enough after Robert’s departure to plunge into Paris fashions and meet some more of their Paris friends, but she was determined to make the trip south before her grandparents started asking any questions. Already she had received a letter from Peter, wanting to know when she would be returning to England, and suggesting that he might come to visit her if she decided to stay on in Paris. She had replied to put him off, but there was no time to lose in making this journey. She didn’t need high Paris fashion to visit a small Catalan fishing village, but she bought some dresses for the sun – sleeveless dresses with narrow waists and swirling skirts which made her feel strangely daring and feminine. And she allowed Louise’s chic hairdresser to tame her long hair into gentle curls which swept off her face and over her shoulders, and which Robert, almost awed, said made her look like Grace Kelly. Then she left most of her belongings with Louise, bringing only enough clothes for a few days, and her mother’s jewellery case, which now never left her side. This was just a quick trip, she told herself whenever she felt nervous.

  Bernard had taken care of all arrangements, with admirable efficiency, discovering what hotels were available in Vermeilla – one or two new tourist hotels, it seemed, now that the French had discovered the Mediterranean for holidays, and a couple of older hotels, one of which, the hopefully named Hotel Bon Repos, had accordingly been booked for her. She was armed with phone numbers of everyone back in Paris in case she got into difficulty – ‘I can be there in a day,’ Bernard had said to her, at least three times, as they stood at the station this morning.

  It wasn’t the travel, or managing on her own, which bothered Madeleine. She was so nervous she could hardly breathe at times, but it was the task ahead, the searches and introductions, the probable failure, the fear of the unknown. It’s just a holiday, she kept telling herself, without any real conviction. But now her nerves were numbed to the point of exhaustion, and she closed her eyes and listened without hearing to the mumble of voices around her and the rumble of the little brown train.

  She woke to a rush of blue. Blue sea, blue sky, and as they curved to follow the coast, she could even see blue waters ahead on the other side of the train. She was startled, but then remembered that this was an area of flatlands and inland lakes. The train was passing between a lake and the sea. Then she could only see the sea again, impossibly blue and still, with a low evening sun shimmering gently on the water. This was not the sparkling, choppy Mediterranean she had expected, but a quiet sea, deep and reflective, purple-fringed, with a pink mist drawing in the evening sky. Not a postcard but a painting, with all the colours of Matisse in one simple panorama. Still half asleep, she drank in the dreamy vastness, gazing towards the horizon as the evening light darkened in the distance and shrank the sea.

  Then it was gone, and they were in suburbs, among houses, and all around her people were gathering together belongings. They were coming into Perpignan, and here most people would leave the train, but she had some more miles to go, further yet towards Spain, down towards the Pyrenees, away from the flatlands and the plains of Roussillon towards the rocky coastline around Vermeilla.

  There was a ten-minute wait in Perpignan, and she got off the train briefly to stretch her muscles, stiffer still from sleeping in an awkward position. So close now to her goal, she was terrified of missing the train, and hung around the door to the corridor by her carriage, waiting to see doors being closed and hear the bangs and clatters as the train prepared to depart. A conductor came by her and spoke to her, not in French, she realised with a rush of excitement, but in Catalan. Then he saw her incomprehension, and repeated, in carefully polite French, ‘On board, Mademoiselle, if you please. The train is about to leave.’

  ‘How long until we reach Vermeilla, Monsieur?’ she asked him.

  ‘Just twenty minutes, Mademoiselle,’ he reassured. ‘You are nearly arrived.’ He was middle-aged, she thought, maybe forty or so, but he gave a very male smile as he looked at her, and opened the door wider to allow her to re-enter the train.

  ‘Which carriage are you in? This empty one? Let me take down your suitcase now, then, since there is no one here to help you when you arrive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Madeleine smiled at him.

  His gaze swept over her again, not disturbing, merely appreciative. ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he twinkled, as he left. Her first Catalan admirer: Madeleine chuckled and settled down for the last twenty-minute ride to her destination.

  The train again followed the coast, but it was now growing darker, and the lights were on in her carriage, so she had only the impression of a deep, dark space on her left from time to time as they headed towards Vermeilla. Three small stations, almost empty of passengers, and then they had arrived. A station like any other in France, almost half a mile from the village, and not a taxi to be seen, so Madeleine picked up her small suitcase and headed down the single road to look for her hotel. Nerves on end, she refused to feel daunted. Soon ahead was a square surrounded by plane trees, carefully trimmed in their camouflage colours. Gentle street lights illumined the square, a rectangle of shingle
with sections for playing boules, and little shuttered shops all along one side.

  Then she could see the sea, to her left, just yards away at the end of a cobbled street with a couple of restaurants and, she hoped, her hotel. She headed towards the water, here lit by the lights of the bay. There was a promenade, a sea wall, and then the bay, now moonlit and serene, with a few boats at anchor, several more tied to a stone jetty at the end of the shingle beach. It was the most peaceful scene Madeleine had ever seen. The bay curved round, with buildings all around it, soft and pink in the low street lighting. A stone church stood watching over the bay, timeless and sober. Behind her a bar was doing good business, but the sounds receded from the waterside, and the still, purple waters captured the silence.

  She stood for what seemed a very long time, not wanting to move. Not much would have changed here, she was sure, since she had left over fifteen years ago. Turning, she looked back at the village, the thriving bar on the promenade, the little streets leading away in a fan from the bay, wooden shutters on small windows designed to keep out the sun, tiny balconies with their spectacular views of the bay and the sea beyond. Everything was in miniature, a tiny world to itself on the fringes of France. Tears welled up, and she blinked them back. Where had their apartment been, she wondered? Where had she lived, with her Papa, Maman and Robert? And was there anyone here who would remember her? Her nerves from earlier in the day returned, and she felt suddenly very alone.

  She looked further along the promenade and saw a little sign above a doorway, lit by a tiny lamp above it, Hotel Bon Repos. So her hotel was on the seafront. The sheer magic of this made her smile; her tears receded, and she walked towards the hotel.

  The entrance to the hotel was an old archway, with heavy wooden twin doors opening outwards, and now held open to the world, with a small porch inside and an inner glass door through which a small flood of light glowed amber on whitewashed walls and a floor of beautiful Spanish tiles in a riotous pattern of orange, yellow, blue and green. The hall was a narrow corridor, leading to a steep staircase in the gloom beyond, while by the entrance was a dark wooden counter, a small reception area behind it, and then a door to a room which looked, from the glimpse Madeleine caught of it, like an office and sitting room combined. Two rickety old chairs in Spanish leather stood in front of the counter, and, shining silver in the light of the single bulb, on the counter was a tiny push-button bell. Madeleine put her case gratefully down onto the tiles, and rang the bell.

  There was a flurry of movement from the room beyond, and the sound of a kindly, hectoring voice, and then two people crowded into the small space behind the counter. Monsieur and Madame Curelée, her hosts at the Hotel Bon Repos. Madame Curelée dominated the tiny space, an elderly, matronly landlady in a black dress and rumpled apron tied over an ample waist. Almost tucked behind her was her husband, a small man with a few wispy grey hairs, who stood in her shadow, wordless but nodding. Madame Curelée was voluble in her welcome, a woman, Madeleine was sure, who would have her life story from her in hours. Her strong accent indicated she was a local woman. She might prove useful. After all, Madeleine had nothing to hide, and was here to learn and discover. Madame Curelée would undoubtedly be a mine of local information. For now, she allowed the elderly woman’s words to flow over her, enjoying the feeling of being at her destination. It was the end of the first stage of her journey, and it was good to have arrived.

  ‘Welcome, Mademoiselle Garriga. We have your reservation, of course. And the best room for you, with a view of the sea, and next to the bathroom. I am sure you will be very happy. How long are you staying? At least a week? Well, welcome. Have you travelled far? From Paris? In one day? Mon Dieu! You must be exhausted. You will sleep well on our bed, but first I am sure you want to eat something. Alain, come here, take Mademoiselle’s suitcase to her room. Quickly now, the poor young lady is tired. Go with my husband, Mademoiselle, and then, when you are ready, I have some purée with a nice piece of beef for you, just waiting for you to arrive. Our dining room is there behind you, and there’s a little sitting room as well. You’ll be comfortable, oh yes, very comfortable.’

  Madame Curelée waved a hand of dismissal at her husband, almost pushing him towards the stairs, still nodding and smiling at Madeleine, who found herself following wordlessly in his hapless wake, like a piece of flotsam drifting in a strong shore-bound current. Madame’s words followed them up the stairs.

  ‘You will find your towel in your room, Mademoiselle. You will want to wash before some supper, I’m sure. And there is a new lavender soap in the bathroom laid out for you on the washbasin. As soon as you are ready I will have your supper ready for you, so late as it is, and you most likely starving on that long train journey. And a glass of wine to warm you. Oh yes, oh yes, a glass of our good Vermeilla wine will set you to rights, no doubt.’ And she gave a satisfied nod which brooked no argument.

  It was approaching ten o’clock, and Madeleine was far from hungry, provided as she had been all day with the picnic prepared for her by Tante Louise’s housekeeper. But to say so to Madame Curelée seemed all but unthinkable, so she gave a fleeting smile backwards down the stairs towards her hostess, then followed Monsieur Curelée meekly along the upper corridor to her room.

  Upstairs the floors were tiled with the same tiny patterned tiles, the long corridor lit by brass wall lights which gave the floor a soft glow. There was just one small skylight window halfway along the ceiling, and Madeleine guessed that the corridor would be better lit now than by daylight, when the hot sun would be ruthlessly excluded from the house. Her room was small and simply furnished, with a high single bed in the centre of the room, and a huge, old, wooden wardrobe occupying a whole wall. Above the bed was a painting of the Virgin Mary in rather startling reds and blues, and on the opposite wall was a crucifix. A rather beautiful rug in fine cream and pink wool softened the tiles by her bed, and on the far wall a window stood open to the sea.

  Even from the door the view through the window was breathtaking. The shore lights gave just enough glow to touch the pinks, yellows and creams of the stone buildings, while the beach beyond was a black softness leading to the waters of the bay, still and deep like liquid mercury in the light of a bright crescent moon. Madeleine edged past the bed to stand closer to this miracle of light and dark, and from the window she could hear the soft movement of the sea, a few distant voices, and then stillness. Stars unknown to her were emerging into the newly dark night sky, and she wanted to know their names. She turned to Monsieur Curelée, half intending to ask him, then smiled as she saw him hesitant and shifting, waiting to attract her attention, intent on completing his errand to his Madame’s satisfaction.

  As she turned he moved, muttered to her, with a gesture of his hand, ‘I put your suitcase here, Mademoiselle, on the low table by the door. Now I need to show you the bathroom. It is next door, very close.’

  His voice was hesitant, almost childlike, the voice of a man who spoke few words. Madeleine followed him and duly admired the simple bathroom. ‘I am sure I’ll be very happy here, Monsieur,’ she assured him. ‘My room is lovely, and in such a wonderful position. Please thank Madame Curelée for me, and tell her I will come down for supper in just a few minutes.’

  Monsieur flushed and smiled, and hurried off back to his wife to report that all was well. Madeleine returned to the window, and lost herself for a while in the night, thinking about her mission in coming to Vermeilla, and the answers which now lay hopefully quite literally round the corner. She was here. She had made it. A few weeks ago it had seemed an impossibility, but the soft-lit bay of Vermeilla lay before her, so real she could smell the sea, and her past was just as real and tangible, embedded in the village behind her. The thought was as invigorating as the sharp salt air, and suddenly she was hungry, and ready for that glass of wine. It was time to begin, thought Madeleine with a smile, and headed downstairs to the talkative Madame Curelée.

  Madame’s steak was simply prepared and perfect,
tender and pink, sitting on its bed of puréed potatoes. A green salad followed, richly dressed with old, scented olive oil, then Madeleine turned down a small cheese from the Pyrenees in favour of a delicate tarte aux pommes. Madame pressed her to take a second glass of the heavy, fruity local wine, made, she assured her, by an uncle in his own cave. Madeleine complimented the meal, but refused a second glass.

  ‘We don’t have any wine as rich as this in England,’ she told Madame, laughing. ‘I feel wonderfully mellow after one glass, but I don’t think I could dare to take two!’

  Madame was amazed. So Mademoiselle was English? But she didn’t sound English. Had she not come from Paris today? And yet her name was Spanish, surely?

  Why yes, Madeleine explained. She was half Spanish, on her father’s side, and her mother was half French. But she had been raised in England from the age of seven, so she wasn’t used to drinking too much wine.

  Madame nodded, drinking in the information. And was Mademoiselle on her way to Spain, therefore, to be stopping in Vermeilla? Such a difficult country to visit, Spain, with that dreadful Franco in charge. Surely not a place for a young girl from England to visit!

  Madeleine paused a moment, then took the plunge.

  ‘If truth be told, Madame, my whole purpose in travelling from Paris was to come to Vermeilla. You see, I lived here when I was a small child. My mother, my brother and I returned to England during the war, and we never came back. I’ve returned now, hoping to find some old friends of ours, who I hope may still be living here.’