She wrote to her mother to tell her of her engagement. Mercedes was keen for Concha to travel to the wedding but she was an old lady now and had too many anxieties about the journey, not least whether she would be allowed back into Spain afterwards. Mercedes understood completely. A month before the wedding, a package came from Granada. Mercedes was intrigued when she recognised her mother’s shaky handwriting on the brown paper, and saw the rows of stamps with Franco’s head blackened by the franking machine. Her hands trembled as she struggled to cut through the string with a pair of blunt kitchen scissors.
It was the white lace mantilla that Concha had worn for her own wedding. For forty-five years it had been kept in waxed tissue paper and had survived when so much else had been lost. It was intact, if a shade darker perhaps, and unmarked. Its safe arrival seemed little short of a miracle. Beneath the layers of brown paper, her mother had padded the package out with a copy of the Granada newspaper, El Ideal. Mercedes put it to one side to cushion the contents. It was a month or two out of date now but she would look through it later. Even the sight of the mast-head made her stomach somersault.
Inside was also a letter from her mother and, in the envelope, a simple, unadorned gold chain.
‘I wore this on my wedding day too,’ she wrote. ‘My mother gave it to me and now I am giving it to you. It had a crucifix once but I took that off some time ago and now I seem to have lost it. I think you know about my feelings for the Church.’
For Mercedes, the only slightly sour note aside from the fact that Concha would not be there on her wedding day, was the disapproval of her fiancé’s parents. Mercedes was foreign and some people were afraid of foreigners in those days. As far as they were concerned she had come from another planet.They were not that happy either that she was a few years older than their son, but by the time they walked down the aisle together as man and wife, they had come round a little.
The marriage took place in the registry office in Beckenham. The bride wore a simple knee-length, fitted cotton gown with three-quarter-length sleeves, which she had made herself and her hair was ‘up’ in the Spanish style, with the extravagant lace mantilla cascading over her shoulders. Carmen was a witness and the guests were mostly Spanish exiles who, like her, had remained in the United Kingdom.
Victor Silvester, the great band leader who had seen them dance many times, sent them a telegram that was read out at their small reception in a local hotel:‘To the happy couple. May your marriage be as perfect as your dancing.’
Chapter Thirty-eight
MIGUEL HAD ALMOST got to the end of the pile of letters. Sonia could see that only one sheet remained in his hand. It was past midnight now and Sonia was worried that he might be getting too tired to go on. Mercedes’ story, if it ended here, had a happy ending and perhaps she should be content with that.
‘Are you sure you aren’t too tired to keep going?’ she asked with concern.
‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘I must read you this one. It’s the last she wrote, not long after her wedding.’
England has provided the safe haven I longed for. I still feel an alien in some ways, but there are plenty of kind people here.
Of course, what has kept my spirit alive, and has done ever since I got here, is dancing. It is the one thing that English people seemed to know about Spain: that there are people who dance in big flounced dresses and clack on castanets. Performing reminds me of who I am and yet sometimes it’s better not to dwell too much on that.
And, of course, what has made me happiest of all is the wonderful man I have just married. I could tell straight away when we met that he was younger than me, but he has a kind face and he can dance, as the English always say, ‘like Fred Astaire’. Even though he is fair-haired and pale-skinned and not at all like a Granadino I am sure you would love . . .
Sonia held her breath. She hardly dared hear the name.
. . . Jack.
Sonia had bitten her lip so hard that it bled. Her neck and chest throbbed with the pain of unshed tears. She was determined not to let Miguel see what impact the letter was having on her. She was not sure it was the right time to explain. He still had a little more to read:
No one here really knows anything about Spain and I have told my new husband very little about Granada, and certainly nothing of the horrors of our war.
I still wonder what became of Javier, and think of him often.
I know you understand why I haven’t returned, given all that’s happened to our family and probably the man I loved too.
Mercedes
For the first time, Sonia noticed that she was not alone in fighting back the tears. Miguel’s cheeks were damp with them. She was puzzled that he should be so upset when the story was not new to him, and she put her arm around him, handing him one of his own paper serviettes to mop his face.
‘I can see you were fond of them, the Ramírez family,’ she said gently.
They sat for a few minutes in silence. Sonia needed some time to reflect. There was no doubt now. This was her mother’s story and until today she had never known a word of it. She was shaken to the core of her being, and clearly her father would be too if he learned the details of his wife’s history. She would have to consider carefully whether such knowledge was really of use to someone in the last years of his life.
Mercedes’ tale lay on the table in front of them and Miguel’s misshapen old fingers picked up the pages, carefully folded them along their usual creases and returned them to the envelope. Sonia registered that these letters had been read and reread many times. It was strange. Why should these letters from her mother to her grandmother mean so much to Miguel? Her heart quickened and she could not quite tell why. Nor could she bring herself to ask this question.
Miguel was looking at Sonia now. She could see that he wanted to say something.
‘Thank you for listening to all of that,’ he said.
‘You mustn’t thank me!’ replied Sonia, trying to contain her emotion. ‘It’s me who should be thanking you. I did ask you to tell me.’
‘Yes, but you have been such a good listener.’
Now was her moment. She yearned to show Miguel the photographs she carried with her and now that she knew for certain that Mercedes Ramírez and her mother were one and the same, it did not seem ridiculous any more.
‘There is a reason for that, you know,’ she said digging into her handbag for her wallet.
She found two photographs, one of her mother as a teenage girl in flamenco costume and the other of the group of children sitting on the barrel.
Miguel had picked up the former.
‘That’s Mercedes!’ he said excitedly. ‘Where on earth did you get that?’
She paused. ‘From my father,’ she answered.
‘Your father?’ exclaimed Miguel incredulously. ‘I don’t think I understand . . .’
A moment or two passed before she could actually make herself say the words.
‘Mercedes was my mother.’
The old man could not speak. Sonia was worried, but within moments he had recovered. He was shaking his head from side to side in pure disbelief.
‘Mercedes was your mother . . .’
He was silent for a moment, and Sonia was almost unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.
‘And look,’ he said, pointing to the children in the second photograph. ‘You realise who these children are, don’t you? That’s Antonio, Ignacio, Emilio . . . And your mother.’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ responded Sonia quietly. ‘It’s really them.’
Miguel got up slowly. ‘I think you need a drink,’ he said.
Sonia watched him cross the room and a wave of affection for him swept over her. He returned with two glasses of brandy, and they sat for a while longer. There seemed so much more to say.
Sonia explained why she had been drawn to Miguel’s café rather than any other.
‘It’s the prettiest one in the square,’ she said. ‘But perhaps it was something famil
iar about the barrel. I think that picture of them all as children must have been in my mind.’
‘It was almost as though you recognised it,’ mused Miguel.
‘Well, it is a distinctive feature, isn’t it? And I have only just realised what the name of the café means . . . El Barril. I really must improve my Spanish!’
Sonia noticed the clock. It was one thirty. She really had to go. For several minutes, she and Miguel embraced each other in a strong hug. He appeared reluctant to let her go.
‘Miguel, thank you so much for everything,’ she said.
How inadequate these words sounded, but there were none that would have been enough. There were tears in his eyes as she kissed him firmly on both cheeks.
‘Will I see you before you leave?’ he asked.
‘My plane isn’t until the afternoon, so I have a few hours in the morning,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back for breakfast.’
‘Come as early as you can. There’s somewhere I want to take you before you go.’
‘All right,’ said Sonia, squeezing his arm. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Eight thirty?’
The old man nodded.
Just as Sonia was putting a key in Maggie’s lock, her friend came up behind her.
‘Hola! ’ she said cheerfully.‘Have you been out for a secret salsa?’
‘Not exactly,’ Sonia replied.‘I’ve had a really extraordinary day.’
Maggie was too excited about her own evening to ask any questions. Though she was tired, Sonia sat up with her and heard all about the new man in her life. This one really was going to be special. Maggie could feel it in her bones.
Before they went to bed, Sonia told Maggie that she might need to come and stay again for a few days quite soon.
‘You’re welcome any time,’ said Maggie. ‘You know that. Just let me know when and I’ll make sure I’m here.’
After a few hours of sleep, Sonia took the now familiar route back to El Barril. Miguel knew she would be punctual and already had a café con leche waiting for her on the bar. Soon they were leaving the café and going round the corner to where Miguel’s battered Seat car was parked.
‘The place I want to take you is just a little way out of the city, so we need to drive,’ he said.
They drove for twenty minutes, negotiating Granada’s complex one-way system, passing along wide tree-lined boulevards and winding their way through cobbled streets scarcely wide enough for a single car. They skirted the edge of the oldest barrio and then the road began to climb.
They did not talk much on the way but even their silences were comfortable. Sonia was busy enjoying the spectacular views of the landscape that surrounded Granada: the flat fertile plains and the dramatic Sierra Nevada. No wonder this place had been such a prize for both Moors and Christians, she thought.
Eventually they reached their destination. Outside a massive ornamental gateway several dozen cars were parked. It looked like the entrance to a French chateau.
‘Where are we?’ she asked Miguel.
‘This is the municipal cemetery.’
‘Oh,’ she said quietly, remembering that he had encouraged her to visit this place once before.
As he was parking the car, a funeral cortège arrived. In addition to the hearse, there were eight gleaming limousines from which a large party of well-dressed mourners emerged.The women all wore black lace mantillas behind which their faces were hidden. The men’s dark suits were well-fitting, made-to-measure, elegant. The whole group walked slowly, sombrely, behind the coffin and disappeared through the gates, leaving the chauffeurs to lean against their polished bonnets and enjoy a smoke.
Miguel looked across at them and Sonia could feel that he had something to say. His voice had an edge. She recalled the hint of bitterness that she had noticed in her very first encounter with him. It had surprised her then and did so again now.
‘There were many people killed in the Civil War who were deprived of a burial like that,’ he said. ‘Thousands of them were just thrown into mass graves.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Sonia in a hushed voice. ‘Don’t their families want to find out where they are?’
‘Some of them do,’ he said. ‘But not all of them.’
They got out of the car and wandered in. Sonia was astonished by the volume and scale of the tombs. Graveyards in England were very different from this. She thought of the South London cemetery where her mother had been buried, and shuddered. It was a huge acreage of grass with row upon row of small head-stones, each space a coffin’s width and length. She only stopped to visit once a year, but always drove past it on her way to visit her father, and through the railings it was easy to spot the most recent graves.They still had fresh flowers, wreaths of gaudy yellow and orange, ‘DAD’ in red carnations or ‘MUM’ in white chrysanthemums, or the occasional heart-stopping teddy bear. With few exceptions, the older ones had nothing or a few dead blooms in a jam jar. Artificial flora were ubiquitous; those who brought them chose to ignore the notion of memento mori.
This Granadino graveyard was a very different place. Some of the departed here had tombs the size of small houses. It was like a village made of white marble, with streets and small gardens.
It was a place that invited contemplation and there were few other people here on this Wednesday morning. Neither Sonia nor Miguel felt obliged to make conversation.
The space was divided into several dozen separate spaces, patios, in each of which there were numerous large tombs, crosses and memorial stones recording the names of the dead. What struck Sonia most forcibly, apart from the huge dimensions of this place, was that no grave seemed to have been abandoned.
There were flowers on them all, which made absolute sense when she read the most commonly inscribed words: ‘Tu familia no te olvida.’ ‘Your family will not forget you.’
Most had been true to their promise.
‘Can I wander up there?’ asked Sonia, impelled to explore.
Miguel had stopped to buy a small plant at the entrance and she imagined he might not mind being alone for a few moments. She walked purposefully up the pathway that seemed to lead to the boundary of the cemetery, only to find, when she reached it, that there was another area beyond the wall. It almost seemed limitless this place, in both directions. She had no idea how long she walked. She was fascinated by the grandeur of many of these tombs. Some had angels that guarded the entrances to family tombs, fluted pillars and elaborate stone wreaths, there were ornate iron crosses as well as simple marble ones and everywhere - flowers. She saw a few women carrying watering cans and one with a dustpan and brush, doing the housework, lovingly sweeping particles of gravel from her ancestors’ threshold. It was one of the most touching things she had ever seen.
She retraced her steps and eventually found Miguel not far from where she had left him sitting on a stone bench.
‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ she apologised.
‘Don’t worry. Time stands still here.’
‘That’s true,’ smiled Sonia.
She sat down on the bench beside him. It was late morning now.The sun was strong and they were grateful for a shade-giving tree. Opposite them was a huge wall. From top to bottom, there were six tiers of memorial stones. In front of each one was a ledge where people had placed small vases of flowers.
‘Do you recognise those names?’ asked Miguel.
Directly in front of them, second row from the bottom, she read aloud three names:
Ignacio Tomás Ramírez
28-1-37
Pablo Vicente Ramírez
20-12-45
Concha Pilar Ramírez
14-8-56
She noted the plant that Miguel had bought earlier, its pink blooms just brushing the letters of the last name, and next to it a bouquet of glorious red roses now slightly wilting.
‘It looks as though someone else has been to visit them too,’ said Sonia.
There was no response from Miguel and she turned to look at him. He was shak
ing his head.
‘Just me,’ he said, his old eyes glistening. ‘Just me.’
Sonia now had to ask the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since the previous night, when she had recognised the depth of his emotion on telling her the Ramírez family’s story.
‘Why?’ she quizzed him. ‘Why were you so attached to this family?’
For a moment it seemed hard for him to speak. He swallowed and it was as though he had to gulp for air before he could say the words.