Oranges From Spain Page 4

  That night, Mrs McComb’s dinner gong seemed to thunder out its summons even more loudly than usual. He faced the meal with grim determination and did the best he could under his mother’s sharp surveillance. Their table was served by Rosemary, the new girl. She was not much older than he was and a little nervous, especially when she carried in the transparent soup that each evening bore a different name, but she managed everything without mishap and he noticed that she smiled a lot. She was slightly smaller than he was and had wiry black hair, pulled back into a bristling ponytail and fixed with a red bow. There was something about the way she walked that intrigued him, but he couldn’t understand what it was. He thought she was pretty in a strange sort of way, and he felt an affinity with her, born of a shared youthfulness surrounded by universal senility. But he did not look directly at her, and knew he played no part in her world. As a token of friendship, however, he forced himself to eat more of the cabbage than he could normally have managed, and told himself it didn’t taste so bad.

  That night, as he lay in his iron-framed, jangling bed under a sloping ceiling, the smell of dinner lingered all about. The bed itself bore a weighty canopy of quilt, sheets and blankets that seemed designed to smother and suffocate the occupant. Sometimes, when he pulled the clothes back, he would find long, thin, brown feathers fluffing across the sheet like giant caterpillars. The first night he had folded the quilt and placed it in the shadowy cavernous wardrobe that smelled of mothballs, and where skinny metal hangers vibrated like wind chimes, but the following morning he had found it returned to its original position. Mrs McComb’s guest house ran on very firm rules, and in case anyone might be unsure of what these rules were, they could be found in numerous locations about the house, typed and Sellotaped into place, the favourite one being the backs of doors. Restrictions, injunctions, exhortations bedecked these sites like miniature flags. To sit on the toilet was to read that no cigarette ends or bits of cardboard should be deposited in it, to borrow a book from the bookcase was to be subjected to conditions more strict than any library. To open or close your bedroom door was to read the most copious of scripts. It made him feel as if he was under constant suspicion, as if he was always being watched and that he possessed a dubious, untrustworthy character which might suddenly explode into wild acts of vandalism or arson. It irritated him. Sometimes, when he was really fed up, he almost felt tempted to perform some wild, lawless act, but it was not in his nature – he knew that.

  When he had been younger, the holidays in Portstewart had been exciting adventures but it was different now. He had outgrown them – that was all. Nothing ever changed – even the people were familiar, coming back year after year with the same suitcases and raincoats, saying the same things, telling the same jokes. He supposed it was this very familiarity that attracted them. They knew in advance what they would encounter, and Mrs McComb’s strict ship and evangelical atmosphere prevented the unwelcome intrusion of unsuitables – the late-night drinkers, the loud Belfast riff-raff, the wrong sort. And anyway, those types were more at home with the entertainments of Portrush. His mother talked about these as if they were the fleshpots of Babylon.

  He lay flat on his back and stared at the skylight. In some other room someone coughed huskily. The plumbing gurgled and sucked vociferously, then gargled its ancient throat before falling still again. A toilet flushed and faraway cisterns groaned with the burden of use. Finding it difficult to sleep, he opened the drawer of his bedside cabinet and took out the book he had borrowed from the lounge library. It was a copy of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and he lay on top of the bedclothes and turned the pages with grim fascination. He had been reading it for three days, and the horror of it gripped him. As always, he looked at the drawings first of all: Inquisitors arresting suspected heretic lady, The inquisition hall of torture, William Hunter, the young martyr. He pored over the pages, studying the morbid scenes intently, then continued reading. Two passages in particular held a gruesome attraction:

  He was of a fine and manly form, and possessed a strong and healthy constitution which served to render his death extremely painful, for he was observed to live an unusual time among the flames. He, however, sang till his aspiring soul took its flight, as in a fiery chariot, from earth to heaven.

  ‘A fiery chariot’. His mind played with the words and his imagination pictured the terrible scene. He read on about another martyr.

  On December 14th 1417, he was suspended by chains to a gallows and a fire being kindled under him, he died in the most exquisite and prolonged agony, amidst the imprecations of the priests and monks, who used their best endeavours to prevent the people encouraging him by their prayers.

  He read the passage again and again, trying to understand what the phrase ‘exquisite and prolonged agony’ meant, but he could find no answer. The most unspeakable cruelties screamed at him from the yellowing pages. Unbelievable examples of persecution poured from them, but the names and dates reminded him that he was not reading fiction but historical fact. He marvelled at the unquenchable faith of these martyrs who endured death itself rather than bow the knee to idolatry. He read until his eyes became heavy with sleep, and his mind could take no more of flaming torches and burning flesh. Putting the book back carefully in the drawer, he got ready for sleep, but before he did so, he crept to the window and peered at the darkness on the cliff top that was punctuated only by scattered squares of yellow light. What diabolical schemes were being hatched at that very moment behind its fortified walls, what terrible perversions were being practised in the dark innermost chambers? He shivered, then dived for the safety of the bed, and for once was glad to pull the quilt up under his chin.

  That night, he dreamed strange and terrible things. Chanting processions of hooded monks marched slowly up the stairs of Mrs McComb’s guest house, hammered down his door and denounced him as a heretic. Then, bound with chains to the stake, wood was piled high around him. All about him distorted faces screamed and clawed as they brandished torches in the darkness, and then from the shadows emerged a purple-robed Papal inquisitor, whose face bore a strange resemblance to that of Mr Gillespie, demanding that he recant and embrace the one true faith. But, calling on God’s grace, he steadfastly and resolutely refused, asking God to receive his spirit. Then with hideous cries, the monks rushed forward and thrust their torches into the wood, shooting crimson flames into the frenzied blackness. As the flames raged about him, the scene faded to be replaced by other nightmares, each one more terrible than the last and filled with fetters, burning brands and black-masked inquisitors.

  When the morning came, he felt so drained and unsettled that he resolved to return the book and not open its pages again. And anyway, the whole thing was silly, an episode from history that bore no relation to the present. Catholics were Catholics, and while not exactly blood brothers, they were hardly liable to burn you in oil just because you were a Protestant, or stretch you on the rack in an attempt to convert you. Certainly, they weren’t to be trusted, but that didn’t mean that behind their walls sinister plots were being hatched to ensnare unsuspecting Protestants out on their holidays. But then again, if their Pope wasn’t exactly the anti-Christ, it was undeniable that they practised strange and unnatural rituals like worshipping statues and praying to the Virgin Mary, and if even only half the things they said about what the priests and nuns got up to were true, well, then, you could never tell. There was, too, something about that convent on the hill that unsettled him. Squatting on the cliffs, overlooking the sea, it had the fortified look of a castle, and there was an eerie silence shrouding it that never faltered or revealed even the slightest clue of what went on inside. It was like a secret that you always wanted to know but were never told.

  At breakfast, optimism prevailed about the possibility of good weather. Mr Meharg had listened to the weather forecast on his little transistor and a clear dry day had been predicted, but Mr Kilfedder, on the evidence of an early morning stroll, was more sceptical.

  ‘Whe
n you’ve been reading the weather as long as I have, you learn to read the signs. You see things that the untrained eye would miss. I felt rain in the air.’

  ‘We’ll be sure to carry our macs,’ said Mrs Meharg appreciatively. ‘Some of those showers can be very heavy.’

  His mother and father discussed the possible options for the day, and asked for his opinion, but when he suggested going into Portrush, his father said they should save that for a wet day, and his mother nodded her head in forceful agreement. And so the day followed the pattern of the previous days, and he tagged along, doggedly unenthusiastic. They inspected the harbour, played putting, had sausage rolls in a café for lunch, an ice-cream in Morelli’s, and plied the long path to the strand. Later that afternoon, they were invited by the Gillespies to attend a valedictory service in Dunseverick Baptist Church, and after dinner they set off in their green Morris Minor. Only after repeated assurances about his safety and general well-being had his parents been persuaded to leave him behind. Mr Gillespie had seemed slightly offended, but his mother had made some excuse on his behalf and, with a farewell kiss and comb of his hair, they rather reluctantly left him behind. She had left a suggested programme of activity for the evening, and he had reassured her with a submissive and co-operative spirit. The prospect of an evening’s freedom did not immediately fill him with exhilaration but unchaperoned independence was a novelty to him and he felt he should not waste it. So, after dutifully waving off his parents, he sat down on the iron seat outside the guest house and considered the limited options available to him. While he was doing this, the front door opened and the new girl came and stood in the doorway. Looking sideways at her, he realised that she hadn’t noticed him, but although he thought of speaking, he could come up with nothing to say. She seemed to be standing breathing in the air, and it was some time before she became aware of his presence.

  ‘It’s so hot in that kitchen, sometimes you think you’re going to melt,’ she said, smiling at him.

  He smiled self-consciously back at her, but still could not think of anything to say. He noticed she had a green bow in her hair and her face was flushed. A wisp of her black, wiry hair flicked rebelliously across her forehead.

  ‘Are you waiting for your parents?’ she asked.

  ‘No, they’ve gone off to some meeting. I managed to get out of it.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Nobody should have to sit in meetings on their holidays. What’re you going to do?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet … I’m not really sure.’

  There was a pause in the conversation. He watched her push the wayward wisp of hair back into place. Somewhere inside himself, he could feel a strange sensation bubbling. He struggled frantically for something sensible to say.

  ‘Do you like working for Mrs McComb?’ he asked.

  She looked back over her shoulder cautiously, smiled and said, ‘It’s not too bad,’ but then stepped off the doorstep and sat down on the seat beside him and whispered, ‘It’s terrible, really. You have to get up at the crack of dawn and she stands and supervises you from morning to night, just hoping you’ll make some mistake.’

  He felt instinctive sympathy for her, but did not know the words to convey it.

  ‘You weren’t here last year,’ he said.

  ‘No, this is my first summer job. I’m not sure if it’s worth the money or not. I can’t make up my mind. But you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much either.’

  ‘We come here every year and it’s all right, but I’m a bit fed up with it. It gets boring being with your parents all the time.’

  ‘We’re both prisoners of Mrs McComb!’ she whispered in a melodramatic voice, her eyes wide and round.

  They laughed, and their laughter forged a bond of friendship. A silence settled again, and his eyes fixed on a far-off yacht. He was thinking that he wished they could both get on it and sail away, but it wasn’t the type of thing you could say to a girl you’d only just met, and he tried to stop himself thinking it, just in case his thoughts were somehow readable.

  ‘My name’s Rosemary,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied sheepishly.

  ‘What’s yours?’ she asked.

  ‘Martin,’ and as he answered, he had a terrible suspicion that his face was turning a bright shade of red.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do tonight, Martin?’

  ‘No, not yet. I might go fishing.’ He didn’t know why he had said it, because until that second, the idea had never entered his head, and in any case, he didn’t have so much as a piece of string in the way of fishing equipment.

  ‘Oh, fishing,’ she said. ‘They’re showing a film in the cinema. I was thinking of going. It’s The Swiss Family Robinson.’

  Immediately, he regretted making up the story about fishing.

  ‘Swiss Family Robinson – that sounds interesting. Is it starting soon?’

  ‘In half an hour. It’s just down the front.’

  He shuffled nervously on the seat, but the situation was uncomfortably new to him, and his apprehension was greater than his courage. Words faltered to the end of his tongue, his lips shaped to form them, but they slipped away into silence. Out at sea, the yacht had disappeared. She looked at him quizzically, then smiled.

  ‘Would you like to come and see it?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ he gulped, and his heart raced across the blue ocean that danced before his eyes.

  ‘I’ll meet you here in ten minutes,’ she said, smiling again, then she hurried off into the guest house.

  He grasped the cold iron struts of the seat in an effort to reassure himself that he hadn’t imagined what had just happened. His heart was still skipping, but slowly he felt himself in the grip of another emotion, that of fear. What had he just done? He had never been out with a girl before in his whole life – he didn’t have the first idea of what you were supposed to say, never mind what you were supposed to do. He would make a complete fool of himself, he would make a complete mess of it, be totally ridiculous. And his parents! Going out with a girl he had only just met had definitely not been included in his mother’s programme of suggested activities. The pictures! As well as never having been out with a girl, he had never been inside a cinema. They didn’t even have a black-and-white television set at home. Going to the pictures was considered by his parents to be something vaguely sinful, and certainly not conducive to godliness. On the only occasion he had sought permission to go, it had been refused, and when he had asked for a reason, his mother had talked about the ungodly life style of film stars, and if the world was to end, how would he feel if God was to find him sitting in a cinema? Not really knowing how the mind of God worked, he had made no comment on the second reason, but argued that his parents didn’t satisfy themselves on the private morality of the butcher before they bought lamb chops from him, or the baker before they bought a loaf of bread. But his mother had absolutely brought an end to the argument and he had never asked again. If going to the pictures wasn’t exactly a first division sin, it was still something to abstain from, on a par with smoking and dancing. He would definitely have to lie to them about his evening’s activity, even if The Swiss Family Robinson was hardly liable to corrupt anyone. Indeed, didn’t his own father have a copy in his bookcase, and if it was all right to read, then it had to be all right to watch.

  Wetting the palms of his hands, he plastered down hair at the crown of his head that had been sticking up since his nightmaretorn sleep, checked that he had an adequate supply of money, and wet some of the scuff marks on his sandals to darken them. The front door opened and he stood up, but it was Mr and Mrs Kilfedder who came out, and he mumbled a greeting and then sat down again.

  ‘All on your own?’ asked Mrs Kilfedder. ‘Would you like to come out with us?’

  ‘Thanks very much, but I’m thinking of going fishing,’ he lied, his face colouring and panic rising in him that they would stay and talk to him until she arrived. But Mr Kilfedder
seemed in a hurry to be off, and, closing the front gate, they set off at a brisk pace.

  He looked at his watch – she was late. Perhaps she had changed her mind, maybe Mrs McComb had found her more work to do. As the minutes ticked by, he was certain that she wasn’t coming, and a feeling of relief washed over him. Then, just as he was reconsidering what he should do, the front door opened again and she bounced up to him.

  She was wearing a white cardigan over a white blouse and light blue trousers. Her hair was brushed and pulled back tightly from her face into a ponytail. He thought she was wearing some make-up, but he wasn’t sure. He stood up and smiled at her.

  ‘Shall we go?’ she asked.

  As they walked the short distance to the cinema, he felt more self-conscious than at any time in his life. He wanted to be with her very much, but he felt conspicuous and suffered from the uncomfortable feeling that everyone was staring at them. They walked together, but not closely, and as he looked about with simulated casualness, he hoped people would think she was his sister. She was talking to him, but he felt so confused that he was sure he was babbling gibberish in reply. He avoided the gaze of passers-by and felt imaginary eyes burning holes in his back. They reached the cinema and he knew he had to pull himself together. Pretend experience – he decided that was the key to success, but when confronted by a list of meaningless areas of seating, he was momentarily thrown, until he asked her where she would like to sit. He insisted on paying for them both, then followed her as she led him to their seats, and in the more private world of the cinema, he felt a little less conspicuous. The slightly sinful aura that surrounded the experience lent it a tantalisingly criminal quality that produced damp pools in the palms of his hands and left his senses alert and expectant.