Oranges From Spain Read online

  The film was about to start, so there was little opportunity for further conversation, and as they settled stiffly into their seats, the only contact was where the points of their elbows touched on the arm rest. He suddenly felt different without being exactly sure how. Was it reckless, adventurous, even adult? He wasn’t sure, but he began to think that he liked the feeling. And then, in a moment he knew would stay with him for the rest of his life, he watched the film begin. His mouth opened wide in wonder, and he could feel an idiotic grin spreading across his whole face – the screen was huge, a more vast stretch of colour than he could ever have imagined, and the colours so intensely immediate that they seemed to reach out and draw him into a glorious Technicolor world. The delicious dark cocooned them and funnelled their vision towards a world more tangible than the real world itself. Blue tropical seas ringed white-beached coral islands, so real he wanted to stretch out his hand and touch. Portstewart, Mrs McComb, his parents – all faded from his consciousness as he breathed in the living world of the screen. He was aware of only one other person, and that was the girl who sat quiet and still by his side, their only contact being the light touch of their elbows.

  As the drama unfolded, he imagined himself protecting her from raging storms at sea, charging wild animals, swarms of cutlass-carrying pirates; building a house with logs and vines, and not wanting ever to be rescued from their island. He looked at her discreetly, but she seemed intent on the film, and then he started to feel a little foolish. She would laugh at him if she knew what nonsense he was thinking – she was probably laughing at him already. Then just at that moment, the high drama gave way to heart-rending pathos, and his heart clanged like a cathedral bell as he felt her hand slip into his. He glanced at her, but she still stared straight ahead at the film. He clasped the small warmth of her hand, and his whole being vibrated with excitement, and he marvelled that sin could taste so sweet. He wanted to put his arm around her, but he did not dare, and his tingling soul hoped that the film would never end. But he knew it could not be so, and, when all too soon the final credits rolled and the house lights came on, their hands slipped apart.

  ‘Did you like the film?’ she asked.

  ‘It was great,’ he replied enthusiastically, ‘and a lot better than fishing.’

  As they filed out of the dark cinema, the brightness of the summer evening hurt his eyes and they both seemed a little unsure of where they were going, but with growing self-confidence, he bought her an ice-cream cone in Morelli’s and then, crossing the road, they walked along the front. He felt a little less self-conscious now, and as they drew level with the guest house, he hoped the evening wasn’t over. They both paused and looked up at the uninviting facade.

  ‘Would you like to walk round to the strand, Rosemary?’

  ‘That would be nice – it’s too early to go indoors.’

  They strolled on, licking the cones, and he hoped above everything that he didn’t have a white ring around his mouth. He found it easier to talk now, and he asked her questions about what it was like to work for Mrs McComb.

  ‘She calls the guests “the locusts” because she thinks you eat so much. “Rosemary,” she’ll say, “ring the dinner gong and summon the locusts.” And after you’re all gone, she’ll survey the empty tables and say something like, “The locusts didn’t leave much tonight,” and – never leave anything on your plate – because you’re bound to get it back again as part of something else.’

  They both giggled. He liked it when she laughed. He wished he could say funny things that would amuse her.

  ‘No one in the kitchen’s allowed to cut anything except her. It doesn’t matter what it is – meat, cake, bread, ice-cream – she does the cutting. That’s why the portions are so small. You want to see her do it. She stares at it and weighs it up like she was about to shear a sheep, and then she goes to it – never makes a mistake either, always gets the exact number of pieces needed. You know, too, the way you can always hear something jangling when she walks – well, it’s the keys of the pantry, she never lets them out of her sight.’

  ‘What I hate most is all those signs telling you all the things you’re not supposed to do. Even though you’d never thought of doing them, when you see them, it makes you feel like doing them anyway – if you know what I mean.’

  She nodded her head and he felt she understood.

  ‘What do you think of Mr and Mrs Gillespie?’ he asked.

  ‘If you promise not to tell anyone, I could tell you a few secrets about them two holy Joes. Do you know what she wears in bed?’

  He shook his head and his imagination raced wildly, creating all kinds of improbably exotic images.

  ‘Woollen bedsocks and a nightcap! And every night I have to put a hot water bottle in their bed because she can’t stand the cold. Says she’s never been warm since she came home from Africa, and he has to have porridge each morning for his breakfast, and the milk has to be lukewarm. Not like Mr Kilfedder now – he sleeps with the window open every night and all his clothes have this fishy smell.’

  He listened with devoted interest, enjoying the light, skipping lilt of her talk, and glad that he did not have to carry the burden of instigating conversation. They walked along the path that twisted between the sea and the convent wall, and although he looked up at its windows, it held no threat or menace for him. Down below, the sea rushed into the narrow eddies and channels thrust out at it by the black, sharp-edged rocks and shot salted spray towards them. In a moment of impulsive daring, he took her hand in his and waited, sensitive to the slightest sign that her hand did not welcome his, but none came, and he walked on, hoping the sea breeze would drain the redness out of his face. When voices announced the approach of other walkers, he would drop her hand gently, then retake it discreetly after they had passed. Reaching a wooden seat, they stopped, and sitting down, watched the sea surging in. Neither of them spoke, and the only sound was the throaty slap and hiss of the waves as they broke below them. He rested his back against the stone wall and wondered what she was thinking. His eyes focused on a squat door set deep in the wall. He had never noticed it before.

  ‘I always think that place is really creepy,’ he said.

  ‘What place?’

  ‘In there, the convent,’ he replied, nodding his head in its direction.

  ‘That’s where I go to school,’ she said, with laughter in her voice.

  ‘Where you go to school?’ He didn’t understand.

  ‘I go to the convent school,’ she said, looking at him.

  ‘You mean – you’re a …’ he stammered.

  ‘I’m a Catholic,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Does it make any difference?’

  ‘No, no difference,’ he said, dropping her hand as if it had become a hot pincer, and wondering if he should dive head-first into the foaming depths below. He must have been blind. He stared at her eyes for confirmation of her religion, and remembered he had always thought there was something funny about the way she walked. Oh, yes, the signs were all there as clear as day. He had really done it now. His memory flicked desperately through his mother’s copious catechism on Catholicism – ‘You can never trust them’, ‘loyal to the half-crown but not the crown’, ‘ruled by Rome’ – until he reached the relevant one. He struggled to remember the exact words, but it was something about them having ways of tricking you into marriage and the priests always getting the children. What did she mean, ‘ways of tricking you’? Why did she always have to be so vague?

  ‘Do you like the school?’ he asked, desperately stalling for time, until he could think of an escape route. At any second that squat door could burst open and a predatory procession of priests and nuns would lay hold of him and whisk him inside those high walls from where no future trace of him would ever emerge. He had been duped. His gullibility had led him there like a lamb to the slaughter. Guilt, too, seeped into his soul. Roaring flames had failed to extract life-saving compromise from the likes of Latimer and Ridley, and here was
he with his bag already packed and halfway down the road to Rome, enticed by a pair of blue eyes and a friendly smile. Some martyr he’d make – they wouldn’t even need to show him the rack. How was he to make his escape? He looked again at the door, but there was no sign of it opening, or of his nightmare becoming reality. He tried to appear normal, and a little curiosity filtered into his initial panic.

  ‘Do they try to get you to become nuns?’ he asked.

  ‘Nuns!’ she laughed. ‘No, they do not, and a right nun I’d make. Can you imagine me in a nun’s habit?’

  He admitted to himself that he couldn’t.

  ‘Are there statues and things like that in the classrooms?’ he asked.

  ‘Where did you hear all this stuff? The classrooms are just classrooms with blackboards and desks and things.’

  The way she said this made him feel a little foolish. He stared out at the sea. The door had still not opened. Perhaps it wasn’t going to.

  ‘Rosemary, Mrs McComb’s a Protestant and I thought because you worked for her you were too,’ he ventured uncertainly.

  ‘Mrs McComb will employ anyone who’ll accept the little she pays them. Anne’s a Catholic as well. It’s funny, though – she puts a tract in each of our wage envelopes every Friday night.’

  He couldn’t help smiling. He had decided that the door was not going to open. They sat in silence for a moment. It was getting colder now, and the sea looked restless and troubled. What should he do? Then he felt her small hand take his again, and it was still full of warmth as it rested there like some tiny bird pulsing with life. He held on to it and did not let it go. Out at sea a light flashed. She snuggled against his side, but already his parents were looming large in his thoughts, and soon it would be time for them to return. He had to get away, he had to go back. He knew he had to tell her. There could be no putting it off any longer, and he turned his face gently towards her.

  ‘Rosemary … I have to … I want to …’

  But his courage failed him, his pursed lips freezing in silence, and then, to his alarm, he saw a tightly pursed pair of lips moving towards his own. She had misunderstood. He closed his eyes in the face of this terrible and unavoidable collision. And then her small, compelling mouth found his, and pressed hotly against it, shooting an electric shock through his senses. His heart vibrated more loudly than Mrs McComb’s dinner gong – he had never known anything could be so agonising and so wonderful, and about ten million other things at the same time.

  They pulled apart, and then, closing his eyes, he kissed her on the side of her nose before his mouth found hers again, and he felt as if he was on that orchid-drenched tropical island, or drowning in some coral sea. What did it feel like? How could he describe it? He kissed her again, more slowly this time, like a scientist conducting an experiment, savouring the sensation and searching for words to help him understand what it was he felt, and then his memory took him back to something he had read, and as his lips explored, he remembered the words. ‘Exquisite and prolonged agony.’ That was it – that was what it meant, that was what it felt like in the heart of the kiss. He performed the experiment again.

  Dusk was falling now, and without speaking, they both knew it was time to return. They walked back slowly, hand in hand, and neither of them spoke very much, and it felt to him almost as if words were no longer necessary. Suddenly, they were aware of someone coming towards them, but they made no attempt to hide their friendship, and he held on to her hand proudly. It was Mr Kilfedder on a pre-supper stroll, reluctant to go indoors until his prophecy of rain was proved accurate. As he drew level with them, he closed one eye and surveyed them critically.

  ‘Well, Martin, you seem to have landed a very good catch,’ he said, wryly, and then he marched stoutly on in search of dark clouds.

  After he was gone they both giggled, trying to suppress their laughter until he was out of sight.

  ‘Do you think he’ll tell your parents?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, and anyway, it doesn’t matter,’ he replied, with unaccustomed recklessness.

  They parted at the front door of the guest house, and as he watched her disappear into the secret depths of the kitchen, he decided that he liked the way she walked. His mother and father were already in the lounge, and while he knew she would want a full account of his activities, he felt a new spirit of audacity budding inside himself that left him unmoved by the threat of censure or punishment. And so, when his mother enquired how he had spent his time, he stated with casual indifference that he had been fishing and when, with some scepticism, she asked what he had used for tackle, he enigmatically and somewhat pleasurably replied, ‘Radar.’ The clanging chords of Mrs McComb’s solemn piano forestalled further investigation, and although he knew the inquisition would resume in the morning, the prospect held no fear for him. Mrs Gillespie had commenced her evening session of communal choruses and so no further questions were possible, but as soon as the recital was ended, and before the brass ornaments had finished trembling, he announced that he was retiring for the evening. His departure evoked a confused protest from his mother and a bemused smile from his father, and he knew that he would be the subject of discussion during the remainder of the evening, and the target for a more thorough appraisal tomorrow, but as he mounted the brass-rodded stairs to his room with the sloping ceiling, he gave no further thought to the morning, for he had much to reflect upon.

  Folding up the flapping quilt, he pitched it on top of the wardrobe with a flourish, then studied himself in the clouded mirror. Slightly to his surprise, he could detect no apparent change in his physical appearance and yet, in some indefinable way, he did feel different.

  As he lay on top of the jangling, squeaking bed, he considered how a day that started off so dully had ended with the most momentous of memories. He had seen his first film, he had been kissed for the first time – he would not easily forget either – and his holiday was not yet over. Who knew what other adventures stretched ahead of him? But in that moment of triumph, somewhere in the back of his mind a little flag of self-doubt, edged with guilt, began to flutter. He looked at the bedside drawer where Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer smouldered accusingly, and he could hear their voices uniting in condemnation. Had he betrayed them?

  He stared up at the shadowy square of skylight, and listened to the whispers of the house. He was struggling to remember something, something his mother had said. Something about Catholics. With intense concentration, he flicked again through the pages of her catechism, trying to find what he was looking for. It was something about the feelings they should have towards Catholics.

  And then at last it came back to him, the exact words she had used – ‘We must love them individually, even though we hate their religion.’ That was it – her exact words, ‘love them individually’.

  He lay back on the bed and smiled. It was the end of a memorable day. He had seen his first film, he had kissed his first girl, he had kept the faith; and as water gurgled and danced in the pipes, he looked again at the flickering skylight and felt his soul take flight, as in a chariot of fire, from earth to the starry heavens.

  The Apprentice

  It was very important to get the time right. Looking at the watch he had borrowed secretly from his sister, he saw that he was much too early. His anxiety to prove his reliability had prompted him to set out at least an hour too soon. Being early was both dangerous and foolish and would draw unwelcome attention. He looked at the watch again and knew he could not go to the spot marked out for him. Swinging his red sports bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder, he allowed himself a glance at the open iron gate, then turned back the way he had come.

  The afternoon was cold and he cupped his hands together in front of his mouth and blew warm breath into them. He wished he had worn his gloves. There were plenty of people about but he drifted from shop window to shop window without making eye contact with anyone. He turned up the black fur collar of his green jacket. Out of the corner
of his eye, he saw a face he recognised, and huddled in a doorway until it had passed. He looked at the watch again and, unwilling to believe that only a few minutes had passed since his last glance, held it up to his ear and listened to its ticking. He had to put in time and he needed to do a better job than he was doing at that moment. There was a second-hand bookshop at the corner and he opened the door and went in. Thousands of second-hand paperbacks were stacked on makeshift shelves, classified into a multitude of subjects. Some of them looked ancient, their prices marked in old money and smelling musty and dead. Others were newish with garish covers where half-naked girls draped themselves over dishevelled beds or stroked the barrels of guns. Lifting one up, he read the blurb on the back. He thumbed the pages and, staring at the small print, knew it would take him a lifetime to read. There were no pictures, just pages and pages of the same small, black print. He wondered how anyone could be bothered to make such a physical effort and yet he was curious as he watched men browsing intently. He felt as if there was some kind of secret world enclosed between the covers – a world from which he was excluded. Then an elderly man with a small dog entered and deposited half a dozen books on the counter. After inspecting them, the owner of the shop handed over some money. An idea dawned on him. If he could gather up a clatter of books maybe he could make some money for himself. There were bound to be some lying about the house and perhaps he could extract some from school. No one would miss a few. It was a potential variation on lemonade bottles or scrap metal.

  Not wanting to stay in the shop too long, he shouldered the bag and went out into the street. Involuntarily, his gaze went towards the iron gate. It was this gaze that prevented him from seeing the approach of one of his classmates. The unexpected sound of his voice made him jump.

  ‘What’s up with you, Ricky? Rob a bank or something?’