A Brief History of Montmaray (4 page)

But I can’t expect Veronica to be swayed on this particular subject, especially not by someone as useless at arguing as me. I had also hoped I might be able to bring up the topic of us going to England, but I couldn’t think of any convincing arguments for
that,
either. All I could come up with was that moving there would enable her to keep a closer eye on Simon. Except they’re both happiest when they’re as far away from each other as possible. So instead, I asked Veronica to explain the Spanish situation to me and while I succeeded in getting her off the dangerous topic of Simon, I’m not sure I actually understood much of what she said. Maybe writing it down will make it clearer.

Firstly, the things I already knew. I knew the King of Spain, Alfonso the Thirteenth, was forced into exile a few years ago. I remember having a discussion about it at the time with Daniel, our tutor, who said that the Spanish people blamed the King when they lost the Moroccan War. He also said the King had done some terrible things – executed people who didn’t agree with him, for example, and supported the military dictator who took over the country – and that when the Spanish people finally had the chance to vote in democratic elections in 1931, they voted for a Republic and King Alfonso was forced to leave and Good Riddance To Bad Rubbish. That’s what Daniel said (Daniel may have been a tiny bit
Communist,
now that I think back on it).

What Daniel didn’t realise is that Veronica is related to King Alfonso through her mother (I think Alfonso and Isabella are second cousins or something). Poor Daniel was very embarrassed when he realised. But Veronica didn’t mind, partly because Daniel was so nice, but mostly because she despised anything to do with her mother, who had left a few years earlier and not bothered to send us so much as a postcard. Anyway, once King Alfonso was out of the way, the Spanish government made lots of liberal reforms, allowing divorce and letting women vote and that sort of thing, which made some people upset.

That was the bit I already knew. What happened earlier this year is that there were more elections and the Popular Front won narrowly. The Popular Front, according to Veronica, is mostly Communists and Socialists, but there are also some Basque separatists from the north, who of course are not Spanish at all and have a language of their own (I know this because of the Basque captain, as well as all the Basque fishermen we see around here).

This new Popular Front government made certain people – the military, the Fascist Party, people who supported the King – rather unhappy, so a couple of months ago, General Franco started his rebellion against the government. And this is where I started to get lost. Apparently, the Germans and the Italians are helping Franco and his Nationalists, because they are all Fascists and hate the Communists. The Russians and International Brigades are helping the Republican government, because they are all Communists and hate the Fascists. The Basques have set up their own separate government in the north. And Britain and most other countries don’t want anyone but the Spanish to be involved in the conflict, because it might lead to another Great War. And now I have an enormous headache from trying to make sense of all this. There is more, but I will have to write it down later. First I have to go and make some betony tea for my poor head.

I DIDN€'T HAVE TIME to finish all I wanted to say yesterday, but will try to do so now. It’s been a very unsettling morning, though. A keening wind blew up before dawn, rattling windows and slamming doors and startling me out of
that
dream (which had just started to turn nightmarish, so it was a relief to be awake, however early it was). Then Henry came in with the scraps bucket before breakfast and announced that the hens were behaving very strangely.

‘Running round in circles. And the speckled one is missing. Do you think the others
attacked
her?’

‘Full moon last night,’ said Rebecca lugubriously, before disappearing upstairs with another jug of hot water.

Veronica snorted. ‘What does she think they are, were-chickens?’

‘I could only find one egg,’ said Henry. ‘And I looked everywhere.’

‘It’s probably just the change in the weather,’ I said. ‘You know they always go a bit funny at this time of year.’

‘What’s the bay look like?’ Veronica asked Henry.

‘Frothy,’ said Henry. ‘Like God’s been at it with a giant egg beater.’

‘Bother,’ said Veronica, because we were expecting the supply ship. Henry went up on the roof with the telescope to watch for it, and I went outside to see if I could find any more eggs and to have a bit of a think. I couldn’t go back upstairs to think, because Simon was in the bathroom, which leads off the bedroom Veronica and I share, and the door doesn’t close properly. Simon was shaving, which is another unsettling thing – nobody here
shaves,
usually, although Henry probably wishes she could. Toby doesn’t really need to, and Uncle John has a phobia about sharp objects and blood, so has an enormous beard instead.

On my way to the henhouse, I discovered Spartacus, our big red and white rooster, flapping his wings and crowing triumphantly. He had cornered the tabby cat, which was cowering against the wall of the woodshed (perhaps that’s why all our cats are a bit mad, they have been driven that way by Spartacus). I told him off, but he didn’t even bother to listen, just strutted unrepentantly towards the henhouse.

The henhouse and the pigeon loft are built in what used to be the armoury, along one of the curtain walls. The Montmaray garrison lived in it while the castle was being built and so it is quite roomy and comfortable, even though there are only arrow loops for windows and the roof has fallen in at one end. As Henry had reported, the hens (and half a dozen of Toby’s pigeons) were in an agitated state. They crowded around me in a ruffled feathery heap, then, realising I wasn’t about to give them a second breakfast, flapped off to their perches to sulk.

‘What
have
you lot been up to?’ I asked the fluffy white hen, who often snuggles up for a pat, but she only goggled at me and scuttled away. They’d clearly been out exploring yesterday, laying eggs in inconvenient and dangerous places along the cliffs – it’s all Spartacus’s fault, he leads them on. It suddenly reminded me of that day last week when we’d found half of them in the chapel. I’d assumed at the time that Rebecca had left the chapel door open (she spends hours on her knees in front of that altar, muttering away).

But now I wondered if the hens had managed to find one of the old secret tunnels. The tunnels are so old and secret that nobody, not even George, is entirely sure where they begin or end. Veronica says they definitely existed, though; she found a reference to them on some old maps in the library. The tunnels lead from beneath the chapel to the curtain walls or beyond, and were built to allow the castle dwellers to escape if the castle was invaded and All Was Lost. But not even Henry is prepared to spend days poking around the crypt to find a tunnel entrance, what with the damp, the dark, the unsteady piles of bones, the rats and so on (ugh, the very
thought
of going down there makes me nearly sick). Assuming, of course, that any tunnels still exist, that they didn’t all cave in centuries ago. Although perhaps there is one with hen-sized access ... anyway, I had a look around the henhouse, but didn’t find anything except a smallish egg under a pile of straw and I don’t think it was very fresh. I took it inside and then realised I had forgotten to have a think while I was out there.

After breakfast, Veronica went up on the roof with our little wireless, hoping to pick up a signal from Spain. The reception is never very good, but sometimes, if the Pyrenees are cloudless and the wind is blowing in just the right direction and all the important parts of the Spanish transmitters are functioning correctly, it’s not
too
bad. She had no luck today, though – perhaps it’s all the fighting going on there. Or else the batteries are dying; they’re the ones that came with the wireless, so they’re getting a bit old. Heaven knows how we’ll ever manage to recharge them, or afford to buy new ones.

Meanwhile I tidied the bedrooms and Simon disappeared into Uncle John’s room for a chat. Uncle John tolerates Simon, for some reason – it must be because Simon is Rebecca’s son. Rebecca is the only one Uncle John will normally have anything to do with. He ignores the rest of us – except on the odd occasion when he doesn’t, which is worse.

Last night, for example, Rebecca made Veronica knock on his door and ask what he wanted on his supper tray, and the moment he caught sight of Veronica, he had one of his fits. This time, he hurled his chamber pot at her. Fortunately he missed (even more fortunately, Henry had just emptied it); unfortunately, it hit the long looking glass. Then Rebecca rushed in and shouted at Veronica for upsetting him, and Veronica shouted back, and Henry ran in to see what was going on and stepped on Carlos’s tail, making him yelp. So, what with Rebecca moaning on and on about how we’d have seven years of bad luck now, and Simon and Veronica snapping at each other, it was a thoroughly miserable evening.

But never mind about
that,
I need to finish what I was writing yesterday about Spain. Except now I have only a lot of unanswered questions. For example, what is the difference between a Socialist and a Communist? Who are the Falangists? What exactly
is
Fascism? But the biggest question is: which side are
we
supposed to support? The side of our cousin Alfonso and the Monarchists? But from what Veronica said, even if General Franco wins, King Alfonso will not be allowed to return to power. And in any case, how could anyone support Franco, a person whose forces massacred all those civilians in Badajoz?

And yet – the other side are Communists! Who murdered the Russian royal family, all those poor Romanov children shot dead (and we are related to
them
too, distantly, which is why Great-Aunt Elizabeth was being courted by that Russian nobleman in the first place). Of course, some of the Russian people did have reason to be unhappy with the Tsar. Not
all
monarchs are wise, kind and just. Sometimes they make mistakes, I know
that.

How could I not, when each time I catch sight of the stone cross at South Head, I’m reminded of all those young Montmaravian men who were slaughtered in the Great War? Was it necessary, politically? Did their sacrifice achieve anything worthwhile? Veronica might be able to attempt a response to those questions, but I can’t. All I know is that it happened in 1917, when Uncle John had just become King and was, perhaps, over-eager to prove himself worthy of the title. At any rate, he decided to give some of his fellow Old Etonians a hand in their war and volunteered a battalion of Montmaray men, with himself as their commanding officer. The men, all fishermen, none of whom had even seen a rifle before their basic training, lasted only two days at the Western Front. Not that rifle expertise would have helped them much – the trenches they were defending were shelled by German aeroplanes. Only six of them survived, all but one wounded badly. And apparently Uncle John was never quite the same after that.

But to return to the current war, the one in Spain – most of the people of Spain
wanted
their king to leave, and they did vote the Communists into government. It makes choosing sides very complicated. I don’t suppose my opinion counts, either way. It’s not as though it can really affect us, here in Montmaray. And yet, watching Simon and Veronica argue so passionately about it last night made me feel I should care about it, too.

And there it is, what I wanted to have a think about. You see, I couldn’t help feeling just the tiniest bit
envious
yesterday as I observed the energy Simon devotes to his dislike of Veronica. All those flashing looks of his, those explosive sighs, those barely reined-in gestures! All those fervent words tumbling from his lips! It’s especially galling when I compare this to the few ‘conversations’ I had with Simon yesterday, the most thrilling of which was as follows:

Simon: Could you please pass the salt?

Sophia: [reaches out, knocks over salt cellar] Oh, dear...

Rebecca: [shrieks, flings spilled salt over left shoulder]

Sophia: Sorry.

Simon: [in the kindly tones one would use when addressing a small child or an idiot] Never mind.

So I can’t say I blame him in the slightest for preferring to argue politics with Veronica than talk with me. In fact, I didn’t even attempt to follow their debate last night. Instead, I gave in to Henry’s pleading and read her two chapters of
Johnny Hercules and the Diamond of Azoo-Beeza.
This is a dreadful book that Toby sent her, full of man-eating pythons and marauding tribesmen and skeletons with tattered maps clenched between their teeth. Veronica refused to have anything to do with it, arguing that this would encourage Henry to learn to read for herself. I also suspect that if Veronica
had
picked it up, the historical and geographical inaccuracies would have driven her to distraction by the end of the first page. Veronica doesn’t really see the point of fiction. When I asked her what she’d thought of
Pride and Prejudice,
she only wondered aloud how anyone could have written a novel set in the first part of the nineteenth century without once mentioning Napoleon.

Oh! I have just had another thought!

What if Simon has fallen in
love
with Veronica? And, rather like Mr Darcy regarding Miss Elizabeth Bennet, hasn’t yet recognised his true feelings for her? Although Veronica’s more like Mr Darcy than Simon is. And actually, Simon’s brow is a bit Rochester-ish. Or even Heathcliff-ian. Well, perhaps Simon has realised how hopeless and doomed his love is (she a princess, he the mere son of a housekeeper) and has decided to mask it with a display of passionate hatred.

Oh,
Sophia.
Change the subject.

So – I am currently sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the others to return. They’ve taken the gig out to meet the supply ship and Rebecca went because Simon did, so I am left to look after Uncle John. Fortunately, he’s asleep. I’m hoping he stays that way for a bit longer. I need all the peace and quiet I can get in here. Outside, the wind is whipping the royal standard above the gatehouse into a frenzy, and sawing the kitchen shutters back and forth (the latch has snapped off again), and an ominous rattle has started up in Vulcan’s flue. I can hear the Blue Room ghost moaning and shuffling around upstairs, too. I’ve just finished ironing the only dress that still fits me, an apron and some pillowslips. I did ask Veronica if she wanted me to do her blouses while she was gone, but she looked at me as though I’d offered to wash some toast – she can’t understand why I bother with ironing when there’s no one here who cares what we look like...

Heavens, I nearly
died
of shock just then! An enormous crash sounded from Uncle John’s room! I whirled around just as the bolt rattled and shot back. Then the door creaked open an inch and a bloodshot eye appeared.

‘Where’s Rebecca?’ demanded the eye. Or rather, the mouth below the eye, except I couldn’t see it, what with all the grimy, tangled hair in the way.

‘Oh, she’s ... she’s just gone out to meet the supply ship,’ I managed when I was able to breathe again. ‘Can I get you something?’

The eye blinked. The door wavered on its hinges.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ I said. ‘And I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ I stood up, but he just shook his great, shaggy head at me. His beard straggles halfway down his chest now. Even his eyebrows have grown feral – it’s a wonder he can see at all from beneath them.

‘Where’s
Rebecca?
’ he said again.

‘She won’t be long,’ I assured him untruthfully (they’d only been gone twenty minutes) as I put the kettle on. We’d finished the last of the Basque captain’s biscuits the night before, but I found some bread left over from breakfast and pushed it through the gap at Uncle John, feeling like a zookeeper feeding a caged mountain bear. He gnawed at it while the water boiled. I snatched the kettle off Vulcan at the first faint hint of a whistle, for fear that would set him off, but he didn’t seem to hear it. He just stood there, wedged against the doorframe, his one visible eye staring at the sooty kitchen ceiling.

‘I was married,’ he declared suddenly.

‘Yes, I know,’ I said, pouring boiled water into the teapot and sloshing it around. He still hadn’t sat down and it was making me nervous.