Alberto's Lost Birthday (27 page)

‘We do have some sad news, though,’ said the gardener.

The boy turned to him, a worried look on his face.

‘It’s not such bad news,’ smirked his wife. ‘Old General García passed away last month.’

‘Oh,’ said the boy. He knew he should act as if this was very sad news, but he could not bring himself to do so, so he kept quiet.

‘So what’s happened to the old orphanage now?’ asked Isabel.

‘The government has bought the building,’ said the gardener. ‘It’s not definite, but we believe they are planning to turn it into a care home for the elderly. We have
already been approached about continuing to work there.’

‘I was hoping they would turn the building into housing for immigrants,’ chortled his wife. ‘That evil old man would be rolling in his grave if they had!’

The boy smiled. He didn’t know what an immigrant was, but anything that made the wizened, nasty man – the man who had been so horrid to Apu – spin in his grave seemed like a
good thing to him.

Later in the evening, Albertino’s uncles hung lanterns from the trees. A wind had picked up, and both the lanterns and the nearby rosemary bushes rustled in the breeze.
The women wrapped their shawls tightly around them against the chill. Tired children dozed on their parents’ laps, while the men continued to drink and sing and laugh.

The boy had been playing with his cousins and the other children when he saw Vito trotting back towards Mimi. Bonita followed her friend, and he, in turn, followed his dog.

Mimi was talking quietly with his parents, each of them nursing a glass of wine.

‘No,’ he heard his father say as he approached. ‘It’s not right.’

‘I agree,’ said his mother. ‘It’s too much, Mimi.’

‘What’s too much?’ asked the boy.

The three adults fell silent in the flickering light.

Mimi was the first to speak. ‘I have decided I would like to give your parents a gift. It will help them while your father can’t work, but it is also a gift to you – for your
future.’

‘What is it?’ asked Albertino.

‘My collection of wine,’ replied Mimi.

‘I don’t like wine,’ said the boy.

Despite himself, his father laughed. ‘It’s not for drinking,’ he said.

‘What’s it for, then?’

‘Such a large collection of special wines and brandies is worth a lot of money,’ explained his mother.

‘It’s far too valuable a gift,’ said his father firmly.

‘Listen to me,’ said Mimi. ‘If it weren’t for a stupid mistake my brother made, I believe Alberto would have stayed on and worked at Quintero’s. I think he would
have spent the rest of his life on the vineyard. It was a big part of his life as a child and it would have been a part of his future.’

‘But what happened all those years ago, happened,’ said Rosa. ‘You owe us nothing now.’

‘I know I don’t,’ said Mimi, sighing. ‘But Tino brought Alberto back to me. He gave me a friend I thought I had lost forever. All the money in the world couldn’t
have done that. But a small boy with a big heart could. And now I’d like to do something for him. Please,’ she said simply, ‘let me do this.’

‘But it should go to your family,’ said Juan Carlos.

‘My family don’t need it,’ Mimi said firmly. ‘Their father left me plenty of money, and I shall leave them that when I die. And, sad though it is, they’re not
interested in the history of the collection.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Juan Carlos.

‘Consider it not as a gift from me, but a gift from Alberto. I had decided to give him the collection after he left. I was planning to arrange it immediately and would have told him when I
next saw him. But I never got the chance.’

‘Really?’ asked Rosa.

‘Really,’ said Mimi. ‘And I can’t believe Alberto would have done anything else but pass it on to the grandson who helped him find his birthday. Can you?’

The boy watched his mother and father as they looked at each other, unspoken words passing between them. Slowly, Juan Carlos nodded to Rosa.

The boy’s mother turned to Mimi and smiled. Mimi smiled back and the women hugged.

Then it was Juan Carlos’s turn to hug the elderly woman. He wiped tears from his eyes and said, ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Why don’t we raise a glass to Alberto?’ said Mimi.

Albertino watched as the three of them silently lifted their glasses to the sky.

Suddenly, a whistle rang out and a light shot into the starry night. There was a moment’s silence before a rainbow of colours filled the sky above them.

The children woke and cheered the fireworks, and the men – filled with beer and wine – joined them.

Bonita bounced up to the boy and leant against him, her soft fur warming his leg. Feeling her tremble slightly at the noisy explosions, he stroked her gently and she relaxed at his touch.

As the smoke cleared, and the crowd waited expectantly for the next volley of fireworks, Albertino noticed a tiny star glow a little more brightly in the black sky.

‘Happy birthday, Apu,’ he said quietly.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would not be in your hands if not for the following people:

The social workers, psychiatrists and teachers who believed that art could help children deal with the trauma of war.
They Still Draw Pictures
, a collection of
drawings by children from all parts of Spain, gave me a unique and inspiring insight into life before, during and after the civil war.

The readers, reviewers and writers of Authonomy.com who encouraged me past the first few chapters. In particular Andrew, Fred, Steve, Geffordson, Jake, B Worm, Jeff, Mary, Jane
and, by association, Judy Chilcote.

Diana Beaumont, my agent, who refused to give up on Alberto and me, despite the bumps in the road.

My publisher Sam Humphreys, who remembered this story, found it a nurturing home at Mantle, and held my hand through every edit.

All the friends and family who always believed this novel would be published.

John, who gave me all the loving support I needed and a surname that fits on the cover.

My parents Val and Tony who, through many happy family holidays, helped me fall in love with Spain.

María Luisa, whose big laugh and warm generosity always made our family feel at home in Spain, and her husband Pascual, now sadly passed. A gardener and man of few
words, Pascual left an indelible impression on my seven-year-old self, who, like Tino, couldn’t imagine a life without a birthday. Without him, neither this book nor Alberto would ever have
existed.

First published 2016 by Mantle

This electronic edition published 2016 by Mantle
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-4472-9304-0

Copyright © Diana Rosie 2016

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