Can't Anyone Help Me? (10 page)

It was later that day that I met some of the village children. Maybe it was because I did not speak their language or they mine that it was easy to play with them. I saw nothing but friendly interest on their faces as, using sign language, they showed me their games. Throwing and catching a ball, tossing stones in the air and seeing how many we could catch on the back of our hands, and flicking dried peach stones into small holes were the most popular.

These village children had no need of expensive toys, I learnt. The only thing they envied was my bicycle – they all wanted one. When I left the house friendly children’s voices called out to me, ‘
Hola
, Jackie!’ and by the end of the first week I was yelling, ‘
Hola
,’ back to Pedro, Maria or Antonio.

It was during those first few days that, true to his word, my father took me exploring in the forest. To get there we walked through the village and crossed the bridge, which I leant over to see the plump, silvery, speckled brown fish that swam in the clear water. When we entered the forest I saw squirrels hiding behind trees and found myself laughing as they played hide and seek.

Above our heads thick green foliage nearly obliterated the rays of the sun. My father led the way to a glade where the stream flowed and the trees grew more thinly. Dancing spangles of light shone through the leaves and the only sounds that disturbed the peace were the buzzing of a cloud of midges and the burping of frogs. My father had brought sandwiches and, sitting by the stream where pale green fronds of thickly growing ferns trailed in the water, we ate them contentedly, washing them down with cool drinks.

It was in the glade that I saw the golden eagle.

It was my father who spotted the huge bird and he gently touched my shoulder. ‘Jackie, just look at him,’ he said, pointing towards the sky. Following the direction of his finger, I watched the majestic bird, its wing span appearing longer than our arms, soaring high, a freshly caught small rodent hanging from its talons. With our heads tilted back we followed its flight until, entering a crevice in the mountain, it was lost from view.

That for me was the highlight of the day and it is a memory I carry with me. That bird had the freedom to fly above the world. How many times would I try to do that too, to escape my demons?

There were days when I rode my bicycle but I never got very far as the olive faces of the children smiled at me. They ran after my bike, their hands took mine, and they brought me to a halt and into their play. We went to the outskirts of the village where we would climb over gates. Feet sank into the droppings of cows and sheep, wild roses’ thorns tore clothes and scratched arms and legs as we ran across the fields into the dense woods. Exhilarated by the thought of the adventures that lay ahead, we ignored what would later get us into trouble with our mothers. The sun tanned my face and whitened my hair, while the wind put a rosy glow in my cheeks. We swam in the streams, climbed trees, daring each other to go higher, and with our legs dangling from a protruding branch, we sat watching for wood pigeons and buzzards. But I never saw the eagle again.

Our
finca
was a four-bedroomed cottage where the kitchen, with its low wooden beams and huge black wood-fired stove, took up nearly all of the downstairs. It was where we gathered to eat, read and talk, and it was there that my mother, glass of red wine in hand, would cook our evening meals.

Even she seemed more relaxed, and at night we sat in the large room or in the shady garden simply watching a sunset before I would crawl into my bedroom to sleep. Exhausted by the outdoor life and by being able to behave like a normal child, my sleep was dreamless and undisturbed.

When my mother protested that she was tired of cooking, my father drove us to an old restaurant where we were served small dishes of
tapas
– olives, little squares of cheese, fish that was brought in daily from the coast less than thirty miles away, and a thick omelette made with potatoes and vegetables. On Sundays we liked going there and watching the noisy groups of large extended Spanish families consume vast dishes of paella.

It was on one of those days that we were invited to what the Spanish called a
fiesta
.

‘You have to see it,’ my father told us, despite my mother’s reticence. We watched women and girls dressed in long skirts and tight-fitting blouses, with silver hoops shining in their ears, walk beside men wearing stone-coloured trousers and waistcoats. Dark blue berets were perched jauntily on the men’s and boys’ heads while white scarves covered the long hair of the women. Small children, pushing and jostling, ran beside them and, feeling the atmosphere, we followed them to the grounds outside the restaurant where the festivities were taking place. Not only was everyone from the village attending but all the outlying areas seemed to be represented too.

Bright rugs had been thrown on to the grass, turning the area into a tapestry of colour. Baskets of food were unpacked, wine opened and the afternoon’s fun began.

Ignoring the fact that I had just eaten a large plate of rice and seafood, I took the proffered fresh crusty bread and a slice of the dark red spicy chorizo. I munched on it contentedly, as everyone else did, and waited for the music to begin.

That Sunday afternoon when the sun beat down from a cloudless sky, the young couples and the youth of that mountain area drank wine and ate dishes of cheese and meat. They smiled, laughed and flirted as they chatted, while wiry old couples, their skins burnished to mahogany from their years of toil in the fields, sat on thick cushions, their backs propped against tree-trunks. Blue-veined hands lay loosely on bony knees as they drowsily watched the festivities through half-closed eyes.

One by one the musicians picked up their instruments. The first placed the
txistu
, a small black flute, to his lips, which sent a delicate pure sound floating into the air. Then the fingers of two of the men with him strummed against the taut skin of the tambourines. Batons were beaten against drums before the accordion added its rousing sound. A girl, no more than eighteen, joined them. Her fingers clicked, her body moved and then she started to sing. Hers was a high, sweet voice that at first sent just a few notes shimmering across the field. The tempo increased, until the full sound of the
jota
rang out bringing the audience to their feet. Almost as one, men and boys held out their hands to their partners.

The long skirts of the girls, some of whom had barely become women, swished as hips swayed to the music’s hypnotic pulse.

Their mothers, waistlines thickened by middle age, moved their bodies in time to the beat. Hands clapped to the rhythm, backs became erect, heads straightened, fingers clicked, and the eyes of the girls they had once been shone out of creased faces as their feet involuntarily took up the familiar dance steps. Dressed in miniature Basque costumes, children who had only just learnt to walk swung non-existent hips and stamped tiny feet in imitation of their elders.

My new friend Maria’s older sister, with strands of her black curly hair escaping from her white headscarf, entered the dance. Her full skirt swirled showing flashes of white stocking-clad legs. Her feet flew in their soft slippers and she was spinning in time to the music. With her arms raised and her fingers snapping, she performed the jumps and kicks of the dance with one of her many young admirers.

‘Come on, Jackie, you can do it,’ she called, in heavily accented English when she saw me standing on the sidelines. Needing no more encouragement, I joined in.

I saw my mother as I had never seen her before, her head thrown back looking up at my father, her smile bunching up her face and her eyes shining. He pulled her to her feet, placed his arms around her waist and spun her in time to the music but, try as he might to copy the graceful steps of the Spanish men, he looked exactly what he was: a tall, lanky English visitor, with little sense of rhythm but intent on enjoying himself. The Spanish clapped and applauded them, and with one more wild spin, my parents collapsed on the ground, laughing. Seeing them like that, I felt a wave of love and trust. If only we could stay in Spain, I thought, everything would be fine – but of course we couldn’t. And it wouldn’t.

Later my father played
pelota
, with a long wicker racquet, in a makeshift court with all of us children. Near the end of the day I watched as the cone-shaped brightly coloured papier-mâché
piñatas
were filled with sweets before being strung up on wires suspended from posts. We younger ones were each given a long stick.

‘You have to try and hit them, Jackie,’ my father explained. ‘When it breaks the sweets will fall out and you get to keep the ones you manage to pick up. Come on.’ He took my hand and led me nearer to the target.

Other fathers were placing blindfolds over their children’s eyes but my father saw panic on my face when he tried to do the same. ‘It’s all right, Jackie,’ he said soothingly. ‘As you’re a visitor you don’t have to wear one.’ He led me into the midst of the activities.

We squealed with excitement when a stick connected with its target. With loud cracks, the papier-mâché broke and a shower of brightly wrapped sweets fell to the ground. Shouting with delight, we gathered as many as we could find and crammed them into mouths and pockets before joining our families to show them our spoils.

Once the sky became streaked with the orange and red of sunset, we knew it was time to go home; rugs were gathered up, baskets packed, children marshalled and reluctant teenagers urged to say their goodbyes.

That was near the end of our holiday and the final days sped by until it was time to leave. I said goodbye to all my new friends in the village and said I would be back next year. I promised to try and learn more Spanish by then. I did not know as we packed up the car that none of that would ever materialize.

We arrived back from Spain a week before school was due to start. My uncle remained curiously silent and I was not sent to stay with him.

Each day I took out my bicycle and rode it off the estate till I reached the country lanes. Pedalling along them, I could feel the wind on my face, and smell the scent of freshly cut fields and grass. But I missed Spain, the friendliness of the people, the children I had played with and, most of all, I missed how we had at last seemed like a family and how my parents had treated me while we were there.

I consoled myself with the thought that I was going back again next year. And in the meantime I had so many stories to tell the other children at school. My father had taken photographs and he gave me an extra set of my own. There were some of our cottage that showed the lemon trees, part of the village and the surrounding countryside. But mainly they were photos of me. There I was, happy and tanned in a group of laughing children, dancing at the
fiesta
. Another showed me riding my bike, a smile lighting my face as my father called to me to look up at him, and others where I was simply enjoying playing with my friends. Those pictures were already in my satchel ready to show to everyone once the new term started, and the stories that accompanied them were locked in my memory.

If I had those photographs now they would show how my holiday had distanced me from those images of my uncle and what he made me do. They would demonstrate that, without his presence in my life, I could have been a normal child.

That realization came to me when I was a teenager and looked at them again. It was why, in a blind rage at the unfairness of the world I lived in, I tore them into little pieces. But that came later, and with it, the second part of my story.

For six lovely weeks there had been no teachers shouting at me, no doctors appraising me sternly from across their desks. My mother had ceased to give me those cold glances, tempered with worry and dislike; instead, there had been moments when she had shown me genuine warmth.

And my father had told me that he just wanted me to be well. His face had lost the concerned expression it so often wore when he looked at me.

Last, there had been no uncle with his camera.

It was my bicycle, gleaming with polish, that found me a new friend. Concentrating on rubbing the chrome trim, I didn’t see the girl until she spoke.

‘Hey, cool bike!’ said a voice, and looking round, I saw a girl leaning over our wall.

We eyed each other for a few moments, she with a friendly expression, and me with a puzzled one because I had never seen her before.

‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ll come round.’ Cloth in hand, I waited for her to appear, which, wheeling her bike, she did a few minutes later. ‘I’m Kat,’ she said. ‘We moved in while you were away.’ That explained why I hadn’t recognized her. She was a couple of years older than me, tall for her age, and like me, she was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Her dark hair was tied into a high ponytail, her eyes were brown and her face was lightly freckled by the sun.

‘I’ve seen you around,’ she said offhandedly. ‘If you’re going for a ride, do you mind if I tag along?’

‘Suppose,’ I answered, hiding my pleasure at being singled out.

Being older, she rode in front. Her slim tanned legs pumped furiously, and her ponytail swung, as she half stood on her pedals to gain extra momentum. Occasionally, just to check I wasn’t too far behind, her head would swivel round and she would grin at me. ‘Can’t keep up, then?’