Hunger Town (53 page)

Marie squeaked in English, ‘Bears! My goodness!' and then in Spanish, ‘I don't want to meet a bear.' She turned to me as if needing confirmation of her terror of bears and her eyes twinkled. ‘We don't want to meet any bears, do we?'

I shuddered. ‘No, Marie, no bears.'

She turned back to the proprietor. The twinkle disappeared and her eyes were now fearful. ‘Will there be bears in Sotrondio?'

‘No, no,' he assured her indulgently. ‘You ladies will be quite safe from bears there. But do not go out in the street at night. There are wolves.'

‘Wolves?' Marie squealed again.

‘Yes, two legged wolves.' He hesitated, then added, ‘There has been trouble in Oviedo and Gijon. It needn't concern you. English ladies will be respected. But stay inside at night.'

We retired to our room to rest. ‘Should we ask him about Sama?' I heard the note of urgency in my voice but knew that there was nothing we could ask him except where was Harry.

‘No, Judith.' She looked at me earnestly. ‘Not yet. We mustn't rush in asking questions that might arouse suspicion. I know the waiting is agony now we seem so close. But we need to go slowly. People need to get used to us being about. We need to convince them that we are harmless, even perhaps a little silly, enthusiastic holiday-makers. Enquiries must come gradually and seem innocent curiosity.'

Of course she was right. To come all this way and mess it up by being impatient would be downright stupid.

We found a cafe for our evening meal and ordered the local dish of beans and sausage. It was heavy and neither of us liked it much.

‘What do you think, Judith? Should we make Sotrondio our base? I think there is a cluster of villages quite near there. One of them could be Sama.'

I considered. ‘Well, I suppose villages invite sketching. We could be seen as seeking local colour.'

She nodded. ‘And if people are curious about us, then all the better. If we are a novelty we'll be discussed.'

‘Maybe,' I was eager, ‘maybe Harry might hear about us and try to contact us.'

She nodded again. ‘There are many possibilities. Little by little we'll explore them.'

After Llanes we followed the coast road before turning inland to Oviedo, La Felguera and Sotrondio. Fortunately it was not the road to the port city of Gijon, which had been shelled from the sea and bombed from the air and where we might expect to meet soldiers.

However, our comfortable assurance was shattered as Marie, negotiating a web of roads on the outskirts of Oviedo, drew up abruptly. In front of us was a military checkpoint. Several dark-skinned soldiers with rifles waved us down. We both took a deep breath and waited. I placed my hand over Marie's and squeezed it. ‘It'll be OK,' I whispered. ‘We are English ladies.'

‘Innocent English ladies,' she whispered back.

We wound down our windows. Two soldiers, more harsh-looking than the border guard, strolled to our car. They rested their hands on the car doors. With one on either side we felt uncomfortably hemmed in. They leaned in the windows and ran their eyes over us. Their bodies smelt heavy and their breath stale.

I gritted my teeth and smiled through them. Marie managed to appear confused and puzzled.

‘
Pasaportes
,' one rasped. We searched our bags and produced them unhurriedly. Instinct told me that speed or anxiety would be dangerous.

We waited patiently while the soldier at my door assessed them, however he was more interested in running his eyes over me. I longed to smack his smirking face. I wondered what we'd do if they ordered us out of the car. Here were two-legged wolves without a doubt.

He handed my passport to his henchman and managed, reaching across us, to touch our breasts. I stiffened. The soldier on Marie's side handed our passports back again. ‘Going far?' he asked. ‘To Oviedo?'

‘No,' Marie appeared relaxed. ‘Somewhere further on. We'll look for a hotel when we're tired. We're artists, painters. Oviedo!' She shrugged. ‘We don't like big cities. And I believe there has been trouble there.'

He preened himself. ‘You'd be safe in Oviedo now. We've cleaned up the troublemakers. English ladies needn't be afraid.' He leered.

Marie smiled at him. I don't know how she managed it. ‘But for artists the countryside has most appeal. I don't suppose we'll find troublemakers there. And we'll be quite safe.'

He shrugged and the two of them stepped back from the car.

Marie revved the engine and miraculously, because she shook so much, didn't stall it. Then the soldiers were behind us. In the rear mirror I could see them watching us.

‘Don't look back, Judith.'

‘My God, Marie,' I gasped. ‘That was close. Did you ever see such an evil-looking bastard? If they are the wolves that hunt at night, heaven help the women of Oviedo.'

We reached the small town of Sotrondio late that afternoon. Oviedo was behind us and the cluster of villages that might hide Harry was close. My spirits rose.

Our hotel was a pleasant two-storey grey-stone building. Our room on the second floor was tiny. I slept fitfully that night. There were so many unknowns in my life that I couldn't relax or find peace. It was dawn before I dozed off, so the next morning I was heavy-eyed.

‘No sleep, Judith?'

‘Very little.'

‘Some fresh air will buck you up. It's a beautiful morning and we'll permit ourselves to enjoy the sun.'

We made a point of carrying our easels downstairs so the proprietor would notice them. He looked up from his bookwork. ‘Painting, ladies?'

‘Perhaps.' Marie beamed at him. ‘We may or we may just look at the beautiful scenery. And the road inland, how is it?'

‘Quite good. A bit rough in places. But don't go up into the hills. There are bears.' It was a relief that he could speak English.

It seemed everywhere we went someone warned us about bears but was silent about the soldiers.

After breakfast we decided to look for Sama in the nearby cluster of villages. The countryside was a series of gently rolling foothills. In the distance trees forested the higher slopes. The car hummed along happily. We passed through a couple of villages that straddled the road and finding a siding parked the car and set up our easels and artists' stools.

It was a windless morning and warm in the sun and for a time I just sat and gazed at the distant crags rising above the trees. There were probably dozens of villages tucked away in sheltered gullies and valleys or clinging to the walls of gorges; mining villages and rural villages, perhaps shepherds' huts.

‘Marie, do you think Harry might be hidden there?'

She looked up. ‘Begin to draw,' she said. ‘Some villagers are curious.'

A group of women stood a little way apart watching us. They huddled together like a small school of fish seeking safety in their numbers, protecting their circumference and all within it. After observing us for a few minutes they drifted back into their houses. Marie's eyes followed them thoughtfully.

‘We'll come here again, Judith. We should cultivate their interest. Women know things. And now we must work. Word will get around if we behave oddly.'

For the next three days we drove to the siding and set up our gear. The women came each day at about the same time. They were a motley group, some old, some young, some bare-headed, others wearing scarves. They were dressed in winter skirts and home-knitted sheep-wool jumpers.

Each day they drew a little closer. On the third morning they showed more confidence. ‘
Inglés?
' one asked tentatively. ‘
Artista?
' She was middle-aged with a scarf over her head. Marie smiled at them companionably. ‘
Australiano
,' she corrected. They looked puzzled. ‘
Inglés?
' the woman repeated. ‘Yes,' Marie said, giving up the battle to explain our Australian-ness. ‘We are artists.'

At her Spanish they looked relieved. ‘The English, they are good. A good people.'

Marie returned the compliment. ‘Spaniards are good people also.'

Their faces closed. ‘Not here,' one said, and then, as if having said too much, she stopped abruptly.

Marie looked innocent and inquiring, but they were afraid and started to leave. She plunged in, and later told me that she felt panic stricken that she would lose the opportunity to question them.

‘I came here when I was young,' she rushed in. ‘There was such a lovely young man.' She sighed romantically.

One or two in the group smiled. ‘The young are like that,' one murmured. ‘Always lovely young men.'

Marie appeared to be searching her memory. ‘I think his name was Garcia.'

‘Ah, Garcia.' One laughed.

The hope on Marie's face was not feigned and my heart flopped around in my chest.

‘So many Garcias,' another said, ‘and all romantic. Imelda, here, she knew a Garcia.' She poked her. ‘Eh, Imelda?'

Imelda looked resigned, presumably at the fickleness of all men.

‘And did he write poetry to you?' Marie asked. ‘Beautiful poetry, like Garcia Lorca?'

Imelda looked blank. It seemed she had never heard of Garcia Lorca and couldn't imagine why any young man would waste time writing poetry. They thought it a huge joke and went off chuckling. Marie said that she heard one woman comment that perhaps young English men wrote poetry to their girlfriends, the English were a very polite people.

We felt depressed that evening and in an attempt to cheer ourselves sampled too much of the local cider, brewed each year from the apple crops. It was delightful, and quite strong enough to make us feel relaxed and a little light-headed.

There seemed to be no point in returning to the same village, so next day we drove further. None of the villages were named on our map so this made finding Sama almost impossible. We asked a shepherd herding a small flock of sheep if he knew where the village of Sama was, but he only scratched his head and pointed vaguely along the road towards the hills. Clearly he didn't know but, as Marie said, he probably felt that it would be impolite to seem unwilling to help.

‘In any case,' I said, ‘it's probably useless to pin all our hopes on Sama. We may as well find another village and have a shot.'

The village we chose to explore was larger and some way off the main road. It was tucked into a fold in the hills and there was a small orchard of bare-branched apple trees. I knew they were apples by their peculiarly twisted and gnarled growth. Some of the houses had vegetable gardens and a few women worked in them. There were two-storey barns attached to some of the houses and I assumed that the cattle were kept on the ground floor and grain on the upper. There were no men about and no children. Perhaps the men were employed in the mines.

We had left the car parked outside the village and now we strolled in, carrying our easels, collapsible stools, sketchbooks and pencils. Immediately we felt unwelcome intruders. It was as if we had impertinently walked into someone's home because the front door happened to be open. Beneath the lack of welcome I sensed suspicion and fear.

We knew that it was rudeness to set up our easels and intrude into these people's lives but we ignored any delicate feelings. Finding Harry was our priority, and if we seemed to impose ourselves on people then so be it. We set up and worked determinedly, appearing absorbed. Perhaps familiarity might reassure these women. Perhaps they might speak to us.

A small child came out of the door of one of the houses. Her mother, stooped over her garden patch, straightened, stretched her back and shouted angrily at the child who immediately scuttled inside. The woman glanced at us but we could not read her expression. She resumed her work.

We had been there a couple of hours and were puzzled. There were only a few women working in their garden plots, no children playing outside, no old men strolling or basking in the sun, no young women talking and laughing in groups. The emptiness was eerie and disturbing.

We heard its grinding engine before we saw the truck and turned in curiosity to look. It was a military vehicle, one of those with a canvas back flap. Over the dashboard we saw the faces of uniformed soldiers.

I clutched Marie. ‘What do we do now?'

‘Ignore them if we can. We have nowhere to hide.'

All the garden plots were now empty. The women had disappeared inside. Ignorance and being English must be our protection so we kept working nervously. My pencil wavered along the lines, and the folds of my valley looked more like the billowing crests and troughs of the sea. I tried to rub it out, smudged the lot, and giggled tensely.

‘If they look they certainly won't think us great artists.'

‘Probably don't know anything about art anyway,' Marie whispered.

Our bravado was false and we didn't deceive each other.

From the corner of my eye I saw half a dozen men jump down from the truck. They conversed for a moment and then strode towards us. They were in pairs and each of them carried a brace of guns. Two of them hovered behind us. What they said in Spanish I couldn't understand but although Marie stiffened she composedly filled in the scene she was drawing. However she was white about her mouth and I was afraid.

They came closer and peered over our shoulders. One pointed to Marie's sketch and then to the distant view. They spoke together again. This time Marie looked up, feigning surprise. She smiled disarmingly and amazingly the one who had pointed to her sketch smiled back.

‘
Artista
,' he said, ‘good.'

‘English,' she nodded and he looked pleased as if she had confirmed what he had already guessed.

‘
Inglés
,' he repeated to his companion and the other nodded, also comfortable in their discovery.

They moved on.

I put down my pencil and clenched my hands together to stop them shaking. ‘That was close.'