Song of the Sea Maid (25 page)

Once inside the Cardona home – simple, comfortable, clean and painted bright white, just as Pilar described it – I am made to feel most welcome by Mateu and Francina. From an awkward first few moments – where I feel Pilar stands in the midst of us like a haunting – a slow yet steady stream of questions trickles from them, about how I met Pilar, of her home, her habits and Horacio – whom they have never met – and from Pilar’s nephews, two or three very particular questions about the construction of Horacio’s boat and how well it sails, which I endeavour to answer, casting back my mind to happier days on the gay
Gaivota
. During this latter delightful interrogation, Francina has been busy in the kitchen and soon returns with steaming plates of the most marvellously scented food.

It is a Sunday and I am treated to what I am told is a traditional Minorcan Sunday lunch. Francina tells me with regret that we will not be having the English
bifi
with
grevi
,
and there again is that curious mish-mash with English I have heard before. There is something endearing about it, yet I would not wish this lovely island to lose its unique quality in subjugation to an alien culture such as my own. Let us hope the two cultures enrich each other, indeed like a fine gravy, and do not repel, like oil on water. We eat a delicious stew made of lobster, served with thin pieces of toasted bread and small potatoes. There are clams too, eaten with lemon, and curious crustaceans that appear to be a barnacle of sorts, the kind of animal an Englishman would turn up his nose at, but the flavour is quite good. The delight of eating and sharing good food seals our ease with each other. And by the end of it I am as fat as a belly-god, only to be told there is dessert: a kind of nougat mixed with almonds, and soft pastry cakes that melt on the tongue. The kindness and good nature of the Cardona family is exceptional; though they are not poverty-stricken, the simplicity of their dwelling shows how little they have to spare, and yet they feed me like a queen and keep bringing more. After the sweets, Francina offers me a small, tasty plum and she says in English, ‘Never Saw Plum
.
’

Whatever can she mean?

Say I, in Spanish, ‘Would you like to learn English?’

‘No, no!’
she says. ‘An Englishman, the governor here, ten years ago or more. He was in the market in Máo and he saw a woman selling fruit. She asked him, “What do you call this plum in England?” And he said, “I
never saw
it in England.” And from that time on, everyone calls this fruit the Never Saw Plum.’

How we laugh! This curious procreation between my country and this enchanting island is most diverting. I begin to feel at home here, though it is a far cry from the squalid streets of my youth.

After dinner I offer to assist in clearing away the platters and so forth but I am refused, so ask instead to speak with Mateu. I am eager to explore the coastline hereabouts and need a kind of Horacio to help me. I know how busy these fishermen must be – and I wonder for a moment if it is somehow inappropriate to ask – yet as soon as I moot the idea of a boatman to assist me with my studies, Mateu assures me he would be honoured to take me. Not every day, of course, but once or twice a week. I explain to him my work on islands and he nods gravely. He says he can take me out to broad beds of the local seagrass, which are flanked by rocky outcrops rich with sea life. It is then I ask him about Pilar’s mermaids.

He lifts his eyebrows, pauses a moment, then tells me we can look, but that these creatures are hard to find nowadays. He adds, ‘The English have frightened them off!’ He uses a lovely Spanish word for them:
doncella
, meaning a pure young woman – maidens of the sea.

I ask him, ‘Do you believe they are real? Have you seen them?’

Francina has overheard our conversation and joins us. She adds, ‘There are surely mermaids in these waters and have been for ever. Some are helpful and kind. They have married our men. Others are cruel and lure ships to disaster. When I was a child, they said there were giant sirens near here, male and female, who would rise high above the water and make a terrible screaming sound when boats came near. And some even came to shore and dragged two men and a woman into the sea and drowned them.’

I shake my head with appropriate awe. Yet I consider this may well have been a cautionary tale to frighten little Francina and her friends, to keep them away from the dangerous tides. I turn to Mateu to see what he makes of all this.

He shrugs. ‘I have seen something in the water,’ he
says. And no more. He does not chatter, like his sister once did, as if his heavy whiskers discourage it.

We sail the next day in an attractive boat Mateu calls his
llaüt
. There are many of these to be found about Minorca, so I surmise they must be a traditional vessel of the island. He tells me he builds these boats with his sons and sells them at a good price, and now I understand how a fisherman can provide such a good meal as I had yesterday. He is clearly a skilled craftsman, as this neat little boat cuts beautifully through the blue waves, swift and true. He takes me to the next headland to the west and we dabble about the adjacent reef, my viewer affording me – and an ever more curious Mateu – some wonderful views of the abundant sea life. I see a blue lobster again and Mateu tells me this is what I ate in Francina’s delicious stew.

We head towards two tiny uninhabited islets. Mateu tells me this is where he and his family have seen flickers of tails in the water in the past.

‘I am not a fool,’
he says, a slight twitch of his moustache showing he is amused by the thought, not annoyed. ‘I think the mermaid is most likely a child’s story. But there is something here, sometimes, in the water. Something we cannot name. From time to time.’

We sit, drifting fitfully on the currents, for a while. We have brought food: cheese, bread, spiced sausages and a tasty sweet concoction of breadcrumbs and cinnamon baked by Francina. We eat in silence, pensive, watching the waves, scanning the islets. Time passes. I
will
something to appear in the water. Yet I know it will not. I am not that lucky.

After a day at sea, I trudge back exhausted to Mrs Meredith’s guest-house and collapse on my bed. I can neither stir leg nor arm. I sleep, woken only by her feisty knocking to rouse me for supper. She has sent out a rabbit for roasting in the local baker’s oven and I devour it hungrily. I adore the simple yet hearty food here, the fresher than fresh food of the sea and the sugary rich treats Francina bakes for me. I adore the crystalline water, the emerald seagrass swaying and the blue lobster clambering about its reef. I adore Minorca.

These winter months I sail to the islets twice a week with Mateu. We wait and watch, yet see only fish in the waters. I ask to land on an islet and we spend time at several different ones. A curious fact reveals itself: there is a species of lizard living on these islets, and Mateu tells me that it is not to be found anywhere on the main island. On closer examination, I discover that the lizards one finds on each islet are slightly different. There are variations in colour and pattern on the skin of each separate lizard, yet within each tiny landmass the lizards are all the same. For example, on one all the lizards are tan mottled with black patches. On another, they have a green tail and a dark brown body; others have aqua patches beneath the chin; one islet is home to only black specimens, while some are striped and more still are spotted. It is as if the Creator grew burthened with tedium at the idea of one single lizard species when painting the island of Minorca and thus decided to mix up His palette and experiment.

I make sketches of each variation of lizard and paint them in watercolours, and sit in the evenings by candlelight in my guest-house mulling over the differences. One could explain it with the idea of a bored deity, many would agree. Yet I am not satisfied with this. Why would there be a different sub-species of lizard on each little island, each with its own markings? What else differs between the islets? Is the vegetation distinct, the colouring of the land itself marked differently? Does each lizard fit its situation neatly, unable to conceal itself successfully anywhere else? Does it
need
to conceal itself? Does it have natural predators – perhaps birds of prey? Such questions fill my mind, requiring answers and producing more by the day.

When Mateu is busy working, I spend the rest of my days exploring the ancient sites of the island. I hire a cart and mule and show myself around, following directions from the local people. My mule I christen Horacio, as he is good-natured and has a comical aspect yet soft sweet eyes, and he likes me because I feed him apples for treats. I visit the ruins I saw on my first day, as well as several other walled constructions made in a dry-stone fashion. Some are almost complete as dwellings, containing rooms, windows, and doorways constructed with a colossal coping stone placed to form a lintel. Inside, I am disappointed to discover there is no decoration, though there are a few bones and artefacts, such as carvings on small pieces of stone, decorative rather than figurative. When I find my first of these and pick it up, I feel it almost vibrate in my hand with pride in its own history, though I believe it is rather my hands trembling at this thought. There are also more extensive ruins, with walls running around and towers set to guard the inhabitants. Small details suggest a domestic situation, such as a water basin.

The evidence of these architectural endeavours suggests a more advanced ancestor than those in my Berlengas cave. These people knew how to build, though their art is not half as accomplished as the cave paintings. However, there are sites here that seem more about ceremony. There is one where a tall pedestal forms the shape of the letter T, from two slabs of rock. It is not a door gone awry or any such error – it has clearly been designed that way. And nearby is a great single stone standing tall, with a massive hole excised from near its top, like an ancient eye glaring over the land. What curious purpose these stones once played is beyond my imagination, at present. It is as if the Berlengas
artists were painters on rock walls and the Minorcan artists were sculptors of the rock itself. I have heard tell of monuments like these in England – in the West Country, I recall – and resolve to see them for myself. At the base of one of these mighty Ts, I find a few terracotta objects: small bowls and drinking vessels, half buried among the scree and vegetation.

Within some of these ancient hamlets, I find my sought-after caves, but there is no painting or decoration here, only that some have been enhanced by a built entrance surrounding the cave’s natural opening. There are carved caves here as well – too numerous and uniform to be aught but human-made – high up on the cliff-face above a cove. The climb seems impossible and is infuriatingly tantalising. I have asked and asked around the locals but nobody knows of a safe way up there and they seem quite impenetrable. I stand land-bound and eye them, listening to the sea, watching the seabirds above that chatter and jibe at me in their swooping flight. If only I could follow them.

In January, I receive a letter from my benefactor:

My dear Dawnay,

I am much relieved to be in receipt of your letters from Lisbon, Peniche and Minorca. To see your words formed by your own little hand gives me much succour, as you are a world away and seem very tiny and distant in my sight. When I read of your plan to travel on to Minorca, I was extremely displeased at your extravagant conduct and it seemed an unworthy journey. Yet, I have enough self-knowledge to recognise that this is largely selfish as I do so miss our fireside conversations and your cluttering presence in the house. I never married because, as they say, it were better to dwell in the corner of the house-top, than with a contentious woman in a wide house. But you are my anchor, my child, and I do feel your absence and think myself a poor sort of being. As is my lot, I continue to suffer from a long list of mortifications regarding my health and also social endeavours – (I have again embarrassed myself in public with drinking too much bumbo) – which only your presence could soften. I realise now that I was foolish to imagine that a few months in Portugal would be enough for a restless mind such as yours, and I was not surprised to hear that you wished to extend your odyssey.

But I am highly concerned about your safety, my dear girl, as your lucky escape from the ravages of the earthquake has shaken me to the core. We have received more reports of this late dreadful event and London talks of little else. Clearly it was the most grave judgement of God’s wrath inflicted on sinners. Many say that it was a punishment for the idolatrous ways of the Portuguese, but you know I do not agree with such extreme views of any foreigners (excepting the French of course) and I do not believe it was proof of God’s particular anger towards Lisbon but instead that such an event reminds us all to be circumspect. Whatever is, is right, as the quake awakens in us a truly Christian spirit towards the suffering of our fellow man, and in this way the earthquake can be seen as a good thing and thus, all is well.

I did however lose some significant stock and funds in the disaster too, and for this reason have some concern over financing your travels indefinitely. Do not fret too much about this last point, but be aware that you must return in the summer at the latest, as you have promised. Somewhat more frugal times may be ahead, unless Lisbon recovers itself more swiftly. There are also rumours of imminent war with France which some do not take seriously but I know the French of old and I do not underestimate their capacity for double-dealing and downright viciousness. Therefore, I urge you to return home sooner than your desires may wish, and be safe here with us for good.

All best regards and love to you, my dear, and keep well &c.

M. Woods

Post Scriptum: I almost forgot to mention our old friend Lieutenant Robin Alexander came to visit me the other week. He is now a master and commander with his own frigate to direct. He was in London for a few days to visit his handsome family and then was off to blockade the French. He asked after you, my dear. I do believe he admires your work and says it is extremely fruitful. It is only his good word of it that prevents me from becoming too disappointed with you, as I understand from him that you have been working very industriously and not wasting your time in the sunshine.