Free The Poet's Wife by Rebecca Stonehill Page A

nod.
    ‘Is your mamá here?’
    ‘She’s having her siesta.’
    The woman looks disappointed. I can see her biting her bottom lip then she turns her head up towards me. The fix of her stare alarms me; it is so dark and so bottomless and so full of a pain I can’t understand.
    ‘I’ll come back another time,’ she says quietly, and quickly turns and starts to make her way back down the alley.
    ‘No, no, wait!’ I spring down from the wall and race round through the inner patio, heaving at the door and beckoning for her to come in. ‘I’ll get her. She won’t mind.’
    After a few moments of faltering, the woman walks in and, satisfied I’ve trapped her, I turn round. Conchi is standing there, her hands cleaned. She gives me a strange look as I pass her to run up the stairs and stands there in silence, staring at the visitor.
    ‘ ¡Mamá, ven rápido! ’ I cry, hurling myself into her bedroom. ‘Somebody is here to visit you!’
    Mother stirs, the imprint of pillow against her smooth cheek. ‘Who is it?’
    ‘ No lo sé , but you must hurry, before she leaves again!’

    M other is out of bed in a flash and I race down the stairs behind her as she takes the mysterious woman into the conservatory, closing the door behind her. Disappointed, I peer through the keyhole and watch, puzzled, as Mother draws the lovely lady into her arms and her body shakes with loud sobs.
    ‘Come away, Señorita,’ Conchi chides as she tugs at the sleeve of my blouse.
    ‘Who is it, Conchi?’
    ‘I have no idea,’ she replies, pursing her lips, ‘but no doubt your mother will tell you when she wants to.’
    And she does, that very evening, explain to me that this is Abuela Aurelia’s daughter who has been away for a long while but has now decided to go home to her mamá and little ones. It all seems very odd, but in our following visits to the caves, Mar is nearly always there and I think little of the fact that this mysterious woman has been curiously absent for so long.
    After the birth of Alejandro, Conchi does most of the shopping for our family. But occasionally, if he is calm and sleeping, Mother hands my baby brother over to Conchi and takes my sister María and I to the city to shop. Less frequently, she takes me alone and I love these snatched moments of intimacy with Mother more than anything. They mean more to me even than when we dress in the morning, for I have her out of the house, all to myself, where she doesn’t need to worry about María’s questioning, Alejandro’s crying or Father’s fussing. We buy sweetmeats from the Santa Catalina de Zafra Convent and at the market Mother shows me where to buy the best chorizo and how to tell if it is good quality flour by how quickly it runs through your fingers. One thing I notice, however, is that these trips to the convent to buy sweet delicacies are becoming more infrequent and that Mother is buying less flour, eggs and coffee than before. I don’t know much about Primo de Rivera who rules the country, except that I don’t like the look of him one bit from the posters I see everywhere; he has cold eyes and dark bags underneath them running into sagging cheeks. But what I do know is that everything seems far more costly. On one occasion when Mother and I are in the city, we see young people marching and shouting outside the government buildings, waving banners.
    ‘Who are they, Mother?’ I ask breathlessly as the young people march past us.
    ‘Students,’ she replies.
    ‘But what are they shouting about?’ I turn to look at Mother and I can see excitement in her face too, though the face she turns back to me is far more serious.
    ‘They’re calling for democracy. Away with Primo de Rivera. Quite right.’ A small smile dances on her lips. ‘Come, let us hurry to the market before all the best fruit goes.’
    ‘But what exactly is wrong with him?’ I persist as I hurry behind her. I always have difficulty keeping up with Mother; with her long legs she