The Fortunate Isles Part 15

[Ill.u.s.tration: Above Andraitx]

I think it was the discovery that just outside the little hut a man was eating his dinner that aroused us to the fact that we also were hungry. Breakfast had been light, and early dinner, a good way off, was not due till two o'clock. Antonia's sharp little white teeth had long ago devoured Antonia's roll and black-pudding. We had started out with the intention of foraging at Arraco; but Arraco, a scattered handful of pigmy dwellings, lay far down in the hollow.

Then an idea occurred to us. The husbandman, who had finished his meal, and was now lighting a cigarette, would be sure to have food.

We would ask him to sell us some bread.

The peasant, who proved to be a kindly soul, had a beard and the most dilapidated hat ever worn by mortal man. But he had no bread.

The hut under the windmill was only a shelter. His home was in the valley, and it was evidently his provisions for the day that he had just consumed. He did what he thought was next best, and drawing a great jar of clean water from his well, brought it to us.

The Boy and Antonia, who had gone off to try their luck at the other windmill, returned bringing two shapeless lumps of the stalest rye bread ever eaten, and the kindly dilapidated man who, in genuine concern for our welfare, had been hovering near, disappeared into his shanty, and reappearing with a plate of olives, presented them to us. So off olives, water from an antique jar, and mouldy rye bread that vied with it in antiquity, we took the edge off our appet.i.tes.

I must not forget the p.r.i.c.kly pears--or cactus figs--that we had picked on the way up. A certain fearful joy attends the gathering of this fruit, which requires the exercise of some ingenuity in dodging its insidious p.r.i.c.kles. But there the pleasure ends; for the fruit is both seedy and insipid. To appreciate the p.r.i.c.kly pear one would require to meet it in an arid desert.

The sun was sinking when we set out for a final stroll at Andraitx.

We were to leave early next morning, and we knew that there were countless walks we must leave unexplored.

A glory of grey and gold and orange was flushing the sky when we turned into the road that wound up the valley. The mountains that rose on either side were glowing roseate from the sunset; but under any conditions the way would have been very beautiful. It led by a _torrente_ in whose bed there was actually a trickle of water, and just beyond a picturesque bridge was a village--of no social importance probably, but a.s.suredly of great artistic charm. The village straggling up the side of the valley was such a place as n.o.body ever tells one of--one of those unexpectedly picturesque spots that, with a thrill of delight, one discovers for oneself, and feels a proprietorial interest in ever after, almost as though one had invented it. We learned later that the name of the hamlet was Secoma, and that it was divided into two portions, which were known respectively as Secoma Hot and Secoma Cold.

The narrow, winding street was busy. The olive-gatherers were returning from work, and those who had remained at home came out to gape at us. The barber who was shaving a customer, catching sight of our pa.s.sing reflection in the mirror, abandoned his task and ran to the door to stare, with his customer, lathered and pinafored, close on his heels.

Already were we beginning to recognize, and to be recognized, in the district. An amazingly stately old lady, who appeared to spend her days perched sideways on her panniered donkey, bowed with great dignity from her perch. A handsome fisher-lad, who had formed one of the Man's audience when he was sketching at the port, beamed when we encountered him delivering fish in back-of-the-world Secoma.

We had entered Andraitx expecting little, and had found so much that was interesting and pleasant that we were reluctant to leave it. But an engagement for Sunday afternoon at Palma had to be kept. So perforce we bespoke seats in the diligence leaving at the extraordinary hour of four in the morning.

An hour earlier three great knocks sounded on the closed door of the shop. It was the _vigilante_, who had been warned to arouse us. When we went downstairs it was to find our attentive landlord with a comforting meal of chocolate and hot b.u.t.tered rolls ready to serve.

And concerning this most excellent host it is only just to say that during our stay we found his efforts on our behalf increase rather than diminish. In case any of my readers may ever chance to visit this out-of-the-way town, I mention that his name is Gabriel Calafill, and his address is Calle Cerda, which, being interpreted, means Pig Street.

All the c.o.c.ks in Andraitx seemed to be awakened when a jingle of harness-bells drew us to the door of the lamp-lit shop. It was the darkest hour. A single dim lamp was all we saw of the diligence. As it drew up an invisible hand opened the coach door, and mounting the invisible steps I peered into the solid darkness of the interior. If there were any pa.s.sengers inside, they were dumb and motionless.

Hazarding a greeting, I interjected "Buenos dias" into the darkness.

An instant reply from half a dozen throats showed that the coach was already well filled. A minute later we had insinuated ourselves into the places kept for us by the door, and the coach rolled off into the gloom.

It was the hush before the dawn. The moon had long set. A few pale stars sprinkled the sky. Beyond the town the gloom was less impenetrable, and the road became a dim, grey ribbon slowly unwinding behind us. The trees and mountains were black, undistinguishable ma.s.ses. The air was soft and very still. Within the coach all was silent. No one moved. Then, as the miles gradually slipped away, the sky began to lighten, and even the deep gloom of the interior became less tangible. In the farther corner dull white lines proclaimed a collar and shirt-cuffs while the sun-tanned flesh they encircled was yet unseen.

As the daylight crept in, our fellow-travellers gradually became visible. Two men, vague ent.i.ties, had left the coach when half-way we changed horses. There now remained a couple of quiet, respectable market women, a lovely little girl, and a strapping young man.

At the foot of a steep ascent the conveyance stopped, and following the custom of able-bodied pa.s.sengers the men got out to take the short cut, and rejoined the lightened diligence on the farther side.

Glancing from the back window, as they pa.s.sed up the heath slope, I noticed that the owner of the brown hands and the white cuffs had already entered into conversation with my men-folk. And when, a quarter of an hour later, they re-entered the coach, all three were on terms of unexpected intimacy.

"This senor," the Boy explained, with an introductory wave of the hand, "is the father of that clever baby. You remember, mother. The one we saw yesterday on the way to the port. He sat in a basket and said 'Bon di tenga.'"

The father, a strapping, clean-limbed Majorcan, fairly beamed with parental pride as he acknowledged the imputation. The boy, he told us, was now nearly three years old, but he had spoken as well ever since he was two. His own excellent Spanish he accounted for by saying that, like so many Andraitx young men, he had been a sailor, and had voyaged for several years to and from Cuba. Then, having saved some money, he had returned to his native town, had married, and was now farming his own bit of land. This morning he was journeying to Palma to collect the rent of a house he owned there.

The sun was up when the diligence stopped before the _consumos_ station at the entrance to Santa Catalina, and we alighted. It was only as we returned to more sophisticated surroundings that I realized that since leaving Palma on Thursday I had not seen a single hat upon a feminine head. No wonder we were stared at in Secoma!

Half an hour later we were sitting at breakfast in the sunshine at the Casa Tranquila. We had arrived at Andraitx in the dusk, and had quitted it in the dusk, so it seemed as though all that had happened during our stay there had been but a pleasant dream.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Christmas Turkeys]

XII

NAVIDAD

We returned from Andraitx to find that Christmas had stolen a march upon us, taking us unawares.

Our first intimation of it was a communication that reached us from the postal authorities. It announced that a parcel awaited us at the head post office, and stated that if we called between the hours of twelve and thirteen on the following day, and paid the sum of eight pesetas seventy-six centimos charged as duty, we would be ent.i.tled to carry it away.

The slip of green paper containing this laconic intimation fluttering into our uneventful lives, interested us hugely. To what could the notice refer? We expected nothing, and yet the amount of the duty--eight pesetas seventy-six centimos--argued it a possession of notable value. We would not have lost a moment before hastening off to pay the impost and claim our property had not the notice expressly mentioned the one hour of the morrow on which it might be procured.

What could it be? Thinking ourselves discreet people, we professed to build no castles on the subject, but we all enjoyed the feeling of mystery.

It was with a pleasant sense of expectancy that next day, shortly after noon, we entered the post office in the Calle San Felio, and after some inquiry discovered the department for the distribution of parcels. Two people were in advance of us. A young workman was getting a small package, a servant-maid was receiving a couple of round, flat boxes so large that a side door in the counter had to be opened for their egress.

Watching, we wondered secretly if ours would be as big, or if it would be small and precious.

After a preliminary signing of a book and the paying of the money, the parcel was produced and solemnly handed over to us. Its dimensions exceeded even our most sanguine expectations, and it was weighty in proportion. The address on the label showed that it had come from the best confectioner in London. This, taken in conjunction with its opulent proportions, seemed to presage a prolonged period of riotous living.

"It must be cake," the Man said.

"It must be a tremendous lot of cake," opined the Boy, who was carrying the bulky parcel. "Let's get home and open it."

Owing, I think, to the cost of sugar, confections of every kind in Majorca are expensive and limited in variety. And although in England a plethora of good things had made us inclined to be blase, two months of residence in this land where sweets are matters for consumption on high-days and holy-days had revealed in each of us the possession of an unexpected sweet tooth. And the sight of the ample proportions of that confectioner's parcel set them aching furiously.

"If it's sweets, we must not begin eating them until luncheon is over," I said, more by way of counsel to myself than to the others.

"We'll see," said the Boy, who was determined not to commit himself.

When we had entered the Casa Tranquila the carefully packed box was lifted on to the table and the exciting task of opening it began.

The seals had already been broken, but there seemed several miles of carefully knotted string to unwind. Beneath the enveloping brown paper was an encasing of the corrugated cardboard in which breakables are packed. Within that was a thick layer of fine shavings. The dimensions of the package had been considerably lessened when, all the outer wrappings thrown aside, there was revealed a large square tin box. The side presented to us bore no sign of an opening. It really seemed as though the elusive gift was determined to baffle us.

"The box has been carefully soldered," said the Man. "I can't understand how the Customs could fix the amount of the duty without knowing what was inside. How are we going to open it, I wonder?"

But when he turned the box over a wide gash in the bottom revealed that the task had already been performed. Pressing aside the jagged edges of the tin, we saw within yet more shavings. When they had been carefully removed, fragments of china, and something tied in a rent white cloth met our gaze.

"It's been a plum-pudding, and they've smashed it to atoms," the Man said bitterly.

"Oh, what a _shame_! The mean wretches!" I lamented.

The Boy said nothing, but felt for his pipe.

Having succeeded in widening the gash considerably, the Man drew out the remaining enclosures. The pudding--a particularly fine one--was intact, but the bowl that had encased it was shattered. Splinters of the china were adhering to its dark richness. The Spanish Customs at the frontier, in their zeal to discover the nature of the contents and their fear of permitting a concealed bomb to escape their vigilance, had not only cut open the box and smashed the bowl, they had also ripped across the cloth that tied up the pudding.

"Perhaps they were right to charge eight pesetas seventy-six centimos, but they needn't have made mincemeat of that nice china bowl, and rags of the pudding-cloth," I said indignantly.