Lilia's Secret (23 page)

There was a breeze where there hadn't been one for days. It was like a balm on Bill's face and, closing his eyes, he surrendered to it. He sighed and moved away from the window to slit open the envelope in his hands. Carole had sent him a package. He felt a wave of love for her. He hadn't asked her to do this, hadn't thought about it, but in her busy schedule she'd found the time to track down his father's lawyer. He imagined it would have been quite a job after so many years.

There were only a couple of sentences from her, saying she hoped the documents would be useful; in her usual discreet way she hadn't opened them. Then she assured him that all was well at home and sent her love.

Was this love? Maybe he'd been wrong thinking he meant nothing to anybody. His daughter had come to find him and his wife was helping him to join the dots. He rolled his head about his neck and cracked it. There was relief.

In the package was a short letter from a Henry Siltman noting that copies of all relevant records were included. There were documents in Spanish about bringing George's body back home – Bill recognised some of the forms. So his father, too, had braved Mexican bureaucracy to try to retrieve his friend's
body. Tried and failed. There were lots of documents about a railway and fundraising. He put those back in the package; just seeing them made him sick. He opened the next envelope.

Noise drained out of the world. The birds stopped singing, the voices outside his window dissolved. It was a copy of a letter from his father to him.

He looked at it and after a long time finally he opened it and smoothed it out against the table. The knock at the door made him start.

‘Señor.' It was Teresa. ‘The padre has sent for you. Can you go to his house?'

‘Sure. Thanks.' Bill kept his eyes on his hands holding down the sheet of paper and began to read once she'd gone.

Bill balled up the sheet of paper and threw it across the room. So he admits it himself, he thought. There was no doubt left. He wouldn't let his father have the satisfaction of his tears, but they fell anyway. He was weak, just like William. He collapsed on the bed, shoving the pillow into his mouth. Please nobody come to the door, please nobody hear.

He lay there when it had passed, looking up at the ceiling. This was too much for a man of his age. All sixty of his years weighed him to the bed. This was what his mother had felt. No wonder she'd given up and stared out of the window year after year – how seductive the emptiness.

In front of him lay the answer to his questions about his father. Was it over? Could he go back to Boston to be chivvied into pottery classes by Carole, and sympathy golf by his friends? He couldn't stay here either.

Maybe Angela had been right – maybe he'd betrayed Carole all his life, even if he'd remained faithful. It wasn't enough to stay with somebody, you had to pay attention.

Angela had been kind to him yesterday on the way back from Señora Piña's. She took the wheel without a comment, she hadn't said a word against him. She let him look out the window in silence and had come inside with him before returning the hire car.

Now Bill felt such disgust with himself. He had been as weak as his father – he'd abandoned his family.

There was a knock on the door. ‘Bill, I've come to you, since you didn't come to me.'

‘Sure, Father, I mean Padre.' Bill got up quickly and crossed to the mirror to check for signs of distress. He opened the door and Padre Miguel held out his arms with a flourish. ‘Here I
am,' he said. The priest immediately became serious and walked in. ‘Bill, what's happened? You look terrible. Was meeting your half-sister so bad?'

‘I'm not ready to think of her as a half-sister yet, if you don't mind, Padre,' Bill said, sitting on the side of the bed and leaving the chair for Padre Miguel. ‘She's not so bad. Just a stranger. She seemed real nice, but you can see life has been tough on her. It would have been tougher, she says, without Lilia.'

Padre Miguel moved his head as if to hear better. Bill tried to fold away the letters but his fingers were clumsy.

‘Lilia gave her and her mother an income.' He cleared his throat. ‘My father …' he cleared his throat again. ‘My father seems to have taken advantage of his position in the house with a servant.' Bill flushed with the shame of it. ‘Lilia must have felt sorry for Señora Piña's mother.'

Padre Miguel reached over and put his hands on top of Bill's clasped hands. ‘No shame for you,' he said. ‘No shame.'

Bill felt tears come into his eyes, he dared not look up. This man's touch felt so alien, yet strangely comforting. He waited a few moments to compose himself.

‘Carole sent me a package,' Bill continued. ‘There was a copy of a letter from my father in some documents at his lawyer's office.'

‘That's hard. To hear someone speak from the grave is unsettling,' Padre Miguel said. ‘What does he say?'

Bill pushed the letter towards the padre. The priest nodded gravely as he read the letter over. ‘And harder again if the words are ones of betrayal. Where is the original letter?'

‘I guess they sent it to me but my mother got to it first.' Bill shrugged. ‘She probably wouldn't have wanted me to know
that Father couldn't resist Lilia.'

‘That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' Padre Miguel pulled the chair out to sit on. ‘I had a visit from Ramiro. You upset him.'

‘The feeling's mutual,' Bill mumbled, studying the floor.

The padre sketched a circle in the air with his hands. ‘Things seem to have become more complicated. Ramiro wants you to leave.'

‘As I said, “mutual”,' Bill said. ‘I mean, I want to leave as well.'

‘You'll never get your father's body back if you go back to Boston now.'

‘I think he deserved whatever happened to him, so if Lilia killed him – good riddance – and if he died young for some other reason – good riddance. In either case I don't need him back in Boston.'

‘Normal to feel like this now,' Padre Miguel observed.

‘Normal to feel like this for ever.'

‘No.' Padre Miguel shook his head. ‘What kind of a man do you want to be, Bill?'

Bill waved the question away wearily.

‘This is your chance to do things differently.'

‘I don't know what you mean,' Bill said, stung.

‘You do,' Padre Miguel said decisively, sitting back suddenly.

‘What about Ramiro?' Bill asked.

‘He's jealous. He feels Lilia belongs to him, there's glory in being associated with her. She was, after all, incredibly rich and powerful around here. Most of the children are named after her, and I don't mean just the girls.' The padre's eyes sprung comically wide again. ‘Have you asked Ramiro if he knew your father?'

‘He says he didn't.' Bill rubbed his forehead. He didn't want this conversation.

‘He knew of them,' Padre Miguel said. ‘Enough to realise that your father was mad for love of Lilia.'

‘Yeah.' There wasn't much to look at through the window, but Bill felt it was better than facing the facts in the room.

Padre Miguel forced himself into Bill's view.

‘This is nothing, Bill.'

Bill was suddenly furious. He stood up and paced the small room. ‘Nothing! Nothing? You're sick down here. I wouldn't be surprised if all of you were in on it in some way. How did you kill him?'

Padre Miguel was up beside him. ‘Calm down.' The priest put his hand on Bill's shoulder and propelled him back to the bed. The defiance in Bill was big and round and he was doing everything not to spit it out at the padre again.

‘When I say nothing,' the priest said, ‘I mean nothing to do with you now, in your life. If your father was in love, if he decided to leave you willingly, this is nothing about you. Everything about him. You need to make decisions for you based on you, not him.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Your father did not abandon you because he didn't love you.'

Bill couldn't breathe now; his throat was clogged, his eyes blurry.

‘It's true,' Padre Miguel was still talking, ‘that obviously he wasn't trustworthy in love. But that doesn't mean others aren't. You are.' Padre Miguel was laughing. ‘How long have you been married to your wife? Thirty years? More? That's loyalty.'

Bill hunched over and gave way to the sobs.

‘You did it,' Padre Miguel said. ‘You did what your father didn't do – you stayed strong in love.'

‘No,' Bill sobbed. ‘I didn't. I was there, but I never loved, I never let her get anywhere close. Don't you see? I am just like him.'

The priest's rolls of fat jiggled with laughter. ‘There's time. You're not dead. And you know it's much harder to stay when you've forgotten how to love, but you've stayed. So how easy to go back now that you've remembered how to love?'

‘How do I know I love her?'

‘Of course you do. You stayed, didn't you? You've been living your father's life for so long, live your own now.'

Bill wasn't crying as much. Strangely, he didn't feel shame over his collapse.

‘Enough. We have to talk about Ramiro.' Padre Miguel handed him a towel and was all business again. It was the perfect response.

‘What about him?' Bill asked Padre Miguel.

‘He says he's going to start a campaign. And his campaigns are effective.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘His “Lilia” campaign made everybody too scared to want to go anywhere near her place. Convenient – that meant he could keep it to himself.'

‘What did Ramiro say?'

‘Nothing specific,' Padre Miguel brushed his hand in front of his face. ‘But you unhinged him somehow. He was raving about how Lilia belonged to him, saying he'd worked too hard to have it all come undone now.'

‘Can we get him to make sense?'

‘Perhaps,' Padre Miguel murmured. ‘He's too old for secrets. I find that the older you get, the more your secrets weigh you down and drag you back from the brink of the grave. And there's a time when you need your grave. Ramiro has surely reached that moment.'

‘When can we talk to him?'

‘Give him some time to compose himself.' Padre Miguel patted Bill's knee. ‘And be gentle on your father. We are all weak men, underneath.'

‘He seems to have been weaker than most,' Bill said.

‘Or Doña de Las Flores was stronger than most. Who's to know now?' Padre Miguel shrugged his shoulders. ‘In the end it doesn't matter what he chose and didn't choose. He's had his turn.'

It was time to go and meet Ramiro. I got to Lilia's house too quickly to prepare myself for the possibility of another vision.

I sat on the rickety chair on the verandah for a few minutes and rocked, the house a big, brooding darkness behind me. In the end it was too oppressive, so I took the key and unlocked the door. If there was something waiting in there for me it was better to deal with it before Ramiro got here.

Sometimes I wished I believed in the God I'd been brought up with. Helen has the confidence of somebody who believes in a benign power with a particular interest in her well-being. I did have a spiritual moment once. I was sitting on the rocks on the banks of the river Po in Florence near the Ponte Vecchio. I was right in the heart of the city, but it was far enough away from the main tourist drag that it had been left to its own devices, and things grew wild there. It reminded me of our creek at home.

I was so lonely I'd almost rather have been dead. The sun striped the water; I sifted pebbles through my fingers. My behind got numb from sitting in the one place for so long. And suddenly I was smiling and there were tears streaming down
my face. It was as if the sun, before dying for the day, had penetrated my skin and was lighting me up from the inside. The tears flowed and I was grateful for the sound of the water, grateful for the straggly weeds, grateful for the warmth on my skin. I had dissolved and become part of the rocks and the river and the air. I was a child again before my father died. When Mum knitted by the fire and Dad toasted his feet.

I pushed back the shutters of Lilia's bedroom window so I could see Ramiro approaching. My wrist was itching again, and I'd run out of Magdalena's cream. I moved the bandage aside, tried blowing on my skin to make it cool, and pressed the dressings back over to stop it screaming at me. Something caught my eye. From this angle I could see that the dresser was not quite flush to the wall – there was something behind it.

I pushed at it with my hands and swung my whole body into it. Finally I moved it a couple of centimetres, which was enough to manoeuvre out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string, the size of an average bathroom mirror. I dusted it off, laid it on Lilia's bed, and ran down to the kitchen to get a knife from the rack. I quickly checked for signs of Ramiro but the road was still clear.

Whoever had tied up the package had done a thorough job. I had to make a dozen cuts before I could shuck all the string away. Inside was a portrait of a woman cradling a baby, with a small boy standing beside her. Her hair was pulled severely back from her face and she had a large pink flower pinned above her left ear. The baby was swaddled in white
wool and lace and the lace spilt over the woman's arms down to her lap, where it partially covered the little boy's hand resting there.

I sat on the bed and picked up the painting to get a better look. In one corner I could make out ‘1957'. This had to be Javier and Juan's mother. She had finer features than Lilia's. I turned the portrait over and read the name written there. I said it out loud, reverently: Amalia Riva de Las Flores. I turned the painting back to see if I could read happiness in their faces. I desperately wanted Juan to have had some happiness, even if it was back when his life had hardly begun. There was very little expression on Amalia's face. There was calm there, but that could have been the painter's doing.

Then, suddenly, I was back in my father's heavy boots, being dragged down to the gully. I could hear my heaving breath and followed the light of the torch as it bounced over the ground.

 

I watch as my fingers tie a loop in the rope. There is a gash on the back of my right hand just below where the thumb and index finger meet, marked by dried blood. Sunny will never kick me again. I think of Ben, who's tough, like me. It'll be Ben who'll take over the milking. I throw the rope over the sturdiest bough of the tree trunk and yank it tight. I look around for something to stand on. I hardly need the torch now the moon is so full.

I drag over a few tyres and stack them up, climb up and steady myself, then I see if I'll be able to kick the top one away. It seems possible.

I take a swig of whisky from the flask I've brought and scratch at the gash – fresh blood seeps out.

I've been sitting still so long that a rabbit sniffs its way out of a burrow under the boxthorn. It sits back on its hind legs and stares at me. The only time I've ever been this close to a rabbit before is through the sights of a shotgun. I'm glad I don't have one now.

 

The next thing I knew I was off Lilia's bed, still clutching the portrait. I threw it on the ground as I backed into the wall, bringing my arms around to cradle.

He didn't think of us, was the only thought I had, over and over. I sat back on the bed, but my muscles had lost their will and I melted. I was back in the gully.

 

I throw the empty flask on to the ground and wipe my hands down my trousers …

 

I leapt off and stared at the bed. Gingerly I sat back on it, and shuffled backwards a little so my feet were off the ground. I licked my lips and bit the lower one, waiting.

 

I stumble and almost fall as I climb up the tyres.

 

It was the bed, it was turning me into my father. I ripped off the scarf and attacked my wrist until the blood seeped through like tiny rubies. After the frenzy I tied it back, pulling it tight to staunch the bleeding, then I peeled the glorious quilted garden off the bed one jerk at a time as if it were a snake.

I got back on top of the sheets and waited, ready to spring off. Three minutes passed and nothing, so I pulled the bedspread up over me. The vines writhed over each other, the flowers bloomed. They sucked at me. In a flash I was back in the gully.

I sprang out from underneath the bedspread and off the bed. What would happen if I let myself experience my father's death? Would I die, too?

There was still no sign of Ramiro. I wasn't sure how to circle back into town from the back of Lilia's house, but I couldn't run the risk of running into him by taking the road so I locked up the house, went around the back, climbed the fence and took off at an easy run to put as much distance as I could between myself and my father, before Ramiro arrived.

Back at Marta's, the soft slope of the mattress made way for me like an old friend. I flipped the top sheet above my head and lay under it with my eyes open. It bore down on my eyelashes so I closed my eyes. I lay tense. My quivering body reminded me of the bunny in my hallucination. I let myself think about what I'd felt on Lilia's bedspread. I had smelt him, that slightly sweaty Dad smell. The one that I didn't know I missed until I smelt it again. Grief swelled inside me. I turned over on my side and let it pour out, wave after wave like lava.

After it passed I wanted to feel him again. The rest of the day passed me by in a haze: doing my washing, helping Marta in the kitchen, taking photos of kids in the square. But one solid thing came back to me the next morning: I had to go back to Lilia's bedroom. So I returned. I lay down under her quilt and I concentrated on its musty smell as if that single fact could anchor me to the present. But I wasn't there for the present. I was to be inside the skin of my father's fear again, hearing the crunching of pebbles under his boots; feeling the long bruise of his life stretched out behind him.

Crouched in the shadow of him, I knew I was both me and him. I welcomed the flood of his suffering and the whisky he
sent down after it. I welcomed it all because I wanted to feel his texture. I made him rub his hands – his alligator rough hands – together so I could feel them again. I laughed out aloud that I could make him do it.

 

I climb up on top of the three-tyre mound, nearly stumbling as I missed my footing.

The breeze freshens my cheek. I slip the noose around my throat, my feet scrabble at air, my throat implodes with a guttural scream. I close my eyes and there they are – my children, scrubbed Sunday-clean and smiling at me in a streak of sun. Margaret is behind them, smiling too. It wasn't her fault, I hadn't been what she'd wanted. She has her hand on Maddy's shoulder and Maddy covers it with her little fingers. I drift further and further away.

 

I gasped and sat bolt upright, pushing the quilt away. The sunshine fell smack in the middle of the room in the exact shape of the window I'd opened. When I went to lie in it the wooden floor felt cool under one cheek, while the sun warmed my face.

He loved us. Not sensibly and not thoughtfully.

He didn't cling to life. He knew that Mum would.

Bastard. Weak bastard.

I needed to feel him again. I wanted to be able to put out my hand and stroke the bristles on his cheek in a way I could never have done as a child.

I wondered if I could change anything when I was back there being him. The wormhole of an alternative reality … What would my life have been like if he'd returned from the gully that night?

He might have slowly got better. Ben might have gone to college. We little ones might have had years more of cream and sugar on white bread after school. Maybe he and Mum and Robert would have found a way to be in the same room sometimes. It happens. The years would have bent him slowly out of shape. He would have finally had to sell the farm, move into town and eventually go into an old-age home, from which the marrow of life had long been sucked dry. I would have moved away to avoid its horror.

I tore myself like Velcro from the image of my sunken father to the one in the gully. So now perhaps I knew what had been the last thread that held him to the earth; what he had felt as it snapped. Great waves of ecstasy breaking over him until he lay down his body, defeated and whole.

I got up and swam through layers of thickness back to the bed. I dragged the quilt to the block of sun in the middle of the room and wrapped it around me like a cocoon. I didn't have to wait long.

When the waves of ecstasy baptised him with joy, washing him again and again with gold and pink and orange, I surrendered myself fully to being him, and lay my body down, defeated and whole.

I woke up slippery with sweat, the sun hammering me with heat. I knew what had happened, there wasn't a drop of confusion in me. I shucked off the quilt and squirmed a few feet over into the shade. I'd lived through my father's death.