The spanish house, p.1
The Spanish House, page 1
The Spanish House
Cherry Radford
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
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Copyright © Cherry Radford, 2021
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The moral right of Cherry Radford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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EB ISBN 9781801103879
PB ISBN 9781801103886
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Cover design © Leah Jacobs Gordon
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Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Print editions of this book are printed on FSC paper
Contents
The Music of The Spanish House
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Locations in The Spanish House
About the Author
Hello from Aria
The Music of The Spanish House
Music Playlist
Create a free Spotify account and listen to some of the music in THE SPANISH HOUSE.
Link: https://spoti.fi/3jruN65
Chapter 4
Volver (Return) – Estrella Morente (Carlos Gardel, Alfredo Le Pera)
The Summer Knows – Antonio Serrano, Federico Lechner (Michel Legrand)
Algo Contigo (Something with You) – Rosario, Niña Pastori (Chico Novarro)
Chapter 6
My Defences Are Down (Annie Get Your Gun) – Howard Keel (Irving Berlin)
Chapter 9
Jill’s Theme (Once Upon a Time in the West) – Edda Dell’Orso (Ennio Morricone)
Chapter 14
Como Me Duele Perderte (How it Hurts Me to Lose You) – Gloria Estefan (Marco A. Flores)
Chapter 16
Problema (Problem) - Ketama (Antonio Carmona, Josemi Carmona, Juan Carmona)
Chapter 19
Stayin’ Alive – Bee Gees (Barry Gibb, Maurice Gibb, Robin Gibb)
They Say It’s Wonderful (Annie Get Your Gun) – Betty Hutton, Howard Keel (Irving Berlin)
Chapter 22
Too Much Heaven - Bee Gees (Barry Gibb, Maurice Gibb, Robin Gibb)
Chapter 27
Stars – Simply Red (Mick Hucknall)
Epilogue
The March of the Siamese Children (The King and I) – 20th Century Fox Orchestra (Oscar Hammerstein II, Richard Rogers)
1
The girls weren’t even talking loudly. Later, they’d wonder how they were heard, above the clatter of the District Line. They’d explain that all they did was find themselves sitting next to each other, saying hello-I-mean-hola, and then chatting in Spanish – as members of South Ealing Spanish Practice Meetup do. In next to no time, it seemed, the lads lurched down the carriage to them and a fag-stained finger was wagging inches from Juliana’s face.
‘Stop that fuckin’ stupid language! You’re in England!’
Juliana looked up to meet the half-closed eyes of tall and swaggering Fag Finger and his potato-faced sidekick. ‘Sorry if it bothers you,’ she said. ‘We’re getting out soon anyway.’
‘We go to a Spanish practice group – we’re just learning,’ Nadia put in, managing to hide her Polish accent.
Fag Finger’s mouth dropped open. ‘You what?’
They looked a bit thick and stank of weed, but they didn’t seem to be doing too badly, with their big white trainers and crisp haircuts.
‘Na, na,’ the chap beside him started, jutting his big chin forward for a better look at Juliana. ‘No way this one’s English. Go back to your own country! Too many of you spics round here.’
‘This is my own country,’ Juliana said, hoping she wouldn’t have to go into how she was half Spanish.
‘Then why you look like, like…’ He scratched his jaw as he looked her up and down.
Turnham Green. Two more stops. But Nadia had taken her arm, probably thinking they should get off earlier.
‘…Pocahontas!’ He nudged Fag Finger, and was chuffed to make him laugh. Bent double, they were, the idiots. Then Fag Finger swooped down and pulled her up by her plait.
‘Get off me!’ Juliana shouted, her heart thudding in her chest.
Two black guys in football gear who’d been poring over a phone looked up.
An older guy in a suit got up and came over. ‘Now that’s enough.’
Still holding her plait, Fag Finger turned on him. ‘Oh yeah? Who says?’
There was an intake of breath from the old woman opposite, and then the suited man’s eyes widened, his cheeks quivering, as he looked down at Fag Finger’s other hand. Something flashed in the harsh light.
Nadia had stood up, linking trembling arms with Juliana.
The other one laughed at her. ‘Now don’t you worry about your friend,’ he said to Nadia. ‘She’s coming home with us to play cowboys and injuns, aren’t you, gorgeous?’ He grabbed Juliana round her waist. A sickening smirk spread over Fag Finger’s face.
The train stopped dead, throwing the boys into each other. Something clanged to the floor.
A small knife.
Fag Finger grabbed it and pointed it at the suited man. ‘Keep back! You might be the big man at the office, but I’m in control here.’
The old woman started whimpering. The footballers got to their feet. Then the train sped forward again and stopped abruptly in the station.
‘Not now, you’re not,’ one of the black guys said with a grin, putting away his phone and pointing to the policemen waiting to board the train.
Juliana climbed the stairs to her bedsit. Her two housemates, standing in the doorway of one of their rooms, stopped chatting as she went past.
‘I’ll be having a very, very long bath,’ she told them.
The shared bathroom was a bubbling source of disagreement, so she was surprised to see them exchange glances and nod. Perhaps they could see something was wrong, but didn’t want to hear about it.
She shut the door of her room behind her, leant against it while glancing around at her English life: the six o’clock tea mug and Weetabix bowl on the sink, the David Nicholls novel she’d left behind on the bedside table, the Handel on the music stand. Half Spanish? She had a rusty A level, devoid of rolled ‘r’s; she didn’t like ham, seafood or olives; had only one seldom-seen Spanish relative; and hadn’t visited Spain for years. Boyfriends thinking her exotic had been hugely disappointed. When the genes were handed down to her, they somehow managed to create a totally English woman trapped in a dark and incongruous Spanishness. A Spanishness that came from nowhere – or so it felt, having not seen Mama since the age of seven.
And yet… she slipped off her rucksack and shoes, flopped onto the bed and rested her eyes on the crowd of baby cacti on the windowsill. And yet what she knew of Mama – the courageous departure from her family’s village to get involved in the Sergio Leone Sixties western, Once Upon a Time in the West – had stayed with her. As had Mama’s wide smile, and the ‘Hooli’ sound of her name in Spanish.
From the chest of drawers, the Woody cowboy doll from Toy Story grinned down at her. A present from Toby when they had been an item. Cowboys and Indians… A ‘Pocahontas’. Of all things, those idiots saw her as that. Not that she hadn’t been one before. She’d been most things, over time. Including a horrified person on a number of modes of transport, and more times than she could count, a minority ethnic policewoman. Native American, South American, Hawaiian, Latin, Asian – she’d played them all. That’s what happened if you worked full-time as a television and film extra for… well, thirty years. Since she was a baby, in fact. Nadia, bless her, had told the police her Meetup friend was an actress. Supporting Artiste, she’d had to correct them – and don’t worry about the ‘e’ on the end; there’s seldom anything glamorous about it.
She pulled herself up and went over to her laptop. Yes, there it was: instructions for the next day’s shoot, which was going to be more of being one of several crime scene officers finding body parts in wheelie bins, but in a different street. It felt like more than half her work was to do with cr
ime. Bodies. Weapons. Knives. No wonder she went into some kind of daze on the Tube, as if waiting for the director to yell ‘cut’. There were other emails asking about her availability for jobs – and not just from Dad’s extras casting company – but she didn’t want to think about work now. Her phone was as bad, and after sending a night-night message to Nadia through the Meetup group’s WhatsApp, she silenced it.
She washed the Tube boys from her hair, then lay down with water up to her chin in the bath. Wonderful. Like a big hug. Like the hug from Kelvin, one of the football guys who’d looked like he didn’t care, but had been secretly calling the police. Arty type, designed furniture. Told her to be proud of her Spanish half. Unfortunately, he was wearing a wedding ring. How wonderful to have a man like that. She sighed. If she couldn’t find an arty, hugging man of her own, she could at least get a bath of her own. Time she rented her own flat, however tiny. Perhaps if she started making money from her blog; maybe there were companies who’d want to advertise in Views from a Human Prop.
Back in her room, she got under her duvet, blanket and fluffy dressing gown ; she was outnumbered regarding the house heating level, her PE teacher housemates seemingly born without cold receptors.
She plugged in her phone. Took a vitamin pill. Turned out the light. Tried not to keep seeing those hooded, mean eyes, and the knife…
Her phone lit up. Maybe poor Nadia couldn’t sleep. A number she didn’t recognise. It had called several times. She scrolled down… about ten times. A Spanish number. It had to be Uncle Arturo. Or his housekeeper. It was very late; maybe something had happened. Please no… She pressed the number.
‘Hooliana?’
‘Hello, are you all right? I’m sorry I missed—’
‘Are you all right, Hooliana? You not answer my email. You have read my email?’
‘Er, no, I…’ She went over to the laptop and turned it back on. He started saying something else, but in Spanish – or rather, Andalusian, with all those missing ‘d’s and ‘s’s. Croaky Andalusian; he was sounding older than a year ago. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that,’ she said in Spanish. ‘I’m a bit tired. I can’t see an email… ah, unless…’ Unless he’s sent it to the dodgy old email address that she’d stopped using because it didn’t work on her phone. She opened it up. It was very long, and in Spanish.
‘You read it now, then you call me, vale? No te preocupes. Don’ worry. Is good thing for you. Is what you need, but don’ know it, te digo.’
Te digo. I tell you. Yes, he was always good at telling her things. “Stop with this Toby boyfriend.” “What? We broke up eleven years ago!” “Yes, but he never go, no’ really” (as he tapped her head). It usually made her laugh, but this email was in ten bullet points and she’d seen the words for paint, house and ninety days.
‘Okay. I might need to look up some words… I’ll call you back.’
‘Perfecto.’
She started translating – as well as she could, in her excitement. When she started gasping, eyes darting from one bit to another, she printed it out.
My dear Juliana,
For two years now, I don’t visit the summer house in San Rafael. I have been renting to friends sometimes, but they are now older and prefer hotels. It is time for me to say goodbye to it.
As I told you, my Miguel is busy with the fashion business I have passed to him. He doesn’t like San Rafael. He and Susana prefer their life in Madrid and travelling for holidays of golf. Even when he visits me here in Almería city, he doesn’t want to drive there. He prefers places more fine.
But you like quiet, and need a place your own, and to understand more about your Spanish inheritance. So I am thinking, my dear, that if you can accomplish these conditions, within the ninety days you are allowed to stay in Spain, starting this 1st May, the house will be yours. I have consulted my lawyer and, in the event of my death, he and an executor I have chosen for this will determine if the conditions have been done. Don’t worry, I will explain you how all the expenses will be paid, you will have a car, and the conditions are easy and you will enjoy.
Paint the front of the house and inside (yourself, because it is the only way to make acquaintance with a house); form a cactus garden (best for semi-desert here); and replace the boiler (using the man I recommend), the crockery (they make it beautiful in village Níjar), kitchen equipment, bedding and towels et cetera as needed.
Get on well with your neighbours.
Make a weekly visit to your mother Antoñita’s nicho in the cemetery. Talk to her.
Visit Fort Tabernas Studios, where your mother and I worked with costumes for Once Upon a Time in the West back in 1968. Explore, stay the night in one of the holiday cabins, take the horse-and-cart ride. Do all these things.
Take part in the municipal amateur production Annie Get Your Gun at the end of July. They start auditions and rehearsals in May. I used to do this every year. It raises money to pay for music, drama and dance classes for children of parents who cannot pay for them.
Attend at least one of the monthly concerts at Cactus Garden, Níjar, where also you can buy cacti for the terrace.
In the city of Almería, visit the music shop for things for your flute.
Visit the Central Market in Almería. We are the tomato capital of the world, and you have to eat our special and divine Raf tomato.
Use the car to visit all fifteen accessible beaches between San Rafael and Cabo de Gata.
Take photos, stick little things in a book, write a diary or start a new one of your blog. Note everything.
In the house I will leave all the local details you need, and my lawyer’s card. I say again, don’t worry. You can do it. But this plan is our secret. It is best you do these things without help or hindrance from other people. Say I have paid you to improve the house and look after it for three months. Later they can know it is yours and you can tell them about the conditions you met.
I need details of your passport so that I can buy your flight for 1st May, and bank details for expenses. Answer me soon, that I am not good with the waiting.
A strong hug,
Your Uncle Arturo
‘Oh my God!’ Laughing tearfully, her heart tapping away, she looked round the room to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, then read it again. Picked up the phone and put it down again. May the 1st. Six days. ‘Breathe! Think!’ Dad was always saying she made decisions too quickly. But how could she say no? The decorating and the amateur dramatics would be a tiny price to pay for… her own house in Spain! She’d be able to escape, any time. No more endless cold, damp winters. No more painful dreaming of swimming in a warm sea. She could rent it out for part of the year, so she could afford to rent something better here – with her own bath.
But… a horse-and-cart ride and a tomato as part of the conditions? Had he really put these crazy requests through a lawyer? Maybe he hadn’t, and was losing his mind, poor chap. But what was the worst that could happen? She’d miss a lot of work, maybe the expenses wouldn’t be quite enough, but he wasn’t going to let her starve. Three Spanish months. Time with Uncle Arturo, with whom there’d always been a spark of fun and affection.
She scrolled through her calendar. It would be great to get out of the family’s party for her twin stepsisters’ birthday, and she doubted she’d be missed. The evening with her friend Lucy planning the writing of this year’s summer play for Lucy’s Year 6 class could be brought forward and continued on FaceTime. The Spanish restaurant date with Toby – who was still seeing that actress in the series – would only leave her pointlessly pining again. There was really nothing to keep her here. She picked up the phone.
