Archibald Cronin - The Spanish gardener

"Mother doesn't live with us any more."

Garcia parted his thin wide lips in a silent laugh.

"So she is nothing to us. She lives apart. But we cannot escape from people that way." He broke off, listening, as measured footsteps sounded on the steps of the portico. There was a pause then, without change of manner, yet perhaps with a faint shade of caution, he nodded. "Your father has come back. You must not tell him of our interesting conversation. Now we have a secret, you and I. Do not forget that, little innocent."

He advanced to the bed and, using only one hand, expertly hoisted up the tray; then, with a half bow, tinged with that same servile mockery, he turned and went out of the room.

Nicholas lay there, his brow still contracted, filled with perplexity and confusion. He felt discouraged, strangely empty, and only the prompt appearance of his father prevented him from bursting into tears.

The Consul was in good spirits, evidently not displeased with his morning's work, and after a brief inspection, he bade Nicholas get up. Seated on the end of the bed while the boy dressed, he proved more than usually discursive. The office was better than he had expected, small yet quite modern, and situated on the Marina where the sea breezes would be agreeable in summer. Besides Alvin Decker, there were two Spanish clerks on the staff. He had found the equipment in sound condition except for a faulty typewriter that could be repaired, and a broken mimeograph machine that he had immediately ordered replaced.

"And now," the Consul went on with continuing liveliness, "you may be interested that I have found you a gardener. He's outside, in the yard. Come along and take a look at him."

They went downstairs, Nicholas walking sedately at his father's side.

Outside, waiting at the back entrance, in an attitude of respectful attention, was a tall, well-proportioned youth of nineteen years, with open features and sloe-dark, gentle eyes. His eyebrows were strongly marked, his hair sprouted black and bushy, and upon his upper lip there lay already an immature, pathetic shadow. It was a simple face and could have been handsome, in spite of its saffron colouring, but for the soft full mouth, which hung a little open. The young man wore his best suit, a shoddy but well-brushed serge, the jacket cut very short, Catalan fashion, and the trousers billowing slightly at the cuff, covering the broken shoes. In his large brown hands he held a round flat hat.

"Well, here you are, my lad," said the Consul with agreeable briskness. "What did you say your name was?"

"José, señor … José Santero."

"And you are an expert gardener?"

José smiled, deprecatingly, showing beautiful white teeth. It was a warm, natural smile, and so infectious it made Nicholas want to smile back.

"I know to dig, and hoe, and care for the soil, señor. I can prune and plant. I am very willing. But I am not so expert."

"I understood you had experience.” Brande remarked somewhat impatiently.

"Oh, yes, señor," José answered quickly. "For three years I worked in the Montaro vineyards. But now there is much unemployment in the hills."

"You have testimonials?"

With a faintly lost air, smiling yet doubtful, José's gaze passed from the Consul and came to rest upon the little boy.

"We do not trouble about such things, señor. If you ask Diego Borgano, at Montara, I think he would speak well of me."

There was a pause. Nicholas gazed up anxiously at his father who, biting his lip, was plainly debating this aspect of the matter, and he had strongly to suppress an impulse, which he knew would only prejudice José's case, to beg his father to engage this gardener who was so young, so friendly, and so nice.

The sound of the luncheon gong hastened the Consul's decision. After all, they had given the fellow a good character at the Exchange. He spoke brusquely.

"I shall expect you to work hard, you know. The pay is thirty pesetas a week. Do you agree?"

"I do not quarrel with the señor's wishes," José answered soberly.

"Very good," said Harrington Brande. "Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow and I’ll show you what I want done. Come along, dear boy."

He took his son's arm and moved off. As Nicholas went towards the house he had a warm picture of the Spanish youth standing there, gentle and humble, yet strangely proud in his poor Sunday clothes, holding the ridiculous hard hat in his fine brown hands. Irresistibly, as he followed his father up the verandah steps, he looked back over his shoulder and smiled. José's white teeth flashed in an answering smile; and to the little boy's joy, he waved his arm in gay acknowledgment. Something in that gesture went straight to the child's heart … he kept thinking of it during lunch, and afterwards too, with little inward chuckles of delight.

A PLACE had been made for Nicholas in the shelter of the oleanders, a kind of arbour formed by their flowering, overhanging branches; and here, following the schedule laid down by his father, he spent most of his time between lunch and tea, reclining on a chaise longue, absorbing the briny ozone, and perusing the pages of a book, which must necessarily be profitable since the Consul himself had selected it.

This afternoon, however, the child's eyes strayed frequently, though secretly, from the printed page, towards the figure of the new gardener working in the overgrown border beneath the catalpa tree. For two days now Nicholas had longed to speak to him but no opportunity had presented itself and he was, of course, too shy to make one. But now, from José's rate of progress, as he dug steadily with his azada along the border, cleaning out the weeds and breaking up the soil, the boy could see that very soon the other would be beside him, and his heart began to beat a little faster at the prospect, for he had from the beginning felt a current of sympathetic understanding—he could not more fully explain it—flowing, flowing gently between the Spanish youth and himself. Perhaps he was wrong. It might be that José was like Garcia, a person who flattered only to deceive, yet he could not bring himself even to entertain such an idea, the disappointment would be more than he could bear.

At last the gardener reached the arbour and, straightening himself, leaned his elbows on the long spade handle, smiled directly at Nicholas. The little boy knew that he must speak first, yet he could think of nothing to say and, when he did, for a long awkward moment the words stuck in his throat.

"You have been working very hard,"he stammered, finally, with his usual nervous flush.

"No, no." José's smile widened and he shrugged his sunburned shoulders. His torso was bare, and the tight-belted cotton trousers, which he wore with rope-soled espadrilles, showed the clean strong lines of his graceful limbs. His skin, smooth and golden, had a warm living texture from the supple play of muscles underneath. Despite his exertions, his breath came quietly. After a short pause he added naively: "You do not work?"

"I do these." With a more vivid colour Nicholas indicated his books lying on the wicker table beside him.

"Ah, yes," José nodded gravely, as though in acknowledgment of a superior intelligence. "I think you are very clever."

"Oh, no," protested Nicholas with a heightening of his blush. "But I have to rest a good deal and that is why I read."

"You are sick just now?" José suggested.

"I always have a little fever," Nicholas consciously explained. "I am not strong."

José's gentle smile deepened.

"Perhaps if you worked like me you would be strong." He held out his hand. "Come. I have finished digging and am going to plant. You shall help me."

Nicholas was speechless with delight—he hesitated, but only for an instant. He wanted with all his heart to go, and José's firm clasp, helping him to his feet, as though he weighed no more than a feather, dispersed his shyness, sent a reassuring thrill through him. They went to the potting shed, where José shouldered an open box of petunia seedlings, which the Consul had ordered him to bring that morning from the market, then proceeded to the far end of the lawn. Here, after stretching a double string along the freshly prepared plot, the gardener began to bed out the young plants. At first, Nicholas was content to watch but presently, responding to José's glances of invitation, he bent down and timidly planted a seedling for himself. After that, he could not bring himself to stop. It was a lovely sensation to pick up the cool green stem, to knead the soft hot soil around the hair-like roots, to see the little shoot standing bravely up, resolved to face the world.