The Watcher in the Pine Read online

  “It should be the church’s responsibility,” Father Bernardo said, still smiling, but serious. “But unfortunately none of the teaching orders are here. And in these times no one thinks of the young.”

  “But there’s still legislation mandating compulsory primary education, isn’t there?” Elena protested. “Surely someone has to take an interest?”

  “You’re the first person who has,” the priest said. “That is, if this was what you wished to speak to me about?”

  Elena nodded vigorously. “Yes. I thought it was a shame that there was no school here, and someone suggested that I take it up with you. But I don’t quite understand. There was a school here before the war, wasn’t there?”

  Father Bernardo frowned and nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately, the teacher was tried as a Red in ’38. There was no one to fill the post afterward.”

  Elena gulped, remembering that in 1938 she had been teaching in a school that undoubtedly would have been categorized as Red. “I can see where that might discourage applicants!”

  “Señor Benigno had a proper trial!” the priest reassured her a little defensively. “He wasn’t–er–removed from prison by militias, or anything like that. Lieutenant Calero made sure everything was legal.”

  “I’m sure that was a comfort to him.” Elena was unable to keep her voice completely free of sarcasm.

  The priest took her seriously. “I believe it was. I was with him at the end and he seemed calm. And, of course, that way his family was able to give him a decent burial, which was a blessing to the whole town, really. The Románs were well liked, even though they weren’t from around here.”

  Elena felt her throat muscles working as she fought nausea. She knew that the Regime regarded teachers as automatically suspect, but she had managed to ignore what might have happened to her if she had not met Carlos. She wondered how many of her former colleagues were dead or in prison, and if the ones who were dead had been “lucky” enough to have legal trials. “It’s a shame there’s a shortage of qualified teachers,” she said, keeping her voice soft so that it would not scream an accusation.

  “Yes.” The priest turned a pen around in his hands. “Of course, entrusting the instruction of the young to anyone without the proper moral qualifications is . . . well, a risk, if not actually a sin. But it’s been extremely difficult to find someone of good moral and political character who is able to teach school here. And willing to, on what my esteemed cousin will pay,” he finished with a touch of acid.

  “Your cousin?” Elena asked, momentarily bewildered.

  “The mayor is my aunt’s son,” Father Bernardo explained. “I have spoken to him repeatedly about the desirability of a school in Potes. But he insists the town’s finances will not permit it.”

  Elena remembered her husband’s not always printable comments about the mayor, and felt some sympathy for Father Bernardo. But if the mayor had based his major opposition to the school on the expense of a salary, she could outwit him. “How many children do you have?” she asked, already thinking about how to get around the lack of materials, and wondering whether reasonable classroom space could be prepared by the following autumn.

  “Anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. It varies. At the moment I’m working only with this spring’s communicants. Then in the summer the kids are needed at home. I expect I’ll have about twenty-five in the fall.”

  “And how old are they?”

  “Usually between six and twelve.” Gratified by the unexpected interest, Father Bernardo added, “Sometimes I have a little class for girls, too. Of course, that means only doing the morning session for the boys.”

  Elena’s jaw dropped. ‘A little class for girls, too!’ she thought, stunned. So that’s all Teresa and Nita have. Just a few odds and ends! And he’d have room for girls in the regular session if he tried! Father Bernardo misread her horrified expression and shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. “I know a woman would be better fitted for the job. But there’s no one in the Liébana who could teach the girls. They need to learn doctrine and catechism anyway. And I don’t believe it corrupts their essential natures. I’m sure you yourself learned to read, Señora. . . .”

  “I have a degree from the Madrid Complutense,” Elena said in a strangled voice. “And I taught primary school for five years. That was why I wanted to see you.”

  “Oh!” The priest relaxed visibly. “How wonderful! I take it you would be interested in any efforts to start a regular primary school in Potes, then?”

  “With girls equally included,” Elena said firmly.

  “Ideally, yes,” Father Bernardo agreed cautiously. “I’ve thought for a while that the best thing would be to have an advisory committee made up of parishioners, who could petition the diocese for the necessary resources, and perhaps oversee the hiring of teachers. I’d spoken to the secretary of the Falange in Cillorigo, and the head of the Women’s Auxiliary, but they weren’t very interested. Given your qualifications, I’d be extremely grateful if you chaired the committee. Would you be willing?”

  “To chair a committee?” Elena said, disbelieving.

  Father Bernardo turned his pen in his hands again, and blinked behind his glasses. “I’m sorry.” He sounded embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. Of course, you’d have to discuss it with Lieutenant Tejada. But would you consider the position provided he didn’t object?”

  It was on the tip of Elena’s tongue to say that Carlos could put up with her profession as she put up with his, but she had the sense to suppress this retort. “I don’t see the need for a committee, Father,” she said carefully. “I’m fully qualified to teach all primary subjects. If the diocese can provide space, it would be my pleasure to take the open position at whatever salary the municipality sees fit to provide.”

  “B-but . . .” The priest’s blush was faint but widespread. He was pale pink from forehead to collar. “You couldn’t possibly teach. I-I mean, you’re . . . obviously a married woman.”

  “I imagine no arrangements would be made until the following autumn at the earliest,” Elena said. “And by then I’ll be . . .less obvious, I suppose.”

  “But your child—,” Father Bernardo protested. “You couldn’t leave it.”

  “Only for a few hours a day,” Elena argued, “no more than I would if I was expected to pay morning visits or lunch with friends. I’m sure that I could arrange for a babysitter.”

  Father Bernardo shook his head. “You can’t have considered this sufficiently. What would your husband say to this scheme? And what kind of example do you suppose it would set for the girls? It would hardly prepare them for marriage and motherhood!”

  Elena sighed, and fought down disappointment. She had known that the priest would disapprove of her idea, and she had a reluctant suspicion that Carlos would as well. But her afternoon with the Álvarez children had thrown her boredom and loneliness and sheer misery in Potes into stark contrast. For a few moments Father Bernardo’s unexpected sympathy had made her hope that she would be able to shrug off the stifling burden of being the lieutenant’s wife, and be simply herself: Elena Fernández, teacher. “You’re right, of course,” she conceded, folding her hands over her stomach, and absently tapping her wedding ring with one finger. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You were happy as a teacher,” Father Bernardo said, shrewdly but not unkindly.

  “Yes.” Elena avoided his eyes and wondered if she had irreparably damaged her chances of teaching again or if her tactical error could be overcome, given time and strategy.

  “It’s perfectly understandable.” Father Bernardo’s voice was professionally soothing now, the voice of a priest discussing a matter of conscience with a parishioner. “I was happy as a seminarian. We all look back on times when we were young with fondness or regret. But we can’t let this sort of nostalgia make us avoid our responsibilities.”

  “No, Father.”

  The priest judged her sufficient
ly subdued. “You will ask the lieutenant if you can chair this committee?” he urged. “I would be most grateful for your help.”

  “Yes, Father.” Elena raised her head. “I don’t think Carlos will object. He has always believed in—” she smiled sardonically, “working for the good of the community.” Father Bernardo saw her smile but read it as pride in her husband’s good qualities, and honored her for her loyalty.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll speak to the mayor, then. And I have a few colleagues at Santo Toribio who might also be interested.”

  Elena nodded. It was not the same as actually teaching. But it was something to do. The priest had drawn out a pad, and was jotting notes with enthusiasm. She felt superfluity creeping up on her again, and said quickly, “Also, there was one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Simón Álvarez,” Elena said. “The carpenter’s son. He mentioned that you know him—that is, he mentioned that you were his teacher, and his parents were the ones who suggested I speak to you.”

  “Oh, yes.” Father Bernardo spoke warmly, his attention caught. “A fine boy. With some real gift for mathematics. He was one of my brightest students.”

  “You don’t think he might like to study more?” Elena suggested.

  “He’s nearly twelve.” Father Bernardo was thoughtful. “And he already knows more than is taught in most primary schools. I thought for a little while that he might have a vocation but that seems not to be the case. A shame, in a way. He seems to enjoy studying.”

  “I understand he’s his father’s apprentice,” Elena said.

  “Yes, that’s correct. And Quico has always said that the boy has a feel for carpentry, and is quick to learn. So perhaps it’s for the best that he follows his father and helps the family.”

  “Señor Álvarez has never been opposed to his schooling, though?” Elena asked experimentally.

  “Oh, no. Quico wanted Simón to start working with him nearly two years ago, but I’d just gotten classes organized then— it was right after the war—and the boy begged to be allowed to stay on. The Álvarezes have always been indulgent parents,” Father Bernardo added, with mild disapproval.

  “He could study for the baccalaureate?” Elena knew the answer to the question as she spoke. Simón was perfectly capable. But there was no way he could leave his home to study.

  Father Bernardo was already shaking his head. “If he felt a calling for the priesthood it might be different. But there’s no question of that. If I had time, I might try to give him some extra tutoring, and then arrange to have him sit for exams when he’s a little older. But I’m afraid I can’t devote the necessary time and effort to it. And neither will he be able to, as Quico starts to depend on him more.”

  Elena mentally reviewed the necessary preparation for baccalaureate exams. She was fairly sure that she knew the material, although teaching it—especially without textbooks—would be a challenge. She considered asking if one of the monks at Santo Toribio who had taken an interest in the school might be persuaded to tutor Simón. Then she decided that further consultation with Simón and his parents would be necessary first. If Simón could convince a few of his friends to study for the baccalaureate, Potes’s hypothetical school might be able to offer more advanced classes as well. She nodded, and rose to leave. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

  “Thank you for coming.” The priest stood as well. “I suppose . . . if you and your husband have a few hours free sometime I would be happy to take you up to Santo Toribio. Some of my colleagues there are also interested in starting a school, and I think you should meet them.”

  “My husband has been busy lately,” Elena said honestly. “Although I’m sure he’d be interested in seeing the monastery. But I can come whenever is convenient. And I understand the monastery has considerable architectural interest.”

  “Yes.” Father Bernardo nodded. “Although it was heavily damaged during the war. It should be very beautiful when it’s restored. I thought the lieutenant might be able to arrange transportation so that you would be more comfortable.”

  “Transportation?” Elena was startled. “How far away is the monastery?”

  “Oh, only a few kilometers. Forty-five minutes’ walk if there’s no snow. But given the weather, and your . . . your condition.” Father Bernardo went pink again. “I thought a cart might be advisable.”

  Elena laughed although she was more than a little annoyed. “I’ve never felt better in my life, Father. I’m sure I could manage the walk. And if I wait for my husband to be free to do it, I may never get there.”

  “Well . . . if you’re sure . . .” The priest appeared to be pondering a decision. “I was planning to walk up to Santo Toribio tomorrow morning. Would you like to come?”

  “What time?” Elena asked promptly.

  “Ten o’clock?”

  “I’ll meet you here,” Elena said with satisfaction. She thanked Father Bernardo again, and went home, still hammering out plans for a primary school, and for Simón Álvarez’s further education in her head.

  Chapter 9

  Elena had expected that Carlos would be pleased that she had made a new friend in Potes, and with such a respectable person as a priest. That evening she recounted her interview with Father Bernardo and announced her engagement with him for the following day with considerable pride. To her surprise, Tejada scowled. “Honestly, Elena, what’s the matter with you? It’s bad enough to go wandering off on your own, but to hike all the way up to Santo Toribio with some stranger? What will people say?”

  The unexpected attack left Elena speechless. “You mean . . . you don’t want me to go?” she faltered.

  She looked so hurt that the lieutenant regretted his words. “No,” he said, more gently. “No, it’s fine if you go. I just worry about you.”

  “Father Bernardo’s as bad as you are,” Elena reassured him. “He didn’t think I should walk because of the baby.”

  Tejada nodded, and his frown returned. He could not think of any reason why his wife should not spend a few hours unchaperoned in the company of a parish priest of (as far as he knew) unblemished reputation, but he was not happy. Elena questioned him about his day with every appearance of cheerful sympathy. She exclaimed over the inconvenience of Torres’s illness, and added Father Bernardo’s comments on his cousin’s intractability when Tejada mentioned another interview with the mayor. She was politely interested in the news that the Guardia was receiving new weapons from Santander, and she laughed when Tejada told a funny story about a farmer who had come to complain to the Guardia about a stolen sheep. Tejada would have thought the evening perfect had it not been for the shadow that Márquez’s last words had cast. There was, Tejada thought, no point in asking Elena about the mysterious Herrera. The simplest thing would be to simply wait until Márquez was not present, and read through Elena’s file. Although it was unlikely the file would contain anything of interest. Doubtless, Herrera had been an acquaintance of Elena’s during the war. Perhaps even a friend. Certainly nothing more. It would be an insult to ask her exactly what their relationship had been. Furthermore, his Elena was a brave, generous soul, who did not forget her friends, and if she learned that some probably totally forgotten casual acquaintance was doing penance in a work camp somewhere, she would undoubtedly waste sympathy on him.

  Tejada woke early the next morning by an effort of will. He slipped out of bed and dressed without shaving, to go and get Elena’s milk. It was amazing, he thought as he left her sleeping, the discomforts that a man would endure for a woman he loved. The morning was clear and bright, although clouds were massed above the peaks. As he climbed toward the village of Rases he saw the work crews moving out along the highway toward Espinama to clear the ground for a new highway, and looked at the gaunt figures with dislike. Somewhere in Valencia the unknown Herrera was probably starting his work as well. Tejada wondered if the Red ever thought about Elena Fernández during his imprisonment. Herrera would have n
o way of knowing that she was married, of course. Perhaps he cherished hopes of finding her again when he was released. Unless he was serving a life sentence. Tejada was momentarily cheered by this thought, and then reflected that if this were the case Herrera might never suffer the disillusionment of learning of Elena’s marriage.

  He reached the farm perhaps half an hour after sunrise. The girl milking the cows had been told to expect him, and she handed over the milk without comment, although she managed a timid smile when he paid her. They exchanged a few words about the weather and roads, and the lieutenant was momentarily distracted. He cradled the milk in one arm on the way back, fondly remembering Elena’s reaction the previous day. What did Márquez’s snide malice matter? She loved him, and he was quite sure that she had never been in love with this Herrera. Of course, Herrera might have been in love with her. That was perfectly understandable, and even acceptable, provided that he never thought about her anymore. Although that didn’t seem too likely. Tejada suffered a flash of rage, imagining some pathetically filthy, skeletal Red prisoner (probably crawling with lice) having lustful fantasies about his Elena. He told himself sternly that he was being silly. Herrera was probably dead, or close to it. Márquez was an ass. And to prove that the sergeant was an ass, he would check the files when he reached the post, and find out exactly how trifling Elena’s acquaintance with Herrera had been.

  Somewhat cheered by these reflections, he quickened as he reached the end of one switchback and turned around a hairpin bend, squinting into the glittering dawn. The blinding light irresistibly suggested the Falange’s anthem, and he began to sing. “Onward, with faces turned toward sunrise—”

  Bang. Tejada recognized the report of a shotgun, and doubled over, cursing himself for going out unarmed. Bang. Bang. There was a spray of dirt on the road a few yards ahead of him, and a stone skimmed across the path like shrapnel. He ran for the relative cover of the ditch by the side of the road and dropped into it, the milk sloshing out of its tin. He counted three more shots, calculating furiously whether it would be more or less risky to take to the woods. When he starts shooting again, the lieutenant thought, I’ll try to guess where it’s coming from, and head away from there the next time he reloads. Unless there’s more than one of them. He waited for more gunfire, pulse thudding. There was nothing.