XAVIER
Roger Noons
a small
glass of Ibicencan Hierbas
‘Hola!’
‘Hola, Buenas Dias
senor,’ I replied.
He scratched his head,
frowning, looking me up and down. ‘English?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘It’s not often
that English people bother to speak other folk’s language.’
‘I think you’re out of date
senor. Nowadays, many people from Britain make an attempt to learn a few words
in the language of the country they are visiting. Particularly hello: goodbye:
please, and thank you.’
‘That’s not my experience.’
He looked down at the dog, then back to me. ‘You’re staying at Cas’ Catalá?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I recognisze the dog, hola
Lucy.’ He bent and tickled her behind her ear. ‘She’s the only three legged dog
in Sanata Eulalia. The proprietor of the hotel brings her up to the church from
time to time. She often rests here, puts her front foot on the wall, and looks
down into the valley.’
I smiled, at the dog and
then at the small, wiry, moustached man who had begun the conversation.
‘You speak good English?’ I
queried.
‘I spent some time in
England, in Devon; I worked on the boats.’
‘A sailor?’
‘No, in a boatyard. I
fitted out the cabins and particularly the galleys, which was my specialty,
making kitchen units fit into confined spaces.’
‘So how long have you been
back?’
‘Back? I’m not Ibicenc, I
was born in the north of Spain, but in 1935, my family moved to the south, near
Malaga.’
I was about to ask further
questions, then recognized the clues that told me his family had probably left
the Basque country, round about the start of the civil war.
‘So how long were you
in Devon?’
He hitched up his trousers
and rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Twelve years, no, thirteen, but my wife
was unhappy. She became ill, and we were advised by the hospital to move to a
warmer, drier climate.’
It was my turn to frown.
‘You didn’t return to the Costa del Sol?’
‘No, I was offered a job
here, working in the marina. My boss in England had contacts, he arranged it
for me.’
‘And now you are retired,
and live opposite the famous church Puig en Misa?’
He looked up at the bell
tower of the white painted building and nodded. ‘But only the last two years,
since my wife died. Before that we lived down in the town. I had fitted out the
priest’s kitchen, and when Mercedes came up here, Padre Antonio asked if I
would like to move into this little cottage.’
When he added no more, I
thought to move on, and was about to offer my hand and bid him adieu, when he
spoke again.
‘I enjoyed my time in your
country; people were kind and welcoming. I learned a lot, not only about boats.
We used to visit, Lyme Regis. You know, many children were evacuated from the
north of Spain to Dorset … after Guernica.’ He looked away, stared down the
valley and was imitated by Lucy.
There was silence between
us, but when he made no suggestion that he wished us to part, I asked gently.
‘Have you ever been back,
to the north?’
‘No,’ and he let out a sigh
that seemed to go on forever. ‘I’ve never wanted to return, but my grandson,
David; he says I must visit before I die. He’s going to take me, later in the
year. I am to spend the day of my seventieth birthday, during this millennium,
in Euskal Herria, that’s Basque for …’
‘Yes, I know. Are you
looking forward to the visit?’
‘No,” he shook his head
furiously. 'I’m scared shitless!’
I laughed out loud.
‘I’m sorry,’ I quickly
added, ‘I was surprised by your expression.’
He shrugged, grinned, and
then offered his hand.
‘It was nice to meet you
senor, thank you for your conversation.’
I took his hand in both of
mine.
‘No, thank you, and I wish
you luck with your pil …. journey.’
He grinned again as our
hands separated.
‘My name is Robert,
may I ask yours?’
‘Xavier,’ he said. ‘Xavier
Elizondo; it means new house … by the church’. He shouted ‘adios Lucy,’ as we
walked down the path.
Bio
Having spent
the best part of thirty five years writing reports on such subjects as
‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the
Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when
he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the
film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to
pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non
fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z
by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to
have followed that up with a novella.
He is a member
of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As
well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily
Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.
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