Barcelona Sunset Read online

  “They leave poverty in the countryside to come and live in these filthy conditions. We haven’t made that much progress, have we?” said Jordi.

  Jordi and Ferrer watched, as the rough men continued their vigil over their fallen comrade. After a short while, they abruptly stood up, and rolled the limp body in an old coat. Picking the dead man up, they carried him on their shoulders. Jordi and Ferrer followed.

  “I’ve seen death so often at the mill, and all round us,” said Jordi, “but it’s still shocking. Just because we’ve become numb to it, doesn’t mean it’s acceptable. This is what the unions must fight for. This is what we must fight for.”

  Later that evening, crouched on the floor, under the bare bulb of his new office, Jordi wrote two reports for the Daily Chronicle, one extolling the technological progress demonstrated by the Magic Fountain, and the other exposing the working conditions, poor wages, and lack of health-care suffered by the mass of workers in Barcelona.

  Jordi’s Mam was still working at the baker’s shop, which was not too far from his new room, and a few days later, he waited to meet her when she finished work, and took her see his new home. She joked that it was lucky he was used to sleeping on the floor, as there was no furniture; and she said she would try to find him some basics, a table and chair at the least.

  A few days after that, he was sitting on the floor as usual, drafting a report about the rapidly growing replicas of the Venetian tower, when he heard his name being called from the street. Opening the window and looking down, he saw his Mam, with both Ferrer and Alvar, and a handcart loaded with furniture. He ran down the stairs to help.

  After several breathless journeys, his room was furnished better than he could have expected. Examined closely, each piece of furniture had seen far better days, but was still serviceable. Pride of place was a solid table which would make an excellent desk for his writing, and which he positioned so that he could look out of the window whilst working. There were three chairs, and he chose the strongest-looking to sit at the desk. There was a very basic gas ring, and another small table which could be used to put it on. Connecting the rubber hose to the gas tap, Ferrer lit the gas, and Mam filled a rather battered kettle with water, and they put it to boil. There was also a very dilapidated stuffed chair, with springs and stuffing escaping through some rather greasy fabric, but like the other items, it seemed quite grand in the Spartan room.

  Alvar, chuckling, unpacked a box of wildly mismatched china, and they found four cups, and using a paper screw of tea which Mam produced, they rather ceremoniously made and drank tea.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” said Jordi as they drank the tea. “I can’t imagine where you got all this from.”

  “You have to know where to look,” said his Mam. “All this stuff has been thrown away, and comes from wandering the streets and picking up other people’s rubbish. I know it’s all very shabby, but it’s furniture and there’s a few years life left in it all.”

  “I didn’t know your Mam could be so persuasive,” said Ferrer. “She just grabbed me after work, and took me to help collect stuff she’d spotted on street corners.”

  “And I got dragged along to help carry the heavier stuff,” grinned Alvar. “Those weeks on the tunnelling site left me with muscles, and a job like this needs someone like me.”

  “I’ll need you again tomorrow,” said Mam. “I’ve got my eye on something on the pavement near that new apartment building they call La Pedrera.”

  “I know that,” said Alvar. “It’s right by the tunnel I was digging on Passeig de Gracia.” Looking with narrowing eyes at Mam, he went on, “If it’s something good, it won’t be there long. We should go and get it now!”

  “What is it?” asked Jordi.

  “That’s going to be a surprise.” said Mam. “And if you mean it, we will go now. We’ll pull the cart to La Pedrera, while you go and buy some supper. We won’t be long. And Senor, Ferrer, we’ll need your help too.”

  Mam and her two younger conspirators clattered down the stairs, and Jordi heard the iron wheels of the handcart grinding away into the distance. He followed soon after and ran to Sant Antoni market, getting there just as it was closing. Running into the first avenue, he was relieved that the old man with the delicious empanadas was still there, and just starting to pack up. Breathlessly, and very impulsively, he bought a big bag of the delicious pastries, and carefully hurried home with them. Setting the empanadas on a cracked china plate, he sat and waited for his mother’s return. With the construction site closed for the day, the evening was very quiet, and he heard the handcart’s iron wheels before he could see it.

  In the gathering twilight, from the window he could not work out what the prize item was that Mam had brought on the cart, and soon he could hear a great deal of panting and groaning, and some whispered swearing, coming from the staircase. Pulling open the door, he was still unable to work out what Mam had found. The three struggled into the room with a large upholstered item, and set it on the floor.

  “By our Lady, that was a brute to bring up this high!” said Ferrer.

  “A chaise longue!” exclaimed Jordi. “Quite like the one in Senora Rosa’s apartment at the music shop.

  “But,” said his mother, “grander.”

  “According to your mother, every professional writer in Barcelona has one,” said Ferrer.

  “Why do I want one?” said Jordi.

  “You bone-head,” said Mam. “You sit on it when you’re thinking up your ideas for writing. And then when you had enough thinking, you sleep on it.”

  “Now I’ve seen everything,” laughed Jordi. “I feel as grand as a big apartment in the Eixample.”

  “Don’t tell your father,” said Mam. “In fact don’t even breathe a word to him about this place. He’ll kill you. And so would Tomas. Especially as this chaise longue really does come from a big apartment in the Eixample.”

  “I bought empanadas for everyone,” said Jordi. “I only just got to the market in time. There’s pork in some and cheese in others; they’re a bit mixed up, but they’ll be good. Now we can have a grand feast.”

  When they had enjoyed the pastries, Mam said, with some reluctance, “We must go. Our work isn’t finished as we’ve got to return the handcart.”

  In the silence when they had all left, Jordi sat on this exotic piece of furniture from the Eixample. It was indeed grander than the simple one he’d sat on at the music shop. He felt the strange smooth texture of the velvet cover: mostly the velvet was faded, but in small corners and at the edges Jordi could see the glorious colours of the original fabric. He looked slowly round his room, so quickly and dramatically transformed. Slowly a smile spread over his face. “The Barcelona office of the London Daily Chronicle,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  With shaking hands, Jordi took the envelope from his pocket once more; he needed to repeatedly check the contents to ensure he wasn’t dreaming: tickets to fly to London! He’d never been outside of Barcelona, had little idea of the world, and he knew no-one who had ever been on an aeroplane. By the end of the day, he would be in England. He rarely felt nervous, but this morning, he found his hands shaking as he shaved, and he had smiled at himself in the tiny mirror over the sink.

  It was some weeks since the first letter had arrived from London. The editor of the Daily Chronicle, Robert Donald, wanted to meet Jordi, and had suggested that he fly to London to visit the offices of the newspaper in Fleet Street. Mr Donald had also asked Steven Hannay to accompany Jordi as interpreter, although Jordi’s English had improved considerably. There had been a considerable delay whilst Jordi had obtained a passport, and nervously ordered the strange currency called ‘Sterling’ at his bank. The more his life progressed, the more he dreaded his father finding out what he was doing. If any action branded him as middle-class, flying to London must be it. He checked his wallet: his cards showing membership of the communist party, as well as his National Union of Journalists, tucked in beside the ten-shi
lling notes the bank had given him.

  Unable to eat the stale roll he usually had for breakfast, Jordi dressed hurriedly. The sun was rising, so it must be nearly six-thirty, and Steven would arrive shortly. He possessed few clothes, so struggling into the unfamiliar stiff collar, with fiddling studs was unusual for him. He pulled on the baggy trousers of the suit he had recently bought at the Sant Antoni market of second-hand clothes, and pulled the braces over his shoulders. He dragged his only tie into the tight fold of the collar, and attempted to tie it. Whilst he was struggling with the tie, he heard footsteps on the stair and Steven rushed into the room, closely followed by Eulalia, his wife. At that moment, the steam whistles in all the factories of the city sounded, bring the day to life.

  “Good morning, fellow traveller,” said Steven. “All ready?”

  “I can’t do this,” said Jordi.

  “Neither could I,” said Steven, “but Eulalia rescued me.”

  With his tie finally knotted, Jordi pulled on his jacket., and buttoned it up. “I’m already too hot,” he said. “I hope London is as cool as they say it is.”

  “Cool and wet in the Spring,” said Steven. “Remember, I’ve been there before.”

  Jordi pointed to the new raincoat hanging on the back of the door. “Do I really need to carry that?” The beige raincoat was another triumphant purchase at the Sant Antoni clothes market, as was the slightly battered trilby hat.

  Eulalia laughed. “Of course you do, and the hat. You’ll thank me later today.”

  Picking up his small cardboard suitcase, Jordi said, “Wait, I must check the tickets, and my passport.”

  “I bet you’ve checked them a few times already,” said Steven.

  The three of them ran down the staircase and out onto the early morning street. The rising sun would ensure another glorious Barcelona day, and they were very aware of being far too formally dressed.

  “Look at you!” came a voice, and there was Mam, in her work apron, come to see them off on her way to the bakery. “I’ve never seen you so clean.”

  “Mam,” grinned Jordi. “Wish us luck. Hope the aeroplane doesn’t fall out of the sky.”

  Mam came very close to Jordi, and took his hand. “Here’s a good luck token. It was my grandfather’s, and he gave it to me for you. You remember my little treasure box, under the bed, where I had your sister’s wedding necklaces? Well this is from the same box.” Looking down, Jordi saw that his Mam had pressed a tiny black cat into his hand. “It’s called ‘ebony’. It’s very old. My grandfather said it was Egyptian, and from one of the pyramids. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know where he got it from, but he carried it in his pocket all his life. You put it into your pocket, and keep it with you at all times.”

  “Thanks, Mam,” said Jordi, and kissed his mother.

  “Come on,” called Steven, “We have a train to catch.”

  The tank engine was snorting, impatient to leave, as they ran down into the Espanya Station. As always, the station seemed gloomy after the bright sunshine, and they jumped into the nearest third class carriage, just as the guard was blowing his whistle.

  Rattling through the scattered farms of the Llobregat valley, they soon reached the tiny station of El Prat. Grasping their trilbies, raincoats and cardboard cases, they came out of the station to seek a taxi to the airport. An old man with a pony and trap was waiting.

  “Going for an aeroplane, gents?” he asked. “I’m your transport to the airport.”

  Jordi and Steven climbed up into the cart, and the old man flicked his whip at the pony.

  “Isn’t there something very weird about going to an aeroplane in a pony and trap?” said Jordi.

  “Everything today is surreal,” replied Steven. “And it’s going to get weirder.”

  Arriving at the wooden hut which was El Prat Airport, the men climbed down from the cart and paid the driver. They pushed open the door into the hut, and found a small group of passengers waiting for the flight. One glance was enough to see that everyone else on the flight was wealthy: obviously no-one was wearing second-hand clothes from Sant Antoni’s market. Each of the other passengers had good-quality leather luggage, and one women, resplendent in a fur wrap despite the warmth of the morning, had a small dog with her. They all turned and looked at Jordi and Steven, but said nothing.

  “Senor Vilaro, Senor Hannay,” came the voice of a young uniformed woman across the room. “Welcome to Imperial Airways. May I check you tickets and passports?”

  Jordi produced his new Spanish passport, and the young woman nodded. When Steven handed her his British passport, her eyebrows shot up, and she spoke to him in English. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Many years ago, I was born in bonnie Scotland,” he grinned, putting on his broadest Scottish accent. “But now I live here in the sun!”

  Soon they were walking out across the grass to the aeroplane. Looking around, Jordi counted eight other passengers, all men except for the lady with the small dog. He was thankful that he’d listened to advice and was wearing the scratchy suit, for although he was uncomfortable, he felt that he almost fitted into this group of intrepid travellers.

  They climbed the steps into the plane, and shuffled down its sloping aisle to their assigned seats. The young uniformed woman who had met them followed them and sat in the final seat, at the back of the aircraft. The curtain at the front opened, and the pilot appeared. He spoke to the passengers in English.

  “Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My colleague and I will shortly be taking off for our flight to London. For anyone interested in the technicalities, this is a Fokker Trimotor, only one year old, and the most advanced of all passenger aircraft flying today. There are two of us flying the plane, myself Captain Jones, and my co-pilot, Captain Jagger. We will stop at Biarritz for lunch and to take on two more passengers, and then very briefly at Le Touquet to refuel before we cross the English Channel. We expect to reach Croydon Aerodrome by nightfall.”

  The young hostess seated behind them, introduced herself as Miss Jackson, translated Captain Jones’s welcome, and then asked them to sit back and enjoy the flight. Out of the window, Jordi saw a mechanic standing by one of the propellers, and with a sudden flick, spin it into motion. Abruptly the cabin was filled with the roar of the engine, and rapidly the other two engines were brought to life to add to the noise. Banging on the door, the mechanic shouted something in Catalan, which no-one could hear properly, and they were off, bouncing over the grass to the end of the runway. There was a pause, as if the engines were gathering their strength, and then they were away, rushing over the grass, gathering speed, and rising into the blue.

  Swallowing hard, Jordi gasped, as he could see the whole of Barcelona below him. Putting his hand into his pocket, he rubbed the tiny black cat. Seated across the aisle from him, Steven leaned over and touched his arm.

  “Amazing!” shouted Steven.

  Jordi nodded, unable to suppress the broad grin on his face. The rest of the passengers, seasoned travellers, opened books and magazines, uninterested in the view of the sunlit city below them. Jordi and Steven were hypnotised by the aerial views as they flew north-west long the line of the Pyrenees, and eventually the glistening Atlantic Ocean. They were hungry for lunch when they touched down, some three hours after take-off, on a small grassy airfield near the sea. Leaving their luggage on board, the passengers were escorted to a wooden chalet, where a cold lunch was waiting for them. The pilot, the co-pilot and the air hostess joined them.

  “Did you notice their names?” whispered Jordi. “Jones, Jagger and Jackson!”

  “I told you the day would be weird,” grinned Steven.

  As lunch was finishing, Miss Jackson stood up. “Please be ready to rejoin the aeroplane shortly,” she said. “The next leg of our trip is the longest. It takes about five hours to fly to Le Torquet, so I advise you to make the most of the opportunity to use the bathroom before boarding the plane.”

  Jordi grimaced at Steve
n as they joined the bathroom queue. “I still can’t quite believe we’re doing this,” said Steven. “I’ll wake up in a minute, and find I’ve been sleeping in a corner of the Begemot Bar.”

  Most passengers dozed with the continuous droning of the engines and the warmth of the day, and despite his excitement, Jordi himself slept fitfully, and had to be shaken awake for the landing at Le Touquet. The passengers were asked to disembark whilst the aeroplane was refuelled, and they stood stiffly on the grass, stretching and grunting. “Only an hour to Croydon,” said Miss Jackson, as they climbed back on board.

  There was a hint of the beginning of a sunset as they circled Croydon Aerodrome, and came in for the third landing of the day. A number of cars were lined up to meet the aeroplane. As the plane taxied towards them, the doors of the cars opened and several chauffeurs climbed out. Standing waiting was a middle-aged woman, and she walked rapidly towards Jordi and Steven as they emerged from the aeroplane door.

  “Senor Vilaro, welcome to England,” said the lady in English. “And you must be Senor Hannay. I’m Ivy Prim, personal assistant to Mr Donald. We spoke once on the telephone. I believe you knew that I would be here to meet you. We have a car to take us into London.”

  Once they were in the car and heading through the rapidly darkening suburbs, Miss Prim explained that the car would take them to their hotel, but that they should walk to the Daily Chronicle in the morning. Mr Donald would be expecting them for coffee at ten-thirty.

  “Senor Vilaro, you speak good English, better than I expected,” said Miss Prim, “but you have an accent, which isn’t Spanish.”

  “That’s because I’ve taught him all he knows,” smiled Steven, “which means he has a Scottish-Catalan accent.”

  “Thankfully I can’t hear it when I’m reading your writing,” replied Miss Prim, smiling back at the two young men.

  Jordi and Steven were very interested in the endless suburbs of South London, long straight roads of terraced houses, with brightly lit corner shops. They found it strange and a little scary to be driven on the left side of the road, and as they got nearer the city centre, the houses got larger and grander. At last they were passing over the Thames, and Jordi was delighted to recognise Big Ben.