Even the Olives are weeping

1995

It was market day in Castletownbere. The Ferryman waved cheerfully from the bridge as the “Island Queen” surged through the narrow harbour entrance. He slammed both engines into reverse just as he came level with the pier wall. Several small boats moored nearby bobbed frantically in all directions. The gangway clattered down inch perfect onto the slipway and a battered old van, two cars and a tractor trundled off. Several islanders trailed behind on foot carrying assorted packages and shopping bags. ‘Patrick could handle that old boat with his eyes shut’, mused Tim.

He hadn’t planned on coming home ’till Christmas. He was heading off on a field trip to the Pyrenees when his mother called. “It’s your father” she said tensely. “ I’m at my wits end.
I was hoping you could talk to him”
At the last minute Tim altered his travel plans. He could catch up with his students later.

The island hadn’t changed much. The hillside was ablaze with red fuchsia and purple heather. Tufts of yellow gorse reflected the slanting rays of the setting sun. Higher up the old Martello tower stood out, silhouetted darkly against the western sky. Tim paused for breath and gazed back. A handful of fishing boats lay at anchor in the Berehaven sound, far below. It was hard to imagine that the entire British Grand fleet had sheltered there once upon a time.

The familiar aroma of freshly baked bread greeted him as he bounded through the back kitchen door of the old family home. A turf fire burned cheerfully in the grate. His mother shrieked as he swept her off her feet, swinging her round and round.
“My hair” she cried. “Put me down this instant, you rogue!”
She smiled at his reflection in the mirror as she patted the loose strands of hair back into place. She was still a handsome woman he thought looking at her appraisingly. There was something different though. He could see a change in her since his last visit home. Her hair was tinged with silver now and a cobweb of fine lines surrounded lustrous grey eyes .She fidgeted nervously as they sat down together at the old wooden table.

“Your father’s down by the fort” she said. “He leaves the house first thing each morning and just sits all day looking out to sea. He’s hardly sleeping at all. I find him downstairs sometimes at all hours of the night”. She plucked invisible hairs from her cardigan sleeve. “The Doctor prescribed anti-depressant tablets but he refuses to take them. I was hoping you could talk sense into him”.

Her eyes welled with tears and one trickled gently down her cheek. “Do you remember that old gun he used to keep in the attic? I found him loading it the other day. He put it behind his back when he saw me. What am I going to do Tim, I’m scared …” Tim put his arm around her and reached for a handkerchief. “Don’t worry” he said “I’ll hide it where he’ll never find it”.
She dabbed her eyes, smiling at him through the tears. “This all goes back to that Spanish business you know. I thought he’d put all that behind him. He says he can’t get it out of his mind”.
She sighed as she got to her feet. “ I’ll put the kettle on and the tea will be ready by the time the two of you get back”.

Tim found him sitting below the old Fort. He had always thought of him as a large strapping man. He seemed small, frail and defenceless now, huddled in an old tartan rug, gazing listlessly out to sea. His once ruddy complexion had taken on an unhealthy pallor and dark circles rimmed his eyes. He looked up as Tim clambered down the rocks.
“It’s good to see you boy” he said with a feeble smile.

He showed little interest as Tim told him about his plans for the forthcoming field trip. However he swung around when Tim mentioned Montsarrat.
“That’s the old monastery in Catelonia, isn’t it?”.
He looked away and didn’t speak for awhile.
“I was there once” he said thoughtfully “ but that was a long time ago. Would that I never saw the damned place!” he added harshly. It seemed an odd remark, Tim thought. His father buried his face in his hands and when he looked up again his eyes were filled with pain. “One of them was only a young fellow” he said in a choked voice. Tim had never seemed his father weep before.

“It was war Dad” he said reassuringly “You were a soldier and you were only doing your duty”. His father looked at him wildly. “The damn war was over boy. It had been for days. We didn’t know it but it was my responsibility. God forgive me” He buried his face in his hands again and sobbed bitterly as Tim stood helplessly looking down at him…

Tim felt uneasy at having to leave them early.
“I’ll only be gone a week or two” he said to his mother as they sat in the darkened kitchen later that evening. “I’ll come by this way on my way back to Aberdeen. Try not to worry too much darling” he added, “we’ll get him through this….”.

.

May 1937
It had only been three months since Frank had set out for Spain, full of zeal and noble ideals. He had volunteered for the Blue Shirts brigade to save Spain and the Catholic Church from Communism. They were attached to a Spanish regiment in Barcelona. Several weeks of training followed. The Irish volunteers had little in common with their Spanish comrades and the language was a problem at first. The large old barracks building, disused for many years, smelt stale and musty. The roofs leaked and pools of stagnant water covered the dormitory floors. Filthy latrines, obnoxious smells and pannikins of indigestible of food were abiding memories that Frank would retain for many years to come.

Worse was to follow. The fighting was savage both in scale and intensity. The retreating Republicans fought bitterly and each metre of territory was conceded only after desperate resistance. Frank’s platoon suffered heavy casualties in the fierce hand-to-hand fighting. In the main square of one town they came upon piles of fly strewn corpses. The decaying bodies of a priest and a policeman swung incongruously from a lamp-post. Pinned to their chests were blood spattered cardboard squares bearing a deadly message.
- “Death to all traitors”.

Today they travelled over hostile countryside, glad to leave the smoking ruins of the city behind. Their orders were to round up republican sympathisers. Anyone resisting or carrying arms was to be shot on sight. However their radio was damaged in the fighting and they hadn’t heard from H.Q. in several days.

It had been a hard march from the old monastery where they’d bivouacked the previous night. The monks welcomed them warmly and they enjoyed their first decent hot meal for many weeks. Large cakes of freshly baked bread were served with a delicious steaming casserole of smoky bacon, beans and red chillies. The fruity red wine from the vineyard behind the monastery flowed freely. Frank felt almost human again.

It was late evening when they reached the outskirts of the village. Frank wearily wiped his face with the back of a muddy hand. Cold droplets of rain trickled down his back. He shivered violently in his damp uniform as an icy wind swept down the sheer mountainside and swirled through the surrounding olive groves. He was beginning to feel the weight of his thirty odd years. The heavy ammunition belt chafed against his hip and his back ached. The sling of his old .303 rifle became tangled up in occasional low-lying branches. His boots squelched as he trudged through the clinging red clay. It was increasingly difficult to keep ahead of the younger soldiers in the column, strung out in a straggly line behind him. He longed for nightfall and the prospect of a good night’s sleep. By some trick of the light the raindrops dropping off the olive bushes reflected blood red tints from the setting sun.
“Even the Olives are weeping” he thought grimly.

1995
The little village of San Sadurni de Noya nestled at the foot of a vast mountain range, north east of Barcelona. Tim’s group saw coopers busily working on large oak barrels as they drove through. Wooden planks were stacked in large piles and bands of copper gleamed red and gold in the sunlight. Large heaps of sawdust lay everywhere filling the air with the sweet scent of oak and pine.
Their battered old jeep staggered to a halt at the vineyard entrance in a swirl of red dust. The steep mountain trails had proved a stern endurance test for both car and passengers.

A stooped figure in faded blue overalls limped slowly across the courtyard and examined them quizzically as they clambered out into the glare of the midday sun. Shrewd brown eyes in a creased leathery face quickly identified their group leader.
“My name is Emilio Escudos” he said in heavily accented English,
“I am the Cellar Master here.
Our cellars are the largest in Europe,” he added proudly.

The dimly lit interior of the large reception room was pleasantly cool after the dead mid-day heat. Several slowly rotating fans were mounted on a low ceiling, supported by huge oak beams. On a bare wooden table in the centre of the room were bowls of olives and salted almonds and several rows of tulip shaped tasting glasses. Their host waved them towards the table.
“ You must be thirsty after the long journey” he said
“Come, let us taste the wines”.

Later he gestured towards a gilt-framed photograph hanging inside the entrance door.
“My dear father learned the art of winemaking from his father. He succeeded him as Cellar Master”. The family resemblance was striking.
“The King decorated him for his services to the Spanish wine Industry”
He was a very fine winemaker and won many awards for the vineyard” he added proudly.

1938
They crouched cautiously at the edge of the olive grove. The village seemed deserted except for an old mongrel dog lying in the shade and a few scrawny chickens scratching in the dust. Frank checked the magazine of his automatic rifle and moved the safety catch to off.
‘Rats are most dangerous when they’re cornered’ he recalled his father warning him all those years ago when they had trapped a rat in the farmyard.
Signalling to those behind him he slithered forward silently on his stomach. Suddenly the silence was shattered as the door of the barn burst open and several men ran out shouting excitedly. The man at the front of the group brandished a rifle.
“They’re armed” Frank screamed throwing himself flat on the ground.

Two of the figures jerked spasmodically and tumbled to the ground as the rattle of automatic fire rent the air. The remaining three members of the group threw their hands above their heads. “The war is over, the war is over” they cried “ don’t shoot, don’t shoot…”

1995
Senor Escudos limped ahead as they walked through the endless labyrinth of underground cellars. He proudly pointed out the gleaming stainless steel grape presses, enormous copper fermentation vats and large oak barrels. Tens of thousands of dusty bottles stood in silent racks in the air-conditioned dark vaults. He patiently explained how the second fermentation took place inside the bottles creating the famous bubbles.
‘We can’t call it Champagne’ he said , his eyes twinkling
‘but our wine is better then many French champagnes and only half the price’.

As they emerged into the late afternoon sunlight Tim enquired how long he had been Cellar Master there. The old man seemed tired and stooped occasionally to massage his knee.
“I took over after my father died” he said slowly.
“He died during our troubles you know. The Civil war was a very bad time and some terrible things happened here. They burned our Church down and took our priest away. We never heard what became of him. We were relieved when the Reds evacuated our village. Later that day we heard that the war was over”.

His voice trembled as he pointed to the bullet-scarred doors of the old barn behind him.
“My father was shot right here” he said, “ a few hours after the end of the war.
We heard the troops arriving and ran out to greet them”.
His eyes filled with tears.
“Some of them were foreigners” he said. “ I heard them speaking English. They didn’t know about the ceasefire!” he added bitterly. “They thought we were Reds. Father had been sweeping out the barn and they thought he was holding a gun. I was wounded too,” he added pointing to his leg.
“My wound healed quickly and I recovered after a few months. They made me Cellar-master. I have been here ever since that time…”

THE END