BEN'S BOAT

BY

RICHARD F JONES 

It was a clear Andalucian night. A southerly from Africa had blown away the rain. Wood smoke from my neighbours' fires scented the damp air. I was on my balcony watching the lights of the fishing boats out at sea when a strong beam, like a spotlight, searched across the water about a mile out.

I thought nothing more about it until the following morning. I was on my dawn walk with Ben; the southerly was still behind the breakers. He had gone ahead, to explore, see what he could find from last night's tide. I heard him bark. At that moment he was out of sight beyond the rocky point. When I caught up I saw an open wooden boat, about fifteen feet long, beached on the shoreline.

'What have we got here old boy,' I said. The boat had either been abandoned or become adrift in the previous day's storm. I doubted the latter, there was no mooring rope trailing loose; an outboard motor was still clamped to its stern.

The section of coastline I live on is notorious for the trafficking of illegal immigrants from Africa. At night their assorted craft linger out amongst the fishing boats, then drift in ashore before dawn.

I spotted the girl later on in the morning when I was shopping. A rampant bougainvillia covers the archway into the square; moisture from the previous day's rain dripped from its foliage when we both walked underneath. An hourglass figure forced me to stare. Long legs, straight jet black hair down to her waist, she certainly wasn't Spanish. Moroccan perhaps? A dusky complexion couldn't conceal a shining black eye.

I completed my shopping and made my way to the bar. In the corner three men were sitting huddled together by themselves. They had rugged features and unkempt clothes and like the girl, North African colouring.

While sipping at my cognac I tried to listen in but it was a language I didn't understand. They appeared to be arguing; their hands were wildly gesticulating.

Later, when Ben and I were on the beach I saw the girl again, idly kicking her feet at the incoming waves. Ben's bounding activity caught her eye. She stopped to stroke him.

'The sea looks inviting,' I said. She was wearing shorts. Without shoes her legs looked even longer.

'It's nice to swim when the tide comes in over the warm sand,' she replied.

'Are you on holiday?' I asked. Our eyes met, the black eye was recent, there were also bruises on both arms.

 'No we're just passing through,' she said and turned her head away.

For a while we walked together. She played with Ben; her movements were lithe and supple. Eventually we parted and I headed for home. At the top of the dunes I looked back. She was making for the old derelict bungalow at the end of the bay.

That evening I couldn't relax, I kept thinking about the girl. Unable to stand it anymore, I put on my shoes and called Ben. Outside it was dark as I strode out purosefully across the beach for the old bungalow. Ben was puffing behind, trying to keep up.

When I got near I slowed, there was a light, and I could hear music, gypsy music. A swirling violin and a guitar produced a compelling rhythm. I crept closer and peered in through a cracked windowpane. A fire inside created dancing shadows on the crusted walls. Then I saw the girl's body hurtle past the window.

Salt spray had left a film of grime on the glass. Straining to get a better look I rubbed on the cracked pane. The glass was weak, my hand broke through and protruded into the room.

The music stopped, Ben barked, loud voices echoed from inside. In panic I dragged my hand back through the aperture, slashing my wrist on the fractured glass. Blood gushed out, preventing any thought of running away.

'What do you want señor?' A huge rough looking man said. He was one of the men in the bar; tall and thickset with wild black hair just like the girl. His shirt was open to the waist, a dangling medallion hovered in a chest of curly dark hair.

'I was worried about the girl,' I replied. 'I saw her today, she had such bruises, now you seem to be throwing her around.'

'Senor she is my daughter.'

'But that's no way to treat her.'

He stared at me.

'Iolanthe,' he called inside. She emerged looking amazing in a white halter top and black tights.

'Iolanthe this man thinks we are treating you badly.'

She looked at me knowingly. 'Señor, they are not harming me,' she said awkwardly. 'We are acrobats, from a circus in northern Spain. I am injured.' She pointed to her face. 'I misjudged one of my turns and crashed into the bandstand.'

'We had better see to your wrist my friend,' the big one said. They took me inside. The girl bathed my cut, smiling at me all the time. I felt foolish.

'We have come south, to find a little warmth, to help with my injuries,' she said while dabbing iodine. It hurt, I jumped, and she laughed. 'You see my shoulder is strained too but I have to keep my legs in training. This cut is going to need stitching.'

The big man drove me to the hospital in a battered camper van. I needed six stitches, they kept me in for the night. Ben remained with the girl in the bungalow by the beach.

When I awoke I heard two Spanish men on the others side of the ward talking. It seems that they had been thrown from their boat in the storm. They were rescued but their boat had been washed ashore.

THE END

 

* 

UNCERTAINTIES

BY

RICHARD F JONES

 

Sundays I dreaded. On Sundays boredom set in, even the shop across the road was closed, nobody was about, desolation everywhere and I slept a lot. In Spain the midday heat encouraged nothing else, but by Monday I was invigorated again. I used to relish the thought of Monday mornings. On a Monday morning everything returned to how it should be. The coffee pot percolated on the stove, tickling my nostrils for hours; customers arrived, demanding new tyres. 'Valet the inside', 'Can I use the car wash,' I'd hear them say. In time, metal began hitting metal, with a resounding clang, normality had resumed. A tyre centre and car wash, alive with activity, was my world.

On Monday morning the lads were back and the fun began; a week of activity; people, cars, deliveries, across to the café for sandwiches, bacon rolls; it was like that all day, until we closed; six in the week, lunch time on Saturday. In the nights, after dark, I slept. Long satisfying sleeps, unless I was disturbed. A noise, a sound, would wake me. Usually it was nothing, nothing I couldn't handle anyway. I loved the life.

Then suddenly, one day without warning, things began to change. The lads, out of my earshot, went into huddled half whispered conversations. They'd look at me and move away. Gradually, over days I could feel the atmosphere change. The laughing camaraderie turned to quiet musings and I began to wonder. Were they going to get rid of me? Had I become too old for the job? It had happened before. Perhaps they needed someone younger; more sprightly, less demanding. Surely not, not after all these years. There'd be no redundancy for me, in this business.

The day it happened, came without warning. The night before I noticed things were different. At the end of the day, they seemed to tidy up more. They stayed on longer, chatted more; tools were locked away as though there was going to be a long holiday. I'd seen that before at Christmas and the like. But this time when they finished, they all shook hands, made their farewells as they left, but they ignored me. The gates were locked and they drove away. That night I didn't sleep. I walked the yard and wondered.

Next morning nobody turned up. It wasn't a Sunday, the shop across the road was open, people queued at the bus stop; those things didn't happen on a Sunday. Where was my boss, where were the lads, where was my breakfast. I paced the yard. We used to start at eight. That came and went, then nine, then ten, but still nothing. I began to fret.

Mid morning a man came and pinned a notice to the gate. I watched him, he saw me, but he said nothing and drove away without a word. About midday my boss arrived. His dark curly hair, his twinkling eyes were the same, things looked hopeful. He muttered a few words, not many though, no special greeting, he just left my breakfast in its usual place, then went into the work shop. By then I was starving and desperate to see what he was doing, so I gulped my down food too quickly. I needn't have bothered, almost as I finished he was leaving, locking up without an explanation. From behind the gate I watched him drive away. Where were the lads, where were the customers, what about my tea!

And that's how it was for the next few days. A brief visit from the boss, sometimes one of the lads, with my food, but the yard remained closed. No customers, no cars, no activity. Occasionally a car would pull up at the gate, the driver would get out, look at the notice and drive away. I wondered if they'd closed for a holiday, but they'd never done that before, not for as long anyway. Sometimes we'd close for a day, at Christmas or New year, or the Three Kings Day, but never for a week. The boss might take a week, the lads occasionally a few days, but never this long.

Sunday was desolate, the pits, no visit, no food, no shops, no buses. I brooded moodily around the yard, pacing up and down, sleeping intermittently. Fed up to the back teeth with my own company, fed up with life; hungry and thirtsy, wondering what was to become of me. When Monday morning arrived, things were the same. I gave the boss a noisy welcome, but he remained impassive. Again he said little, left my food and drove off without hardly a word. How could he do this to me after twelve years. Twelve years of loyal service. Inside I was mad.

And that's how it was for a week or so. Then people began to notice. When they came to the bus stop they'd mutter their commiseration's, pat me on the head. In time they brought me biscuits, bread, tasty bits of meat. I expressed my thanks, they stroked me, made a fuss, commented on the state of the yard; it had become an uncleaned toilet. I was ashamed, but what could I do.

The boss He still came most days. Sometimes there was a word, occasionally the pretence of affection, but nothing more. At least he brings my food, changes my water, sometimes he sweeps the yard, not often though. I expect he's allright, because he knows what's happening. One day they all gathered, he and the lads, passed round envelopes, then shook hands. Their pay off money probably. What about me, my heart cried. I've looked after this yard for twelve years. What do I get? Nothing it seems.

The days are long now. Hot and long. I wonder what will happen with this yard. So far it's been the same each day, but one day something will change. A bulldozer will appear and tear it to pieces. He's sold it to a developer I guess. High rise apartments for foreigners will be here, where I sit, where I sleep, where I used to work and play and have fun. What'll happen to me then. The knackers yard I expect. Oh well, it's a dog's life.

THE END

 

*

 

STORMY DAYS

by

Richard F Jones

Jose was a contented man, who led a simple life; that's how it seemed to him anyway. Tall, dark, unmarried and in his late thirties, he lived with his parents in an apartment in town. Town being Javea, a small port in the South East of Spain, where he worked on the fishing boat 'Sirocco'. Days were hard; hauling nets, gutting fish, lifting boxes. His arms became sore, his legs were regularly stiff with tiredness and his back ached. The skipper of the 'Sirocco' was a man named Benitez. Often his tongue was cruel; regularly his temper harsh, but by and large they got along and most of the time it was a happy boat. There were six of them in all. When they got back to port the fish had to be sorted, then taken to the auction to be sold. Afterwards they'd all set off to Martinez's bar. There they'd drink, talk and eventually sing until the soreness in their bodies eased That was the time Jose enjoyed the most. If the catch was good Benitez would pay for the food and the drinks.

Then one stormy Thursday in November, Jose's troubles began. The 'Levante,' a cruel wind from Africa, had turned the Mediterranean into a churning vortex. All that day the 'Sirocco' pitched up and down in the waves. Benitez fought with the wheel, the crew had to cling to the rails. 'It is too dangerous to round the harbour in this wind.' He told them late in the afternoon. 'We will find a bay and shelter for the night. It will be better in the morning.'

In the morning the 'Levante' had gone, blown north. The sea calmed, they fished another day; the catch was good. Tired and exhausted Martinez's bar was their eventual haven. Benitez beamed, cracked jokes, his large frame heaved with laughter. The bad weather had kept most of the other boats in port, so prices were high. That night the drinks flowed, Benitez paid, the crew sang.

But that night was also Jose's undoing. Unfortunately for many years he'd been seeing two girl friends. On Friday, Saturday and Sunday night he'd usually stay with Maria, a school teacher, at her apartment at the top end of town, by the plaza. She was his long standing girl friend. On Saturday morning they'd tour the street market. Sunday they'd walk the hills, and lunch out. He made her laugh, told silly stories, pulled funny faces, danced a jig when she was down. He adored her pretty face, reddish hair, dark eyes and trim figure.

The European fishing quotas meant Thursday was usually the end of the boat's working week. From Monday to Thursday, when he was on the boat, his habit was to stay with his maestra, his mistress, Isabel, at her cottage behind the harbour wall. It was close to the fish market, and didn't require the effort, of walking up the hill to his parents, or Maria's apartment. In Isabel's dark, dank, terraced dwelling, her lusty limbs regularly satisfied his aching body. It was no love match, but a match of needs, fulfilled without a lot of effort.

That evening at Martiniz's bar he'd drunk many bottles of Rioja, devoured huge portions of paella, sung all his old favourite sea shanties and afterwards he staggered happily the short distance to Isabel's front door. When he knocked there was no reply. He tried again, this time hammering louder. Eventually, above his head her bedroom window opened.

'Jose it's late, what it is it you want. You'll wake up the neighbours,' she half whispered, while glaring down on him. Her long dark curly hair flowed in the breeze. Jose shuffled drunkenly from one foot to the other.

It had been four years since Isabel's husband had died, falling overboard in a gale at sea. Since then her needs had led her to acquire an easy virtue. She had precious little money and therefore any man's gratitude was appreciated. Possessing a head of hair to admire, a figure to inspire, eyes of passion, unknown to Jose she had provided pleasures to many men.

'Isabel it is me, home from the sea,' he called out.

'Shush you great clown, go home. It's too late,' she remonstrated a little louder and slammed the window closed. Rain began to patter on his head, but he wasn't about to give up. He'd not slept for two nights, and badly needed her comforts. Comforts only an experienced woman like Isabel could provide. In his drunken mind, having finished work for the week, he thought it was a Thursday night, not Friday, he'd forgotten the extra day at sea, and he that night needed her more than ever. His body still ached badly, so he knocked even louder on the door.

'Isabel let me in,' he kept calling out.

Eventually the door opened. She stood in front of him looking ravishing, posturing seductively in a flimsy silk nightgown. Her face was flushed, her skin sensuous. Jose was inflamed.

'Jose go away you great oaf,' she said, dismissing him with a wave of her arm. 'I can't see you tonight, I have a visitor. I don't see you on a Friday.' She began to close the door.

Her words hit his drunken brain like a stunning blow.

'A visitor?' he questioned, placing his foot in the door jam. 'At this time of night?' Ignoring her pleas he pushed the door open, barged past and stormed up the stairs and into her tiny bedroom. To his astonishment, outstretched on the bed, where he wanted to be, was the burly figure of Señor Pirulez, the butcher, garbed only in his vest and pants. Scattered about the floor were the remainder of his clothes.

Jose stood over him, with clenched fists and bulging forearms. Señor Pirulez shuffled awkwardly on the sheets, his face red with anger. Now Jose was a fit man. Working on a fishing boat, ensured nothing less. But he was drunk; tired and drunk, and his mind was addled. Señor Pirulez earned his living humping meat carcasses about all day. And he was also tired. Friday was a busy day for butchers and he'd wanted to end that particular Friday with Isabel. So when Jose grabbed the butcher and tried to pull him out of bed, Señor Pirulez's right fist attacked the fisherman's jaw like a cleaver going at a leg of lamb. Jose was felled instantly. He sank to the floor like an anchor hitting the sea bed. Sprawled out, he lay there moaning. Too much alcohol prevented any adequate reprisal. Señor Pirulez got out of bed, put on his clothes, brushed past Isabel, stormed out of the house and went home to his aged sister, Marta who lived by herself near the old town wall.

When he had gone Isabel sat on the edge of the bed and pondered over Jose's prone body. His legs twitched, but he appeared out cold. Running her hand through her long tresses she moodily considered the vagaries of widowhood and sighed. When he came round Jose felt like a prize fighter recovering on the canvas after a knockout blow. But instead of seeing a referee hovering over him, he saw Isabel's shapely legs. Slowly he let his hand wander out to touch them and looked up at her. She looked unimpressed, dismissive, then when he slipped his hand further up her thighs, a smile of wanting began to edge on her lips.

'Isabel my sweet,' he groaned. She looked down at him, her cleavage opened as she bent.

'Jose you are a great oaf,' she said, and he pulled her down on top of him.

As I mentioned Isabel was a woman of many wanton needs and the night passed for both of them in luxuriant splendour.

Now all this time Maria was worried. Friday night she had paced the floor. They had never missed a Friday night together since she'd owned her own apartment. So she rang his parents. They hadn't seen him. She rang Benitez, the last time he'd seen him was in Martinez's bar. At midnight she went to bed in tears, tossing and turning, struggling with grief, until eventually a disturbed sleep intervened. Waking at daylight brought no relief. She had known Jose since she was a schoolgirl. He was older than her. They'd met at her first dance during the May Fiesta. All that night he'd pursued her. She thought him rough, crude but handsome in a roguish sort of way. After school she trained as a teacher at college in Valencia. Having graduated she returned to Javea to work in the local school. Jose was waiting. He hadn't given up. He'd been patient and started calling on her again, ingratiating himself with her parents, bringing them fresh fish. And so their love affair began. Then she got her own apartment.

Still worried, she went into town early. Needing meat for the weekend, she visited the butchers. Behind the counter Señor Pirulez was serving. Being locals they knew each other well.

'I am so worried,' Maria remarked. 'I haven't seen Jose all week. Thursday was a bad storm. I hope he is all right.'

Señor Pirulez lifted his head from the pork he was hacking, and stared impassively into her eyes.

'Maria if you are worried about Jose, I suggest you try Isabel Estafen's cottage, by the harbour wall,' he said then smashed the cleaver down on the pork.

Maria searched his eyes, then marched out of the shop, without saying a word, forgetting her pork.

She and Jose weren't actually engaged. Their's was protracted courtship, but there had been a tacit sort of agreement about marriage. His promises had kept her on a leash. He continued to tell her he wanted his own boat and when he'd saved enough for that their day would come.

Forcefully she knocked on Isabel's door. When it opened the woman inside looked at her smugly. She was wearing a housecoat with her hair tied back into a ponytail. Behind her Maria could see into the kitchen. Sitting by the fire, looking sheepish, while sipping on a cup of coffee, was Jose.

'I'd like a word Jose please,' she shouted towards him.

At first he didn't move. He grumbled, rubbed his forehead, then looked down at his cup, and back up at her.

'Jose,' she hollered more loudly.

Awkwardly he began walking towards her, mumbling all the time. Isabel stepped aside, still looking smug. Maria could see a black eye colouring Jose's face. She faced him, with her hands on her hips.

"I'd like an explanation please." She said, then stalked off towards the harbour wall. The waves were splashing over the jetty. She sat on a bench seat and awaited his arrival.

'Señor Pirulez tells me you've been with Isabel Estafen last night,' Maria said when he reached her.

He stood in front of her, shuffling his feet. He struggled with his words.

'But you're always busy at school until Friday,' he said waving his hands in the air. She sat upright and folded her arms.

'What's that got to do with it? Anyway, yesterday was Friday.' She stamped her foot to emphasise the day.

Jose scratched his head.

'Maria, it was late when we finished with the boat. Too late to come to you.'

She glared at him.

'What do you mean too late to come to me? We're supposed to be engaged to be married. What were you doing with another woman?' She held her arms out wide.

'Sometimes she lets me have a room for the night. It's easier than going home late to my parents.'

'Jose do you think I'm stupid?'

For an hour or more they argued, vehemently. Their arms waved, their hands gesticulated constantly in a frenzy of acrimony. Jose paced up and down, Maria remained seated on the bench.. Their voices could be heard in town. Isabel watched it all from her bedroom window; passers-by stopped and stared at them.

'Well I have nothing more to say to you,' Maria spelt out eventually, 'You've wrecked my life.'

Jose finally became motionless and stood looking at her helplessly.

Before he could muster any reply, Isabel appeared. She had come down from her cottage and stood behind the seat. The wind off the sea fluttered her tangled hair and ruffled her red blouse. She looked defiant.

'Maria I think you should know I have no designs on Jose,' she said. 'I am lonely, middle aged and a penniless widow. My designs are on Señor Pirulez. A butcher for a husband will provide meat, see to my needs, everything I could want. How to get him is the problem. If I make him jealous, maybe I would succeed. Perhaps last night I did.' For a moment there was a silence. 'That's all,' she added and walked away.

Jose watched her leave, then looked back at Maria, who hung her head.

When they were eventually alone, Maria looked up and said, 'You are a fool Jose.' She got up and headed for home, leaving him standing there, alone, dejected and defeated.

You see Jose was a simple man, but he'd made his life too complicated.

THE END