Letters to a Stranger Read online

  ‘Well, go on then, eat your breakfast and do what you have to do. I’ll be here a bit longer, tidying up in the garden.’

  While I ate, I gave Teresa the third degree.

  ‘You know, yesterday I was thinking that you’ve been with us my whole life, and I don’t know a single thing about you. It’s strange – you’ve never talked about your own life, or at least not with me.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell, love – my life is pretty simple.’

  ‘Yes, but you had to come from somewhere. Everyone has a family,’ I said, starting with a theme I thought she’d feel most comfortable with.

  ‘I’ve known no family but yours since I was a girl. My mother worked for Fabián’s parents from a very young age, then she married a boy from Valladolid who worked in construction and they moved into their own house. Ten years after I was born, my father died of cancer. Just think,’ she said with a sigh, ‘my mother was left with nothing but a daughter she had to feed and clothe. Your grandmother Loreto was so generous and kind to us, back in those days . . . What a woman she was!’ she said, sighing again but with more feeling this time, while I was thinking that this certainly didn’t sound like the grandmother I could recall. ‘Anyway, my mother went back to work for them and the family let us both live with them. Your grandparents had a beautiful, enormous house, one of the finest in Valladolid – I can remember the garden well . . . At the time, Fabián was twenty-three years old and had just finished his studies. Soon afterwards, he met your mother, and after a few years of back and forth, they got married. I had just turned eighteen and finished school a long time before . . . It wasn’t my thing, sweetheart. Anyway, I was old enough and had started to work in other houses, so Fabián talked to my mother to ask if I could work for his family after the wedding, and she thought it would be a blessing for her daughter to work in the home of this gentleman whom she loved like a son. Fabián was such a good man . . .’

  ‘My mother didn’t think so. She was always telling us how he was a tyrant, and a mean and miserly man . . .’

  ‘Anyhow, all I’ve done since then is take care of your sister and then you too,’ she continued, as though she hadn’t heard me at all. ‘When you and Yolanda grew older, I bought a little place in Leganés – you know that – but I’ve been at your mother’s side right up to the end,’ she added. Stirred by memories, her eyes shimmered with tears.

  ‘Haven’t you ever had a boyfriend or friends of your own?’

  ‘Darling, when your daily bread comes from taking care of other people, you forget all about yourself. I’m not complaining – I’ve always had food and a roof over my head, and I even managed to save up enough to buy my own house. With my savings and the hours I spend working for your mother’s friends, I have enough to live on and I don’t need much more than that.’

  ‘That sounds so sad to me.’

  ‘Sweetheart, it’s a lot like your life: solitude and work. I’m just older than you . . .’

  ‘I guess that’s true.’

  Her last comment felt like a low blow, but I realised immediately that it wasn’t in Teresa’s nature to say something rude; she had simply said it without thinking.

  ‘I’ve been through a lot, just like everyone else, but sad . . . no. I’ve known so many people with more than me who have suffered so much more.’ I know she said the last part intentionally, although again without any malice. ‘I’ve so enjoyed watching you and your sister grow up, and I’ve loved you as though you were my own daughters. I’ve even spent summers in Marbella, like the rich people do. No, I’m certainly not complaining. Well, I need to tidy up the kitchen a little now and finish off in the garden. If you need anything, I’ll be here a little while longer.’

  She was right, after all. My family’s life, despite having everything we could need in the world, was so much sadder than hers.

  ‘Teresa . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she answered, without turning away from the sink, thereby signalling that the conversation was over.

  ‘You’ve been working for me for five days. Before I leave, you’ll have to tell me what I owe you.’

  She spun to face me. ‘Everything I can do for you is more than paid, and, even if it wasn’t, I would do it gladly. I’ve told you, darling – you’re like my family. Come on, let’s get on with things now. I want to cut some roses and take them to your mother’s grave before I go home.’

  ‘Did she like roses?’

  ‘Of course, darling – who doesn’t?’ she said, finally terminating the conversation and turning back to the sink again.

  I sat there for a few more minutes, watching her, petting Aris, who by then had been bold enough to jump up on to my lap. She knew I was watching, but kept on with what she was doing. She was attractive and had a lovely sweetness about her, and looked great for a woman of almost sixty. She was quite refined in the way she carried herself, acquired maybe from the various ladies she had worked for. I found it hard to believe that she had never had her own life, her own family. She had such an enormous capacity for love, was honest and loyal . . . It was strange that such a good woman had always lived in our family’s shadow. Suddenly I had the feeling there was a whole different side to Teresa, one I knew nothing about.

  This morning I climbed the staircase to the attic a little more confidently, carrying Aris in my arms to keep me company. Yes, the key fitted. The door was painted white but looked like solid iron. I pushed it cautiously, in case any local wildlife happened to be wandering around in that lonely place, and then stepped inside. The first thing that hit me was the intense whiff of stale dust. The room was very dark – although there were two large windows, the blinds were completely closed and only a few feeble rays of light stole in through the slats. After a few moments, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I began to make out details of the large space. Over in the left-hand corner, all the way at the back, there were a few dozen boxes of various sizes, all carefully stacked. Covering part of one of the windows and pushed up against the wall stood the silhouette of an old chest of drawers and, to its right, the outline of an enormous coat stand that looked like something out of Dante’s Inferno. I was still standing in the doorway and couldn’t see the details too well, but it looked as if it was still fulfilling its duty during this period of exile, still draped with a few items of clothing, a number of hats and some walking sticks.

  Putting Aris down on the floor, I took a step forward. He was very suspicious, and for the moment stayed put exactly where I’d set him, which at least reassured me that there weren’t any rodents up here. I walked in further and the musty stench got even stronger, almost enough to make me gag. I pulled myself together and continued my investigation. Against the wall to the right was a wardrobe and next to it a pile of rubbish. To the left stood an old armchair and a couple of trunks, as well as various boxes and bundles strewn about in a seemingly random arrangement. The centre of the room was quite clear. A stack of picture frames leaned against the wall next to the door to my right, with boxes and yet more boxes on the other side of me.

  I had two options if I wanted to examine everything in here properly and in comfort: open the blinds or turn on the light. I searched for the light switch without success, so decided to try the more accessible window, only to find that the cord of the blind was jammed. It seemed that my exploration was thwarted before it had even begun. I tried the blind on the other window and had better luck – although most of the area was covered by the chest of drawers, light suddenly poured into half of the attic at least. Walking away, I almost fell flat on my face, stumbling over a chandelier that looked centuries old.

  Arriving at the boxes, I saw they were sealed and labelled, the contents of each one written on the side: ‘Documents’, ‘Textbooks’, ‘Schoolwork’ . . . My heart leapt with emotion. Here were all the things Yolanda and I had made at school and brought home excitedly, eager to show them to Teresa, who was the only one who made a fuss over them, and they had all ended up in the attic . . . I h
ad always thought they’d been thrown out by our mother. I wanted to open a box and go through it, but restrained myself – there would be plenty of time for that.

  The unexpected discovery made me wonder if there was more than I’d hoped for in the attic of Alberta’s mansion. I kept looking, still thinking about the surprising find I’d made so far. More boxes of documents – there was enough here to represent the historical archive of a long and illustrious dynasty. And . . . one of them said, in big red letters, ‘Property of Berta. Personal and important’. My heart pounded in my chest once more. Was it possible that Neca was still closed up in there? Again, I was overcome with the temptation to sit down and open the box, but first I wanted to take stock of everything up there, which all belonged to me now. Yolanda had given me her half, and my mother could no longer stop me from going anywhere in this house that was now mine. Or could she? For a split second I felt there was someone behind me. I whirled around, startled: it was Aris. He’d decided to sniff around. The label on one box was old and worn, but I finally deciphered it: ‘Fabián’s Tin Soldiers’. The more I explored, the more surprises came to light.

  I left the corner with all the boxes and very carefully, checking each step I took, made my way over to the chest of drawers. There were six drawers, three on each side. It was a wonderful piece of antique furniture that, apart from the layers of dust, looked in perfect condition. I thought it might be Empire style, from the early nineteenth century, with gold inlay that shone brightly against the beautiful mahogany wood. On top lay a handful of picture frames, two of them face up: one showed a soldier in sepia tone, and the other a young woman wrapped in yellow lace. I didn’t recognise either of them, although maybe the man . . . Yes, he did look a little like Yolanda.

  I started opening the drawers, one by one. Time and humidity had left their mark on the wood and they stuck on their runners. In the first drawer I found sewing equipment, including a few interesting items such as a pincushion embroidered with a pastoral scene that must have been hundreds of years old, an embroidery frame that would have delighted any needlewoman, some darning eggs for mending socks and stockings, a tape measure, a little box of needles and another full of silk stockings. Which industrious woman had this all belonged to? Certainly not my mother. In the second drawer I found a complete silver vanity set, which needed cleaning but was still lovely, embossed all over with small flowers. The next drawer down was full of jewellery – necklaces, bracelets, rings, watches that no longer told the time . . . I assumed none of it was too valuable, or else it wouldn’t have been left there. Amongst the jewellery was a leather box holding a pocket watch. I opened it and my grandmother Rosa, no more than twenty years old or so in the picture, gazed back at me sweetly. For a moment it looked just like my mother, but no – the features were almost identical, but my mother’s face would never have been blessed with that same warm and loving expression. I went on to the three drawers on the right. The first one was jammed, so I left it for last. The other two held ties, opera glasses, a shoe cleaning kit and a couple of men’s wallets. I tried the first drawer again but it wouldn’t budge. After working on it for a moment, I realised it must be locked. All the drawers had keyholes, but only this first one on the right had actually been locked. I tried one more time to force it open, but it definitely was not simply stuck or warped by humidity. Just then Teresa came in.

  ‘I’m leaving for the day, sweetheart.’

  ‘Teresa, you scared me!’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry, darling, how careless of me. You were so focused on what you were up to . . .’

  ‘I’ve just been trying to open this wretched drawer, but I reckon she must have locked it. There must be something important in there – Mother only locked up stuff she didn’t want to share, not even with you. I don’t suppose you know where this particular key is, do you?’ I asked sarcastically, making it clear that I no longer trusted her answers.

  ‘I really don’t know, dear. I haven’t been up here in such a long time. I’ll try to think where it might be, but—’

  ‘Well, think hard or I’ll have to break the lock,’ I said, not sure I believed her. ‘I need to know what’s inside.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she said, completely ignoring my words, ‘and I won’t be back until tomorrow. I’ve left you some lunch in the kitchen. You need to eat – you’re all skin and bones. Do you want me to buy you anything special? I’m off to the market tomorrow.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I might go for a walk this afternoon and head into town.’

  ‘You know I’m happy to get whatever you need for you.’

  ‘Of course I know that, Teresa,’ I told her, and went over to kiss her cheek, which made her smile.

  ‘Why don’t you stop all this? It can’t be good for you to spend time in this nasty place. There’s nothing up here but old rubbish. You’ll have time to go through it little by little . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so. As soon as I wrap things up with the solicitor I’m going back to London. I’ll have to come back a few more times at least, just for the essential things. Nowadays you can do most of it online. I’d like to leave next week and I want to have gone through all this stuff by then. I have to know what needs saving and what needs throwing away before putting the house up for sale. Don’t you see? This place is full of mysteries. No, I’m not selling without going through every last inch of this attic. So far, it’s proving to be very interesting.’

  My last words left her speechless. I’m not sure why, but I think she’d have preferred me to leave everything for the future owners to throw away.

  ‘Teresa,’ I said, pointing to the label on the box of dolls, ‘do you think Neca could be in there?’

  ‘I think she must,’ she said quietly, seemingly lost in thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling, convinced that Neca had only survived the last fifteen years without me because of Teresa’s protection.

  ‘You’re welcome, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow then. I want to stop by the cemetery and I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  She bent down to pet Aris and then left.

  It seemed like a good time to take a break. My mouth was dry from all the dust.

  My journey to the past had roused my appetite, and I grew even hungrier as I made my way down the stairs. It smelled just the same as when I used to come home from school! The lunches that Teresa made were by far the thing I looked forward to most when coming home. I enjoyed her delicious food no matter what else was happening around the table; certain pleasures were just too good to be ruined. I think that’s why the restaurant industry always appealed to me, and I think also that my restaurant had become so popular due in large part to the expert palate I’d developed thanks to our family housekeeper – no dish got the green light until approved by my taste buds. In fact, some of the recipes I featured on the menu were directly inspired by Teresa’s home cooking. This time she had left me sofrito in a pan. All it needed was some rice thrown in, which she’d left on the counter in a small glass. If only for her culinary skills, I know my mother would have kept Teresa on for the rest of her life; she loved to eat well, but was far too much of a lady to work in the kitchen herself.

  I dined like a queen. The ‘rice with dead chicken’, as she called it when we asked her what there was to eat, was delicious. I was proud that I’d managed to imitate some of her dishes in my restaurant, but when I tasted the first mouthful . . . Wow, there was nothing like Teresa’s food! If she had a restaurant in London, it would have no competition.

  After making myself some coffee and answering a few emails, I went back up to the attic and headed straight for the box that I was most focused on.

  There, in amongst about thirty dolls of various styles and periods, was my Neca, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. I’d been sure that after my departure, my mother had ordered Teresa to throw out all the boxes of personal items I’d left in my wardrobe, and our housekeeper, before going through with it, had saved my most precious childhoo
d belongings. My old doll was bald, with a foam rubber body and a face that was a poor imitation of a newborn, but dressed in her pink pyjamas and little woollen hat she looked so sweet. She was my dearest possession in the world – the recipient of all my childhood dreams, so much sadness and longing. Even Teresa had not been entrusted with so many of my secret thoughts and emotions. I owed my sanity to Neca. As crazy as it may seem, children do sometimes tap into their emotions in a genuine, albeit one-sided, relationship with an inanimate object. I was one of those children with an invisible friend, only this particular friend lived inside a handful of foam rubber. Adults are surprised when they see their child talking to themselves and becoming so attached to something they view only as a hollow shell. But a child who chooses to interact with an imaginary friend is someone who feels that no one understands them, and whose fundamental need for contact forces them to invent someone who will listen.

  I clutched her now to my chest, just as I used to in all those moments when . . . Those very many times when I had felt so alone! Hugging her, I was catapulted straight back into my childhood, overwhelmed by the familiar feeling of protection she gave me. Perched here on a vintage trunk with the ghosts of the past crowding in from all corners of this desolate chamber, the old wound within me ripped open and bled more intensely than ever. Reliving the past as the stitches of time unravelled seemed even more painful than going through it in the first place. How true it is that when you live in a constricted environment, you assume that all the sorrows surrounding you are simply part of life, intrinsic to existence – and that everyone else experiences the same. You swallow every bitter pill with resignation, believing quite simply that that’s all life has to offer. When you finally come across other ways of living and experience the good and healthy things in life, such as freedom, independence and respect for others . . . then you understand that there’s so much more to existence than your own misery and that you’ve simply been living under a rule of tyranny. It was extraordinary how greatly I’d suffered! I felt like a child again, the little Berta who would hug her doll . . . though right now it hurt so much more than before. But only for a moment – I don’t know if I could have stood it for another second. When I tore myself out of the past and returned to reality, my tears started to flow, moved by compassion for the innocent little girl who had spent so many years afraid. Remembrance was a bitter purgative, and now I was throwing up all the rotten memories and that took its time, because I could no longer suppress the sobs that demanded release. It was the long, silent and healing weeping of a woman who had begun to face herself and what lay behind her. I no longer needed Neca these days, but the very sight of her made my heart full. Still clutching on to her, I stood up and, with some difficulty because of the rusting locks and hinges, opened up the trunk on which I’d been sitting.