Tell the Moon to Come Out Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  TELL THE MOON

  TO COME OUT

  Joan Lingard was born in Edinburgh but grew up in Belfast where she lived until she was eighteen. She began writing when she was eleven, and has never wanted to be anything other than a writer. She is the author of more than thirty novels for young people and thirteen for adults. Joan Lingard has three grown-up daughters and five grandchildren, and lives in Edinburgh with her Latvian/ Canadian husband but spends three months every year in Spain. She was awarded an MBE for services to children’s literature in 1998.

  Other books by Joan Lingard

  TUG OF WAR

  BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

  DARK SHADOWS

  LIZZIE’S LEAVING

  NATASHA’S WILL

  RAGS AND RICHES

  The Kevin and Sadie Books (in reading order)

  THE TWELFTH DAY OF JULY

  ACROSS THE BARRICADES

  INTO EXILE

  A PROPER PLACE

  HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE

  JOAN LINGARD

  TELL THE MOON

  TO COME OUT

  PUFFIN

  For Angie and Catriona

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2003

  1

  Copyright © Joan Lingard, 2003

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195444-8

  Tell the moon to come out

  for I do not want to see the blood

  of Ignacio on the sand

  ‘Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías’

  by Federico García Lorca (1898–1936)

  One

  He waited in the shelter of the doorway, watching the needle-fine rain fall on the dark street. The night was warm, and humid, and he was sweating in his thick pullover. But he would need it later. Jean-Luc had warned him that it would be cold on the mountain tops even though it was nearing the end of May.

  A quiet footfall made him turn his head. Jean-Luc was approaching.

  ‘Nicolás, are you ready?’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘You’re sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘OK then, let’s go. You have your haversack and your water-bottle and your bedroll?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jean-Luc led the way and Nick moved out from the doorway, feeling the rain soft on his face. They kept close to the walls. Only a few windows were lit. This was a mountain village where people rose early and retired early. His mother had gone to bed an hour ago. He hoped she would be sleeping soundly. Since his father had gone she seldom had. He hoped, too, that she would not wake before morning. He had left her a note on the kitchen table.

  Don’t worry about me, he had written, I have to go. She would worry, of course.

  As soon as they left the last house behind, they were climbing. The night seemed blacker now, with only a few faint blinks of light showing in the valley below. His legs were strong from climbing in the Scottish hills and he knew how to pace himself. Before long, though, his lungs were labouring, for these Pyrenean slopes were steep, and his breathing had become short and rasping. Ahead of him Jean-Luc moved with the agility of one of his own mountain goats. He looked back and waited on top of a small knoll.

  Nick stopped, too, for a moment and took a small swig from his water-bottle; and by the time they set off again he had found his second wind and could keep up with Jean-Luc. The rain had petered out but there was no sign of the moon that was up there somewhere behind the heavy banks of cloud. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he was able to make out the dark shapes of overhanging rocks and a few stunted trees bent by fierce winds. They were following a smugglers’ trail that Jean-Luc knew well. He had helped many men – Nick’s father among them – to cross from France into Spain to fight for the Republican cause in the Civil War.

  As they neared the summit a wind close to gale-force sprang up, tearing at their clothes and whipping their hair across their faces. They walked bent over, like half-shut penknives, trying to keep as close to the ground as possible. At times they had to drop on to their hands and knees to avoid being blown over.

  Finally, they reached the summit. Nick felt as if he were standing on top of the world, surrounded by vast stretches of darkness. The unknown. The wind was even fiercer here.

  Jean-Luc put an arm round his shoulder. ‘Keep going down,’ he shouted into Nick’s ear. ‘Remember all the things I’ve told you!’

  Nick nodded. His head was packed full of information, of routes to take, places to avoid, names of people, contacts who would help him. ‘Thank you, Jean-Luc,’ he said, but his words were lost on the wind.

  Jean-Luc grasped his hand and then turned and began making his way back down the mountain on the French side. When the top of his head disappeared Nick felt fear and doubt grip him for the first time. He squatted down on to his hunkers and lowered his head. What was he doing out here in this wilderness all by himself? Was he mad to have set out? The wind was like a maniac, roaring and howling. Were there wolves on these mountains? He thought it possible, though he was sure that he’d heard that wolves seldom attacked people. His throat contracted and his tongue felt thick and dry. He took another small mouthful from his water-bottle, knowing he could not afford to gulp. His water ration was precious.

  He had to take a grip of himself. He had to go on, to try to find out what had happened to his father. When the defeated Republican soldiers had come straggling back to France in the spring his father had not been among them. None of the men knew whether or not he had died in any of the terrible battles that had decimated their ranks. The Nationalists, led by General Franco, having won the war, were now in control of the country. Nick braced himself and, pushing up on to his feet, began his descent into Spain.

  He went cautiously, shining his torch only occasionally, taking care to keep the light angled downward. Not that it seemed likely anyone else would be up here at this time of night, but one never knew. Assume nothing, Jean-Luc had told him. Make it your motto. Nick’s head buzzed with all the things he’d been told.

  From time to time he rested and when he did he listened, in the way that a deer in the forest might, with its head cocked, ears pricked, ready at the slightest sign of danger to spring away through the trees making the merest whisper of sound. He wished he could move as swiftly and lightly. H
e felt clumsy, stumbling over unseen rocks. His progress was slow and the night was long. He was relieved when the darkness began to ebb and a vague outline of the terrain became visible.

  When he came to a pine forest he plunged gratefully into it. Here he had cover. Here he could relax a little. The paths underfoot were soft with fallen pine needles. The smell of the pines made him think of Scotland, of the Inverness-shire glen where he lived with his mother, and had lived with his father until the autumn of 1936, nearly three years ago. He remembered the moment his father had come into the kitchen and made his announcement.

  ‘I’m going to Spain.’ His dark eyes had had a faraway look in them. It was as if he had already gone. ‘I have to go. It’s my country and it’s in trouble. And my family is there.’

  Nick’s mother had risen from the table and was standing with her hands clasped in front of her. She had been afraid of this ever since summer, when they had heard the first reports of the fighting. Her voice when she spoke was low. ‘We are your family, too, Sebastián.’

  ‘Of course you are! And you are more important to me than anything else in the world. But you are safe here. Scotland is not being torn apart, the way Spain is.’

  ‘Yes, you must go, I realize that,’ said Nick’s mother sadly.

  That night Nick’s father came into his room and sat on the edge of his bed. ‘You do understand why I’m going, don’t you, son?’

  Nick nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Then he burst out, ‘But I still wish you didn’t have to go! I’ll miss you, Dad.’

  ‘And I’ll miss you, Nicolás.’ His father engulfed him in his arms and they held on to each other tightly. ‘I’ll be back, I promise you.’

  But he had not come back and Nick knew that such a promise might not have been within his father’s power to keep.

  As he emerged from the trees he heard the sound of ferocious growling. Two wild dogs with long yellow fangs were tearing at the carcass of another animal. A deer perhaps. Nick smelt blood and rotting flesh and his stomach churned, bringing a taste of bile up into his throat. Sensing his presence, the dogs lifted their heads and stared at him with red, flaring eyes. He resisted the impulse to turn and flee and after a moment they went back, snarling and growling, to their prey. He made a wide detour round them.

  When next he glanced up he saw a thin line of scarlet in the eastern sky. Light was gradually seeping on to the land. Before him stretched rolling countryside, swathes of forest, fields where sheep grazed, with a few houses dotted here and there. It was a peaceful enough scene, though he knew that could be deceptive. He had been well primed not only by Jean-Luc but by Spanish veterans of the Civil War who had sought refuge in France and were now living in camps across the border from their homeland. Nick had spent the last two months talking to them, listening to their stories, gathering information that would help him on his journey. They had not encouraged him to make it; they had warned him he would be going into enemy territory. If Franco’s men catch you, they had told him, they will show no mercy. They were still hunting down soldiers from the Republican side, imprisoning and, in some cases, shooting them without further ado. It had been a bitter war, with terrible atrocities committed on both sides, brother sometimes fighting against brother.

  But the dawn was beautiful. The sun was coming up fast, sending streaks of pink, turquoise and pale yellow across the sky. The birds were in full noisy song, while the rest of the world stayed quiet. He could not linger; he must track down his first contact as soon as possible. He crossed a field and, skirting a scraggy wood, reached a road. It must be the road running south to Pamplona.

  He was in Spain.

  Two

  Nick was about to cross the road when he heard a vehicle. He ducked behind a small thicket and watched as a dusty greyish van came into sight. It pulled up on the road just a few yards short of him. A door swung open on either side of the van and out sprang two men wearing grey-green uniforms and patent-leather three-cornered hats. Nick recognized immediately the uniform of the Guardia Civil, the Civil Guard – a paramilitary organization which exercised considerable power and was much feared. The veterans in the camps had spoken a great deal about it. Many had suffered from its brutality. Avoid it if you can, he had been advised. At the beginning of the war the Guard had been split, some of its members supporting the Nationalists and Franco, others the Republicans. Any guards around now would be Franco supporters.

  One of the guards had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Nick wondered if they could have been watching from further along the road and had seen him on the hill. He had no identity papers; for that alone they could arrest him. Imagine if he were to be arrested so soon after arriving in Spain!

  The two guards, however, appeared not to be interested in anything in particular. They were stretching themselves as if they had been driving for a long time. They lit cigarettes. They took turns to drink from a water-bottle. The one with the rifle came sauntering up the road in Nick’s direction and stopped right in front of the thicket. He heard the man belch. He himself was hardly daring to breathe.

  Then he heard the sound of another engine. A moment or two later, a beaten-up old van of indecipherable colour came clanking into view and was flagged down by the guards. The driver, a small elderly man in shabby blue overalls and a cap, was ordered to get out. The armed guard poked him in the ribs with his rifle and told him to hurry, hurry, they didn’t have all day to waste, they had more important things to do. They demanded his papers and became impatient as he fumbled in his pocket. They examined them, returned them, and then told the old man to open up the back of his van. He was reluctant; the rifle poked him again. He opened the back door. The unarmed guard pushed him out of the way and, reaching into the interior of the van, withdrew a dead, unplucked chicken. He held it up by its legs and swung it to and fro, its feathered head almost grazing the ground. The van driver was quivering.

  Suddenly he found his voice. It was high and reedy. ‘You’re not going to take my chicken! My family’s starving. My grandchildren have had nothing but bread for a week.’

  ‘Where did you get it, old man? We’ll wager you stole it.’ The chicken went on swinging to and fro, to and fro, the eyes of the three men following it. ‘Come now, own up!’

  ‘This will make us a good dinner at the station tonight, Alfonso.’ The unarmed guard laughed.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ The old man reached out to take the bird but was pushed back roughly.

  ‘You’ll not tell us what to do!’

  ‘My son fought on your side. He died at the battle of Jarama.’

  ‘Then you should feel honoured, old man, that your son died for a noble cause. Get back in your old wreck! You’re lucky. If it was any good we’d have it for ourselves.’

  The old man climbed back into the driver’s seat but made no effort to start the engine. He sat with his head slumped forward.

  Laughing, the two guards strolled back to their vehicle and threw the chicken into it. Then they drove off, blaring their horn at the old man as they passed. Nick wished he could go over and speak to him but, of course, he dared not. Besides, the old man’s son had fought on the opposite side to his own father, for the Fascist Nationalists. He had been an enemy of his father.

  After a few minutes the old man roused himself and started the van’s engine. It coughed and spluttered several times before the van lurched off with black smoke puffing from the exhaust. When Nick could no longer hear it he stood up and eased the crick in his knees. The road was empty again. The sun was fully out now and the day promised to be hot.

  When he started to walk he found he was staggering a little. He was tired and had eaten little during the night, only a crust or two of bread. Some solid food and a good sleep and he would be fit to continue his journey. He kept close in to the verge, keeping an eye open for places to hide if a car came. Jean-Luc had said traffic should be light early in the morning, but there was a good chance that what there was would be either army or Civi
l Guard. Few ordinary people could afford cars. And most had been requisitioned during the war. A farmer standing in a field turned to stare at him but said nothing. People are suspicious of each other, he had been told over and over again, that is what the war has done to people. Before, they would chat, call out greetings, invite a stranger into their home.

  Nick knew exactly what to look for; he’d been given precise instructions. And here was the narrow beaten-earth path at the side of a forked clump of oak trees, with a couple of pigs rooting underneath for acorns. Acorns made good pork, he seemed to remember. He never thought that he would actually find the path. After glancing round to check no one was watching, he turned off the road. The path snaked its way over rough land, then through a small beech wood until, finally, he saw a low stone dwelling ahead.

  He approached the house cautiously, his feet making little sound on the earth. Pieces of rusted, tangled farm machinery lay beside the back wall and the shutters were closed over the two small windows at the front and rear. It did not look like a house that was inhabited. He stood still and listened. Not a sound came from within. Perhaps the owner – Francisco – would no longer be there. He might have been taken away by the Civil Guard. He might be dead. The information that the war veterans had was not up to date; they had had no communication with anyone in Spain since leaving two or three months ago. They were afraid to write letters to families left behind in case that would bring trouble to them.

  Nick went up to the front door and knocked gently, giving three short knocks and two longer ones. He waited. Then he knocked again, more loudly, and this time he thought he heard a slight movement within. He put his mouth to the crack of the door and spoke.

  ‘My name is Nicolás Torres,’ he said. ‘I am the son of Sebastián Torres. I have been told to come here by your old friend Paco Gonzales who is now in a refugee camp in France.’