Domingo's Angel

Chapter 4

The young priest rode along the road from Canillas de Daimonos. His wide straw hat flapped gently in the wind and his bare feet slapped rhythmically against the flanks of the mule. His shoes were in the saddle baskets along with the communion bread and wine. Below the track, the world fell away into a deep ravine covered in citrus trees and oleander. The sun shone fiercely and everything smelt of herbs and orange blossom. It was a perfect day, and as he went along, he found himself humming a little tune and thinking how marvellous it was that the old priest was unable to take mass this morning due to an unfortunate attack of gout. He did not, of course, wish any discomfort to the old man, but how he had longed for the opportunity to take mass on his own!

The young priest had been ordained in February and assigned to help the old priest who looked after the parishes of Canillas de Daimonos and Amendillas.The old man was in his eighties and should have been retired years ago. Since then he had dutifully assisted the old priest, but the old man hung on tenaciously to his tasks, and for all that he had been allowed to do, he might as well have been an altar boy.

Now he had his chance. He would be magnificent. He went over the mass in his mind, hearing his voice rolling melodiously through the church, imagining the looks of delight and astonishment on the faces of the congregation. Forgetting for a moment the dignity of his position, he suddenly burst into song.

* * * *

Rosalba was in her element. It was Sunday morning and everyone in the village had found a reason to come into the shop. She had sold all the bread and the fresh vegetables and now the tinned stuff was beginning to go. Thoughtfully, she eyed the jar of cane sugar that had been on the shelf for at least three years. Then she took it down, gave it a good dusting and carefully placed in pride of place on the counter. You never know.

"Is it true that you went to visit the foreign woman yesterday?" Salva the baker asked casually, as he toyed with some biscuits at the side of the counter.

"Are you going to buy those?" demanded Rosalba.

"Er, well," he met Rosalba's eye and resigned himself to the inevitable. "How much are they?"

"They tell me you went to see the foreigner," said Marcia Belén, as she carefully avoided looking directly at any item on the shelf, or at Rosalba herself. "They say she will be coming to mass today."

"Really?" said Rosalba. "That will be interesting. What is it that you would like to buy?"

"I..er.." To her horror, she realised she was toying with the jar of cane sugar. "Er, how much is this?"

* * * *

The young priest stopped at the side door of the church and slid gracefully down from his mule. As he did so, his cassock rode up a little, revealing shapely brown calves. Three young girls standing outside the shop watched avidly, nudging each other and giggling surreptitiously. He took no notice. Young girls always behaved like that. It didn't mean anything.

The priest tied the mule to the hook on the side of the wall and walked round to the front door of the church. Almost reverently, he pulled out the heavy iron chain from his belt. The key was satisfyingly large and important-looking and he inserted it in the lock with a feeling of destiny. With an expansive gesture he flung wide the great wooden doors and stepped into the church. The interior was dark and holy and smelt of flowers and incense. He took a deep breath, pausing to savour the moment.

Four or five little old ladies dressed entirely in black and armed with brooms, dusters and buckets of flowers suddenly shot past him into the church and began to scrub and polish industriously. He had a vague idea that there were rather more of them than usual but did not pursue the thought. Philosophically, he returned to his mule and collected the basket with the objects for the mass.

* * * *

Angela stood in front of the mirror, eyeing herself critically from head to foot. This was difficult, as the mirror was ancient and flyspecked, with a degree of warp which gave an interesting rippling effect making it impossible to see the whole of yourself properly at the same time.

"How do I look?" she demanded as Domingo walked in the room. "Will I do?"

"You look like an Angel from Heaven," said Domingo, walking towards her and trying to take her in his arms.

"No," she said. "Wait! I mean, do I look respectable?"

Domingo sank back onto the bed and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Respectable?" he repeated. "Well, you don't look unrespectable. But it's hard to look properly respectable unless you are very ugly."

Angela sighed and turned back to the mirror. She had done her best. Most of her clothes were travel-stained and badly worn. She had taken a year to travel through Spain, mainly on mule-back, and it had not been kind to her clothes. This was her best dress, which she had kept for special occasions and, although it was not shabby, it was rather flamboyant. It was dark green satin with a fairly low neckline, which she had disguised with a shawl of the same material. She had pulled the shawl over her head to cover the bright hair, but tendrils of it kept escaping and she feared that it would have turned into its usual riot by the time they reached the church.

The marmalade cat entered through the window with his usual "pprrrrppp" of greeting and observed her minutely. Then he gave a small mew of approval and joined Domingo on the bed.

"There you are," said Domingo. "He thinks you will do."