stay sitting there in silence: he should accept the apology. And make clear that he hadn’t minded. On the contrary, any distraction was welcome, even a mute child.
Below on the stairs was a woman – a servant, judging from her simple linen dress and blue apron. She was poised to descend further, coifed head bowed and nape exposed. She was neither very young nor old. She was very pale. A plain, pale woman. Not plain in a bad way, though. Tall, long-boned and broad-browed: that’s what he noticed about her. That, and how she touched the child. Over one arm was looped some fine fabric – clothing, probably, for repair – and her free hand was on the little lad’s shoulder, ostensibly directing him down on to the step in front of her but, Rafael felt, less a shepherding than an excuse for contact. He recognised the quality of that touch. Parental.
She looked up, saw Rafael, gave a surprised, ‘Oh!’ and a smile. It spoke to him, that smile, he felt, although it said nothing much, said only pretty much what you’d expect: Kids, eh?! That affectation of resignation which was in fact senselessly proud. He did it all the time, he knew, back home, back in his life. He would’ve loved to have been able to say to her, Oh, I know, I know, my own little boy … and he felt she’d have welcomed it. An easy exchange, unremarkable, but such as he hadn’t had for weeks. The possibility of which, he realised, he’d begun to despair of. As it was, he returned the smile and said, ‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ forgetting his English and speaking his own language. She understood him, though, he saw.
The next day, Rafael and Antonio had lunch at court – a whole separate sitting for Spaniards – before returning to their host, as arranged, for supper. Supper was served at five o’clock, they’d learned to their dismay. As such, it would follow their afternoon rest. They’d thought they’d stay at the palace for the afternoons – finding somewhere to bed down – but now they realised that, tide permitting, they might as well go back to the Kitson household after lunch and rest in the relative comfort of their room until supper. The problem concerned afterwards: no doubt everyone at the Kitsons’ would return to work after supper for a few hours, but for Rafael and Antonio there would be the journey all the way back to Whitehall. And, again, there was the tide to consider. The cost, too, although the fare was regulated and reasonable. Rafael had been told he’d be fully provided for, but of course he’d come with some money in hand. Whichever way they worked it, there would be, most days, a lot of waiting around, some unanticipated expenditure, and two long return journeys on the river.
Not for the time being, though. Apart from a couple of site visits, Rafael didn’t need to be anywhere in particular to do his work, although it would help to have space to lay out his drawings. In a couple of weeks’ time, though, Antonio would need a workshop in which to execute the design.
Tiredness always made Rafael hungry, and, after a night of trying and failing to sleep in the same room as Antonio, who snored, his tiredness was beyond anything that an afternoon rest could have improved. And, anyway, it hadn’t been much of a rest. The palace lunch had been so heavy that they’d been unable to face the river-journey immediately afterwards and instead they’d napped – or tried to – in the uncomfortably crowded room of friends that Antonio had made. Antonio had then suggested that they stay at the palace until the evening, skipping supper, making do with leftovers passed on from his new friends, but Rafael had insisted they both put in an appearance back at the house. He was going to have Antonio behave properly for once.
He regretted this stand of his, though, as they paused in the doorway of the Hall at five o’clock. Inside, there were tens of people already sitting packed together, while others hurried to step over benches and slot themselves down at the long tables. Clearly everyone knew his or her place. Even dogs, he saw to his horror: four, he spotted, nosing among the diners and receiving the occasional indulgent pat. Beyond all this, up on its dais at the far end of the room, was the elaborately set high table, as yet unoccupied by the householder and his family and their guests.
Where do we go? He sensed people staring, and no wonder: he and Antonio were conspicuous in their hesitancy. No overt hostility in the stares, he didn’t think, but nonetheless difficult to take. He couldn’t meet their eyes, there were too many of them; and even if he could have, then what? He had the distinct feeling that, if he smiled at them, they wouldn’t smile back. They didn’t want his smiles, they just wanted a good look at him: stranger, Spaniard.
And then he spotted the steward in the same instant the steward spotted him, but any relief was dashed when he saw from the man’s fleetingly startled expression that he’d forgotten all about them. Even this supremely organised steward had no idea where they should go and – worse – was about to make quite a show of rectifying the situation. And here it came, the big smile and a scanning of the tables before ‘Ah!’ – raised eyebrows, raised forefinger – as if he’d known all along that it was there, indeed had reserved it, and had only momentarily lost sight of it: a place for them.
As they made their way towards the bench, Rafael saw the servant-woman and her son in the glow from a west-facing window. She seemed at first to see him, but no: her gaze merely touched his face before moving onwards unchanged. She was whispering, he saw, to her son. No one in the room was talking, but she’d said something fast and low, a mere scrap of words. She mimicked inexpressiveness but there was tension in her face. No smile now. The little boy’s eyes were turned to hers. Rafael recognised that manner of hers, both distracted and emphatic: parental, again. She’d been making something clear: I told you …; or, Didn’t I ask you …
Over the next few days, he found himself half-looking for her, because hers was one of the few faces he recognised in the household and the only one that didn’t seem flummoxed to see him. He’d find himself checking whether she was around, and feeling safer – more at home – if she was.
In those initial few days, he was kept busy learning the ropes. First to learn was the journey to and from the palace, which proved easy enough. Then, at the palace, a place had to be found for him and Antonio to work. For this most basic of requirements to be taken seriously, he had to make various appointments with relevant personnel who would then turn out not to be the relevant personnel after all. In the meantime, they had to pass their time there in Hall with their fellow countrymen who were keeping themselves busy playing cards, making music and – those who could – writing home.
His other priorities were how to send letters home and how to get his laundry done. The first was being organised, he discovered, by the Spanish office that had been set up at the palace, although of course he didn’t yet know how reliable they’d be. But the laundry remained a mystery. Having little English and even less confidence in it, he had to learn at the Kitsons’ by watching, and that was how, on the first evening, he’d discovered where jugs and bowls of clean water were to be had. Where this water came from, he didn’t know. There was no well in either the front courtyard or the rear; and although there was a very small walled garden adjoining the rear, south-west-facing courtyard, he hadn’t seen anyone bringing a bucket in from there. He passed two wells in the streets close to the house on his way to and from the river, and he decided these were the sources, although he’d not seen anyone struggling into the house with containers. He could now wash himself – and be shaved at the palace by a Spanish barber – but the problem was his shirts. Even if he could properly wash them in a little bowl, where would he then dry them? His – and Antonio’s – room was so tiny that they couldn’t even air the layers of clothes that were dampened every day by the rain, and Rafael was conscious of smelling like a wet dog.
His supply of clean shirts dwindled: the need for fresh ones would soon be pressing. Despite increased vigilance, he saw no evidence in the house of any laundry. No hanging of it in the courtyards or from windows (and of course not, in this weather). Nor any sign of an actual laundry room: no wafts of steam, and none of those fragrances of hot liquid soap and boiled herbs. His searches – admittedly tentative, because he couldn’t go barging down private-looking corridors or open doors – led nowhere. And Antonio was no use: he referred cryptically to an arrangement at court, the implication being that it was a personal one. He’d charmed someone to take in his washing.
Rafael