The Flag and the Flower

The Flag and the Flower

Mike Crowson

Copyright 2000 Mike Crowson

Smashwords Edition 2011

The Flag and the Flower

Chapter 1

The spade struck something hard. More stones, I thought with a mental groan. Torrox is built on a steep hillside and the houses cling to what seems very stony ground. When it isn't the solid rock of these stern mountains, of course.

I put down the spade and reached for the rag I was using to mop the sweat off my face. The scrap of material was looking decidedly grubby, but I stood back from the digging to use it one more time. It was getting a little late in the morning and the sun was little too high in the sky for heavy work. Right then pretty well any excuse for a cessation of work would have seemed reasonable, so I thought I'd just have a look at what I'd hit, then stop until the sun dropped down a bit.

With a slight grunt of effort I got down to my knees. I'm hardly fifty and still reasonably fit, but most of my life has been fairly sedentary and academic, so I'm not exactly agile. The hole was now just over a metre deep and, very roughly, two metres or so square. I was making space for a water catchment tank. There's mains water in Torrox and the house had, as an estate agent might say, all mod cons. However, in this part of Spain, tap water is a little scarce and too precious to squirt on a garden, small as mine is.

I wiped some loose earth away to see how big a stone it was blocking the spade. To say that I was surprised to see tiles is a something of an understatement. I was certainly curious enough to brush aside a bit more of the stony soil with my hand, which exposed more tiles, laid neat and level in what appeared to be the floor of a ruin. They were predominantly a dirty orange colour with an abstract, faintly Arabic looking pattern. They appeared old, but there were insufficient of them uncovered to be sure and those that were visible were pretty filthy as well. I grunted slightly with effort again as I got to my feet, standing back to gaze and to think. Well, to gaze anyway.

I clambered out of the hole and went into the house for a dustpan and brush. While I was in the comparative cool of the kitchen I poured myself a glass of water from the bottle in the 'fridge. The tap water is quite drinkable, but it isn't really that cold, especially in summer, so I tend to always keep a bottle chilling. I had to admit that I didn't really know much about the history of Torrox, so I had no idea what the ruin might be, but I thought that perhaps Paco might know. I picked up the dustpan and brush and went back to the hole in my garden.

When an area about half a meter square was cleared of rubble and swept, I could see that I had uncovered something fairly substantial, though not very impressive in appearance. On the other hand, it was now too warm to work and I had, anyway, to go down into the centre of the village to get a few odds and ends from the market before it closed. I dislodged one of the tiles to take with me to Paco and struggled out of the hole again to clean myself up a bit before going shopping. As I washed, I decided to go into the bar Al Andaluz in the square and talk to Paco before I returned for lunch and a siesta.

It felt a considerable improvement to get rid of the dirt and sweat and change into clothes less soiled and sweaty too. Whether cleanliness is actually next to Godliness is debatable, but there has always seemed to me something about the feeling of revival and freshness you gain from a wash and change of clothes that is akin to the feel one gets from a good confession. I have often wondered how medieval Christians could think that dirt was evidence of sanctity and a good wash immoral. In Spain there are the remains of Moorish baths, built by the followers of Islam, on a scale as grand as anything the Romans built, dating from the same times as those stories of Christian saints who never washed. In fact, Knights Templar were forbidden by their rule ever to strip for a bath, so those who lived out their lives in the sweltering heat of the Holy Land must have been pretty whiffy. Anyway, refreshed and rejuvenated I started down the steeply winding streets and stairs towards the village square.

The main square in Torrox - the Plaza de la Constitución to use its rightful name - is really very pretty. There is a fountain surrounded by orange and lemon trees and the square is lined on two sides by shops, the market and the town hall. On the other two sides there are steps leading down to more attractive squares, gardens and a car park on the hillside below. The whole thing is ornately tiled and there are the tables, chairs and umbrellas of several cafe-bars. The approach is along a Paseo, a kind of promenade without the sea, flanked by mulberry trees, the only reminder that this was in Moorish times the centre of a great silk industry.

By the time I had been to the market, the square was empty. Even under the umbrellas the sun was too much for the local people. Those who come to Spain from Northern Europe for a couple of weeks' holiday in the sun can crowd onto beaches but here, inland and away from such tourists, the Spanish themselves hide from the sun. I went inside the bar Al Andaluz and found Paco in the cool gloom, hiding from the heat behind a beer. I put down my bag of shopping by the bar and settled on a stool. I didn't feel like a beer myself but I wanted something cold, so I had a sparkling water - a 'water with gas' as the Spanish say.

What do you make of this? I asked, taking from my bag a grubby bundle of the tile wrapped in my bit of cloth.

He looked at it with what I would have taken to be disinterest if I hadn't known him better. Paco is plump and fortyish with ancestors who have lived in the area for centuries. He hefted it in his hand, held it vaguely towards what light was filtering in from the glare outside and took another sip of beer.

Where did you get it?

I dug it up in my garden. There's a lot of them. He nodded sagely and took another sip of beer. Are the houses towards the top of the hill older? I asked.

He nodded again. Anywhere flat enough, people grow things. Where it's not flat enough they build houses. Always been that way.

So this could be a substantial ruin?

Too far from the centre of the village, your house. I wouldn't have said it was built on anything really old. Still, he added, taking another sip of beer, You never know.

From the Plaza to my house is not actually very far in a straight line - just rather a long way up the steps and the steep streets. Paco was examining the tile again, with the same lack of energy but not interest that he shown so far, turning it in his hand slowly, almost as if it was of great weight.

Very old, he observed. This is a decoration of the kind used by the Moors or at least the Moriscos. We were talking Spanish you understand, and I am trying to translate as well as I can what he said, since it has a bearing on what is to come. Moriscos, by the way, were the Christianised Moors - Arabs - who stayed in Spain after the last of the Moslem kingdoms fell in 1492.

A lot, you said?

It was my turn to nod. Laid out like a floor, just over a metre down.

Take some photos, just for curiosity value, and save a few tiles as samples. I don't think there's much value here. He tossed the tile in the air more decisively, caught it and put it down on the counter.

Don't bother pulling your house down to find the rest.

I had to look twice to see that his eyes were grinning. I could go along with that advice, because it was my house! On the other hand, I did wonder whether the local university would be interested. I decided that they probably wouldn't be.

Do you mind if I keep this for a day or two? Paco asked, indicating the tile, which still lay on the counter. I want to show it to a cousin who might be interested. Such things are his business, he added as an afterthought.

There was no urgent reason why I needed the tile back. I suppose, if I was going to take the floor up, there was no reason why I needed it back at all.

Why not, I said. It didn't occur to me to ask why Paco's cousin might be interested. It would have saved some trouble if I had done.

Paco picked up the tile again and put it under the counter, then he took another sip of beer. I took another sip of mineral water.

Outside in the square the shadows cast by the orange trees had almost disappeared as the sun climbed to its full height and the mulberry trees along the Paseo simmered in the hot silence. Inside the cafe bar it was cool and rather dim, in contrast with the glare outside. I sipped my drink and wished I'd gone straight home. This was stupid, of course, as I'd come here specifically to talk to Paco, but it would be a warm walk home, up the steps and the steeply winding street.

Paco had topped up his beer and I was two thirds of the way through the mineral water when the woman wandered in. In the dim light I couldn't see her properly, but she was a lightly built, blonde-haired woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She had a full, summery skirt with a blue flowered pattern, and a white, short sleeved top. She carried a white bag on a strap over her shoulder. As she entered, she took off a wide brimmed straw hat, pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head and took from her ears the earphones of a personal stereo of the kind we all refer to as a 'Walkman'.

From the other end of the counter I listened to her asking for a beer in Spanish with a very foreign accent and wondered whether she was German or English. Then she asked Paco whether he spoke English. He shook his head and the woman sighed in either frustration or annoyance. Paco pointed vaguely in my direction, so the woman turned. Habla inglés? she asked. I nodded without actually speaking.

Thank God for that, she said walking lazily over. It's either German or Spanish round here.

German or Spanish on this part of the coast possibly, I answered, but up here, inland, it's just Spanish.

You'd think somebody would speak the language, she muttered, just a little petulantly.

They all do, I told her. It's you that doesn't speak it.

She looked puzzled.

Did you want something in particular or did you simply feel like a friendly chat? I asked smiling to take the edge off the words.

On closer inspection the woman was older than I had first thought - late thirties or even older - and looked somewhat 'harder', if that was the right word. Her mouth was turned down a little at the corners and her lips were just a shade too narrow. Ten years ago she had probably been a beauty and she was a sufficiently good looking woman still to raise the cautiousness that remained instinctive in me. The thought crossed my mind that the fates, or perhaps the years, had been no kinder to her than they had to me.

Well it's certainly nice to hear English spoken again, she said, but I really wanted to know when there's a bus back to the coast.

Not until four thirty, I told her. There are buses pretty well every hour but for siesta time. There's no bus while everyone's asleep. The next one isn't for nearly two and a half hours.

Damn! she said as if she meant it. I've hardly more cash with me than the fare back and there's nothing to do in this place. She took a drink of her beer with a most discontented expression.

It's not so much the place as the time of day, I observed. What did you want to do?

I don't know, she answered. The beach. A disco. Anything. I don't know why I came up here. Do you live in the village?

Up there, I said, gesturing vaguely at the hillside and getting to my feet. And I have to be on my way.

Can you keep an eye on my bag for me, while I go to the loo?

The woman put her little white bag with her wide brimmed straw hat on the bar and unhooked her Walkman from her belt to put that on the bar beside the bag. I wondered why she didn't take the bag with her if she was worried and who she thought would interfere with it if she didn't.

The bag was open and her passport slipped out. Idly I glanced at it. The picture of the woman was a good likeness, taken about seven or so years before. Her name, it said, was Tracy Leonor Nicholson, which sounded vaguely familiar, though I couldn't place it. Again according to the passport, she had two children - Rebecca, who would be about elevenish and Gary who would be about nineish now. I returned the passport to the bag and, as the woman returned, made ready to leave.

Must you go? she asked as I reached for my bags. There was a look of emptiness or loneliness about her, and I sensed that she was waiting for an invitation to come back to my place. Considering that I was at least ten years older than her, that could be construed as flattering. On the other hand it could be a dangerous way to live in this age of AIDS and, although I was no longer legally held by the old restraints, old habits die hard. I didn't invite her back, but I did say, If you're short of cash for lunch I'll buy you lunch. The food's good here, so enjoy making it last until it's time for the bus.

I turned to Paco and said La señora no tiene efectivo. Le das la cena y yo pagaré? He nodded, picked up a tablecloth and a dog eared menu and came round the bar to lay a table and take her order.

Goodbye, I said.

Wait a moment, she said. She was nothing if not persistent. What about ordering? I don't speak any Spanish. I noted that this was not strictly true. Her Spanish might well be limited, but it existed.

The menu's in English. I translated it, I said, turned with my bag of shopping and walked towards the door, looking back again at the last moment. Goodbye, I said to the woman again and added Hasta Luego. to Paco. He acknowledged the greeting with a very brief gesture of his hand that spoke volumes.

Walking out of the bar was like walking into an almost tangible wall of heat, and the glare reflecting off the white walls of the houses hurt my eyes. I turned as far as possible into the shade, pulled down the brim of my straw hat as much as I could and started up the steps and steep streets, anxious to get home and out the sun. Anxious too, to escape the attention of the woman. You do not end a lifetime of caution without serious motivation, such as I found five years ago. But that's another story.

Later, after a meal and a rest, when the sun had lost some of its ferocity, I lay awake on my bed in the shuttered room and turned my attention back to the tiled ruin in my back garden. My house is built round a tiny patio - a courtyard it would be called in England. The stairs are open to the air and there is a little open air balcony and a way up onto the flat roof. All the rooms have entrances off this patio and there is a door from the living room onto the hillside where there are a small garden and smaller terrace, both with stupendous views across the mountains. The hole was in this small garden to the rear of the house.

Lying half awake on my bed the memory of the woman bothered me just a little. Her face had seemed vaguely familiar, as if I ought to recognise her. The name seemed familiar too, as if I ought to see some significance in 'Tracy Nicholson'. There seemed no good reason why I should, however, and I gradually shook myself into wakefulness. I stirred myself a little reluctantly and put on my old clothes again and strolled out to take a thoughtful look at my archaeological find.

Right at one corner I appeared to have uncovered the edge of the tiled area, so I scooped almost horizontally with the shovel and confirmed that I seemed to have reached the remains of a wall. It appeared to have been one of the stone and earth kind, very common in rural Spain up until the mid twentieth century: thick, not all that strong but easily maintained and repaired. It would probably have been whitewashed.

About three quarters of an hour's careful digging showed that I had indeed uncovered the corner of either a room or a tiled courtyard, probably the latter, since the tiles were more ridged by the pattern than would have been the case with indoor ones. The other give-away was the slight but uniform slant of the floor towards what I guessed was a trough or gutter to carry away water when it rained. I fetched the brush and dustpan and a bucket of water and a cloth.

Another half hour with the brush and other tools was enough to lay completely bare and reasonably clean the entire portion of tiling uncovered by my digging. There was still plenty of light, indeed sunset in June was still an hour or more off, and the sun would not sink behind the mountains for a good while yet, so I thought I might as well take Paco's advice and take some photographs straight away.

I am not a brilliant photographer. Although I've been to some pretty photogenic places in my life, I've not visited with the intention of, or wherewithal for, taking photographs. My camera is one of 'point and shoot' digital things - near the top of the range, but still 'point and shoot'. Under the circumstances I could do little more than stand in various positions, point the camera and shoot, which I did.

The tiled floor was interesting but hardly amounted to anything important in archaeological terms. It clearly continued under the present house and further digging up of my garden might have uncovered more tiles, but at the expense of much effort and more disruption. Accordingly, I decided to do just what Paco had suggested: to take up the tiles and continue digging down.

Most of the tiles were laid on a packed earth base and came up fairly easily. However, right in the corner, in an area about thirty-odd centimetres by sixty or so centimetres, - just over one foot by twoo feet - the tiles seemed to be cemented down onto a large, flat stone slab and came up of a piece. Beneath the slab there was a stone lined cavity in which was a casket or a small chest of some kind, apparently made of ivory and varnished wood. I took out the chest, which seemed in fair condition and looked at it.

Afterwards I didn't know why I hadn't opened it there and then, but I