It wasn’t that they couldn’t be serious, it’s just that as soon as there was silence there appeared an accompanying condition – of laughter. This was not a hearty laugh that would naturally derive from a good joke or a bit of jab and tickle. That had its place, of course, No, this was the upwelling of a childish giggle, that uncontrollable eruption of liveliness from deep, deep inside.
It was also their private connection, of a kind that indicated something hidden beneath their hearts. They were to content that this deep-rooted and unspoken attachment stayed put, that it remained a continuous comfort for them, as a potted plant on the windowsill at flower; pretty when enjoyed, but always precarious when left by a window. For if one is careless, then a potted plant, no matter how beautiful or precious, can fall – a tragedy for the beholder, but a dangerous thing for those below.
Their giggling accompanied them everywhere, even at home. It particular, it accompanied their grandfather’s serious speech before lunch at Christmastime, the one that reminded them all of the baby Jesus and the meaning behind their wholesome Catholic festivities, itself his grandfather’s tradition that he’d sentimentally adopted upon the arrival of his own offspring as a defining measurement of good Christian fatherhood.
Their suppressed laughter was also infectious. If one of them felt it arrive, the other was sure to follow – even if they were out of sight of each other. He knew at that moment that she was laughing, or was about to laugh, and she knew his shoulders would begin to move in that telltale rapid rhythmic motion that signified complete breakdown of polite sensibility. This had been the case in sombre school assemblies where, despite sitting in different locations in the sports hall, they could still sense the other was desperately suppressing a massive snigger, or at worst a snort. And that made it all the worse, particularly if one of them accidentally let one out. Other children would emulate, and the occasion, any occasion, would descend into farcical waves of tittering, snorting and fits of the funnies.
As children themselves, they had seen their lightness of approach towards anything serious as just fine and dandy. Indeed, despite it being annoying for eloquent teachers, pompous priests, angry parents, classical musicians at concert and speech-giving visiting dignitaries, it was still the sort of behaviour that could be expected in the young for whom the heavy impact of life has yet to leave an imprint. Their carefree happiness and their brevity of concentration as well as of thought, was well known by family, friends and neighbours. It was a reputation they accepted with a shrug, for they cared less for any other that could be acquired.
Their relationship had been characterised by remarkable intimacy. From the first few months they had shared a room and, despite having separate rooms in their teenage years would often stay together overnight, talking, laughing, even just reading out loud together. They composed funny little poems, acted out the best scenes from their favourite TV shows, and drew each other – handing over their efforts for the other to modify to the point of absurdity with antlers, googly eyes, captions and any number of humorous devices. Their parents generally accepted their sibling closeness as an indicator of a benign soft-heartedness, if not genuine love for each other. Their father gave an accepting smile, choosing to recognise their late-night troubadouring to each other as a quaint indicator of their inseparable kindred spirits – he had, after all, brought them up the same. But their mother was not a little worried, seeing that very same inseparableness in their private letters to each other as a marker of a much deeper relationship than even she and her husband enjoyed.
The eldest by 14 months, Miguel had left school first. His entry to college was conditional on his obtaining sufficient scores on his last examinations, which he had barely done. But he was 18 now and more than ready to leave home and find new friends, flex his wings and enjoy new sensations away from sleepy Valladolid. He’d thrown himself into the party thing and had been out and about in Santiago de Compostela with the best of them and had flirted outrageously with any of the girls within his orbit. But that was as far as it went.
In truth, though, he missed home, especially his sister, Floria. He phoned home each weekend, and sometimes during the week, and would speak longest with her. At that point, she would melt, go soft and quiet, then pick up and say something funny back at him. Perhaps half of their conversation would be filled with laughter. He came back for Christmas, an occasion of great excitement in the house, and they sat together to listen with the same lip-bitten control to Grandpa as he described the perfect little fingers and toes of the holy pink infant. As usual, the old man ignored it, choosing to look at his serious faced son and his godly wife, a good cook and stable housemate. When he did finally cast his eyes on ‘the children’, as he still called them, the predictable occurred – they burst into howls of belly-filled convulsions and had to be excused. Grandpa was not amused, again, and sat a little undone by their irreverence towards the gracious gospel story as much as for his status as family patriarch. His dear wife, now thirty years dead, would certainly not have stood for it.
Between Christmas and New Year, and with the monetary blessing of parents, ‘the children’ went skiing. The Picos de Europa had been blessed with early snows and, although there was no guarantee that the roads north of León were passable, they got the bus and hoped for the best. They had been told en route that there was no more accommodation at the hostel at Fuente Dé, at the foot of the massive cable car, but decided to try their luck. Their luck held at 10:30 pm, because of a last-minute cancellation rung through as they sat in the lobby deciding what to do next. He smiled at her; she smiled at him. It was a double room in the chalet, with views, which they could have for half-price of €250 for the two nights. He again looked at her, but without the smile. That, and the ski passes, would take up most of their money, with little left for food and, more importantly, drinks.
The night was cold, even for the mountains. Tired from the journey, they quickly drifted into the satisfying slumber of the weary.
Breakfast being included, they scoffed as much as they could, mindful of the mighty nip in their purse strings of these two days and nights. For the morning they enjoyed unfathomable blue skies and white-tipped views to the other side of the world. The snow was good, if a little hard and icy in places. By early afternoon a bad weather warning had been posted and the clouds were building. They chose to descend at the last possible moment and each shook off the white crust of the impact of a hundred million snowflakes they had skied through on their way down to the top station.
With heavy clouds fully shedding their contents in impenetrable cascades, the village at the bottom was now enveloped in winter’s darkness and each lamppost became the centrepiece in a descending orange-white show. The ever-present savour of wood smoke filled their nostrils, promising heat and comfort, and they eagerly anticipated the cheap sausages and chips for €3.50 from the mobile they had glanced before ascending. There was still a queue, but the price had risen to €5.50. They bought one, and shared, which brought a modicum of satisfaction, but there’s had been a long and vigorous day.
With skies aloft, they crunched back up to their chalet and collapsed onto the bed. They slept for an hour or so, until their rosy cheeks and sweated foreheads testified to the overloading on body heat, carb intake and good central heating.
They each took a shower and prepared as best they could for a jaunt into town. The heavy snow had continued to fall, exaggerating the car rooftops and silently filling the gaps left by the snowploughs. As they carefully walked through the frozen air, heavyweight snow occasionally sloughed from overly laden branches to cascade leaden plops beneath. The oppressive snowfall continued, and would continue to do so all night and into the next day.
The Irish Moss had only opened last year, but the expat who ran the place had found a ready supply of thirsty summer and winter visitors. As well as the usual Estrella and the local Asturias ciders, he had found a common thirst for Kilkenny and Guinness. In keeping with the Irish themed tat that littered the walls, and to the accompaniment of diddly-diddly music playing non-stop until the last punter left, he had made money hand-over-fist from the moment the doors had opened on the first day, and had done so every day. He had installed TVs in the corners, for football and Grang Prix, a kitchen at the back for pizzas and quick meals, and a mixture of bare flooring, high tables and stools and a nest of battered sofas that surrounded the stove fire – the focus of the room.
The two walked in to the steamy atmosphere. Just as they entered, the two sofas nearest the fire were vacated, and they jumped on the one to the left, he leaving his padded jacket to indicate occupancy next to her as she warmed her ungloved fingertips.
“Two beers, please. Heavy night out there.” His youthful conviviality matched the striped beany still covering his dark eyebrows.
“You’re right there! Still, you’re in the best place to see it out.” The landlord grinned and handed over two bottles of Estrella for €2.50 each. Barely audible on the speakers could be heard Seven Drunken Nights.
He gulped. At this rate, they would have little or nothing left for tomorrow evening, let alone the rest of the night. He turned and stopped; his coat had been moved to one side, and a man was sat in his place engaged in conversation with his sister. She was already laughing.
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