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Andalucía handing her heart over on a silver platter to any man that asks for it. And now she has all these little ones to show for it.’
    ‘How many children does she have?’
    ‘Eight,’ replies Aurelia tersely.
    ‘ Eight? ’
    ‘Three of them never made it past the age of two, they died of mal de ojo .’ I frown, not understanding, but Aurelia continues. ‘So there are four left here. But you can see why Mar gave up Joaquín. Just look at this place.’
    Aurelia walks up to the gate and picks up the notebook that the little boy dropped, handing it to me.
    ‘Pablo’s the eldest. He’s mute. Locked inside his own world.’
    I open the book and flick through page after page of intricate drawings of life going on around him: Aurelia plaiting her long mane of hair; Beatriz playing with her doll; Mar weaving esparto grass into the seat of a chair.
    ‘I wouldn’t mind so much, if only he’d smile,’ Aurelia continues.
    I look up from the book. ‘These are good.’
    Aurelia nods. ‘I know. That’s all he does all day: helps with the chores and sits in the shadows drawing. Half the time I don’t even realise he’s there, drawing me. I have no doubt the boy can talk, he’s just chosen not to. My daughter tells me I’m crazy, but in my opinion he’s frustrated.’
    ‘Can he not go to school?’
    ‘School?’ Aurelia scoffs. ‘How many schools have you seen around here?’ Shaking her head, she resumes sweeping. ‘No, education’s not our lot. We’re scum of the earth, us gitanos . That’s what the payos think of us.’
    I open my mouth to contradict her but am immediately silenced. ‘I’m not talking about you , child. But you’re not exactly like all the rest, are you?’ Aurelia stares at me and I feel myself blushing. ‘No, we’re to be seen and not heard. If the government really had its way, we would be burnt, buried and forgotten within days.’
    I feel angry and deeply ashamed, not only of the snobbery so rife amongst my class but also because I know that Aurelia speaks the truth. On countless occasions I have heard my parents or sisters pour scorn on the gitanos , calling them pilfering thieves and murderers. I know that there is an element of truth to some of the stories that circulate of their crimes, yet the majority are pure fiction, invented by bored and malicious tongues. People see what they wish to, and all that I perceive at this moment is an honest woman minding her own business and trying to eke out a living for her daughter and grandchildren. As I study Aurelia’s face, I am shocked to see stout tears form in the corners of her eyes and steal down her cheek. Instinctively, I stand up and move towards her.
    ‘Aurelia. ¿Estás bien? ’
    She pauses. ‘I’m not crying because I care what people think of us. I don’t care, believe me, I don’t.’
    I hold up a hand and stroke the old gitana ’s arm. Aurelia stands there, rooted to the spot as she weeps. Taking my hand in hers, she looks at me directly; that same forceful look that has stunned me into silence on several occasions and that right now is racing with demons and clouds. ‘I am crying because of what is to come. I would give anything to change it. But the fact is I cannot.’ And with that, she pulls her hand away sharply and walks towards the cave.

Isabel
Winter 1927
    ‘ I sabel cariño ,come here.’
    I wander over to Mother and let myself be turned around so that my hair can be arranged. Leaning back into the warmth of her familiar chest, I reach up behind me to pull her long, sleek mane of hair over my shoulders, running my fingers through the dark threads before bringing the ends to my nose. I can smell cloves and figs and stare at her hair slipping like sand through my fingers. I decide that, if not black, it’s very close to it. The man who cuts Mother’s hair at the salon told her recently that the fashion is now for short bobs. He’s right, for we can see them everywhere; not up here so much, but down