Despite losing her mother at a very early age, Marie-Carmen had a previleged childhood. Born in to a wealthy family, an only child, and raised by her adoring father and devoted maid, Marie-Carmen had a wholesome, happy and fulfilled childhood. Not particularly pretty as a child, she grew in to a stunning-looking young woman. She was fit and cheerful, rarely ill, tolerably serious about school work, surrounded by friends and the families of friends.
She didn’t shine at anything in particular. She enjoyed horse-riding, and had her own pony by the time she was five, but she never became an adept horse-woman. She learned to play the piano when young, but was not especially talented, and the same could be said of her performance in ballet, art or sport. She was a good all-rounder in a modest sort of way.
She was generous and kind-hearted and, thanks largely to her maid, knew and understood all about the poor and, in the early days of her marriage she organized many fund-raisers for various causes, sometimes raising stunning amounts of money. Her maid would have liked to have seen her married and having babies by the time she was seventeen – and she made this very clear on many occasion. She didn’t wait a great deal longer than that, anyhow, and her papa said she had simply fallen for the first good-looking man to come her way. There was some truth in that.
Had she been asked what her papa did for a living she’d have said he was a business man. That is all. She was sharp enough to know there was more to it than that, but not sharp enough – or interested enough – to query any further. Her papa loved her and looked after her, and there was no need for her to look any deeper. She was to never know that her father’s dying wish was that she never be told the truth.
Extract from “Saying Nothing” by Catherine Broughton:-
At the top of El Modronal the road split in two, one leading back down to San Pedro and the other on up to the road to Ronda. Paul turned uphill, leaving the smartly tarmacked, villa-lined road and joining the new road into the mountains. He remembered, smiling slightly, the first time they had gone to Ronda. Janie was seventeen and the road was narrow and frightening, with steep slopes on either side and Janie had gripped onto the sides of her seat, staring with horror at the landscape around her. He had only just passed his driving test and badly wanted to drive but her father had – rightly – insisted he drove. Christ, that was years ago now!
Every now and then there was a small grotto in the rocks at the side of the road, no larger than a man’s shoulders, in which was placed a statuette of the Virgin Mary and some flowers, often plastic. Years ago, when they had first come up this road, these little places of prayer were quite common.
It was fairly hot. I must stop for something to eat and drink soon, Paul thought as he pulled off the road in a totally deserted area. He came to a halt on a little dusty track at the edge of a big parched brown hillside that stretched off, brittle and dotted with small green jagged plants, into the blue sky. There were no signs of life, not even a white hamlet or far-off village. Just hills and boulders and small stumps of parched shrubbery. Lying incongruously to was side was an old moped, its paintwork rusted, its tyres perished.
Paul got out of the car and stretched his legs. He kicked a stone to one side and a small lizard appeared from under it, and scurried off under another.
Order as an e-book by clicking below:
Or order from Amazon/Kindle :-
Catherine Broughton’s books can also be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.