Daughter of Catalonia by Jane MacKenzie

smile; her tears receded, and she walked towards the hotel.
    The entrance to the hotel was an old archway, with heavy wooden twin doors opening outwards, and now held open to the world, with a small porch inside and an inner glass door through which a small flood of light glowed amber on whitewashed walls and a floor of beautiful Spanish tiles in a riotous pattern of orange, yellow, blue and green. The hall was a narrow corridor, leading to a steep staircase in the gloom beyond, while by the entrance was a dark wooden counter, a small reception area behind it, and then a door to a room which looked, from the glimpse Madeleine caught of it, like an office and sitting room combined. Two rickety old chairs in Spanish leather stood in front of the counter, and, shining silver in the light of the single bulb, on the counter was a tiny push-buttonbell. Madeleine put her case gratefully down onto the tiles, and rang the bell.
    There was a flurry of movement from the room beyond, and the sound of a kindly, hectoring voice, and then two people crowded into the small space behind the counter. Monsieur and Madame Curelée, her hosts at the Hotel Bon Repos. Madame Curelée dominated the tiny space, an elderly, matronly landlady in a black dress and rumpled apron tied over an ample waist. Almost tucked behind her was her husband, a small man with a few wispy grey hairs, who stood in her shadow, wordless but nodding. Madame Curelée was voluble in her welcome, a woman, Madeleine was sure, who would have her life story from her in hours. Her strong accent indicated she was a local woman. She might prove useful. After all, Madeleine had nothing to hide, and was here to learn and discover. Madame Curelée would undoubtedly be a mine of local information. For now, she allowed the elderly woman’s words to flow over her, enjoying the feeling of being at her destination. It was the end of the first stage of her journey, and it was good to have arrived.
    ‘Welcome, Mademoiselle Garriga. We have your reservation, of course. And the best room for you, with a view of the sea, and next to the bathroom. I am sure you will be very happy. How long are you staying? At least a week? Well, welcome. Have you travelled far? From Paris? In one day?
Mon Dieu!
You must be exhausted. You will sleep well on our bed, but first I am sure you want to eat something. Alain, come here, take Mademoiselle’s suitcase to her room. Quickly now, the poor young lady is tired. Gowith my husband, Mademoiselle, and then, when you are ready, I have some purée with a nice piece of beef for you, just waiting for you to arrive. Our dining room is there behind you, and there’s a little sitting room as well. You’ll be comfortable, oh yes, very comfortable.’
    Madame Curelée waved a hand of dismissal at her husband, almost pushing him towards the stairs, still nodding and smiling at Madeleine, who found herself following wordlessly in his hapless wake, like a piece of flotsam drifting in a strong shore-bound current. Madame’s words followed them up the stairs.
    ‘You will find your towel in your room, Mademoiselle. You will want to wash before some supper, I’m sure. And there is a new lavender soap in the bathroom laid out for you on the washbasin. As soon as you are ready I will have your supper ready for you, so late as it is, and you most likely starving on that long train journey. And a glass of wine to warm you. Oh yes, oh yes, a glass of our good Vermeilla wine will set you to rights, no doubt.’ And she gave a satisfied nod which brooked no argument.
    It was approaching ten o’clock, and Madeleine was far from hungry, provided as she had been all day with the picnic prepared for her by
Tante
Louise’s housekeeper. But to say so to Madame Curelée seemed all but unthinkable, so she gave a fleeting smile backwards down the stairs towards her hostess, then followed Monsieur Curelée meekly along the upper corridor to her room.
    Upstairs the floors were tiled with