There were exotic plants in Tecka’s garden, carefully tended by Francisco, including a fearsome giant pale blue cactus we called a pica, Spanish for ‘bite,’ and some under-nourished coniferous trees in a dark place in the backyard where we never played. Dad cut down one of these to serve as a Christmas tree one December, as imported trees were too expensive.
I remember one sombre memory as if it were yesterday: we were in the playroom when Dad brought a letter to Mum, who dissolved into tears. We were acutely distressed, and looked for an explanation, but English stoicism forbade enquiry. Dad’s lifelong maxim was “least said, soonest mended.” It was not a recipe for emotional disclosure, let alone maudlin confession, and it was only years later that we discovered that her father, my grandfather, a gentle man I had only met once as a toddler in Suffolk when he had encouraged me with a wink to “chase the chickens,” had committed suicide, and could not be buried in hallowed ground. One of the undeniable disadvantages of exile from family is the loss of contact with them, as every refugee knows to his or her cost. We were a close unit of five, and never knew the consolation of nearby relatives. Yet we were often left in the car while our parents went shopping, which speaks to the safety of children then taken for granted. Venezuelans loved children, and blonde, fair-skinned children in particular, as they were such a curiosity. I recall returning from Barbados once, and standing in a long line at customs. When my youngest and angelically chubby blonde brother in Mum’s arms began to cry crankily, adults in front, together with an obliging customs official, urged us to the front of the queue, with sympathetic murmurs of “Pobrecito!” (poor little one). It was probably the same official who, while inspecting our open luggage, picked up that most peculiar English yeast spread, a jar of Marmite, and, looking at my baby brother, innocently asked, “Medicina?” to which we all nodded enthusiastic assent.
