DONCASTER

DONCASTER The York University language project for which I was working in that Georgian-style house near Micklegate Gate across the River Ouse closed its doors. Those were the times in which England opened the doors to the world and the Labor government cherished a plan to teach different languages ​​(French, German, Italian, Spanish and Russian) in the secondary schools: Comprehensive Schools and Public Schools. I had a hard time because the dismissal letter arrived on May 21, 1970, the day after Helen was born. Thank God the head of the Department Mr. Rowlands was kind enough to speak with the Yorkshire county educational authorities, they recognized my university degree to teach at a secondary school in Doncaster, a town near Wilberfoss. They gave us a protected low-income state house (council house), we closed the Wilberfoss house, a bungalow that took me part of my salary. To save money I used to hitchhike to work. I had many adventures that I do not want to explain here but that enabled me to know the idiosyncrasies of the English of the North. Good people. I even assimilated his accent and friends told me if he was Irish because I could see the "brogue" vocalization that drags the r's, others that if he was Jewish because my locution was somewhat nasal like that of Hebrews. I was determined to stay and live in England forever and I became fluent in English almost like the natives themselves. The journalism bug kept biting me. I submitted several articles to The Guardian that were rejected and even wrote applications to place myself on the BBC in the Spanish Department. I did a good interview and I thought I had won the position but I also failed. Apparently the head of that section was a Catalan named Rafael Sala, a fervent Catalanist, and he must have smelled the Francoist stilts with which I have always gone around the world with my forehead held high. We built the house the few things we had and Suzanne, who had been happy in Wilberfoss in that chalet on the side of the highway almost under some power lines from the countryside, found it difficult to accommodate Doncaster working town she who came from a aristocratic London family. The coucil house had a back garden in front of a football field. Two floors up the kitchen the lounge and two bedrooms, a service with bathroom. The neighborhood a suburb of Doncaster was called Edenthorpe, which is something like the hill of Eden. I liked those people. Everyone helped me but I had communication difficulties. He taught the children songs and Christmas carols but one day he raised his index finger up, one of the smallest in the class, the son of a miner named Pailing, stood up and said to me: ─Why do I wanto to learn Spanish, Sir, if I go to be all my life in the pit? (Why the hell do I want to know Spanish, sir, if I'm going to spend my life downstairs in the gallery of the mine) That question from the intrepid and savvy Pailing disheartened me, ending my decision to be a benign teacher in any UK school. Those were the times of the "packet holidays" and many of my students' parents had spent vacation seasons on the Costa Brava, Mallorca and Benidorm, coinciding with the tourist boom. Otherwise, Suzanne began to feel the symptoms of a serious illness that would bring her to the operating table in no time: itching, hair loss, bulging eyes, a swollen neck, a swollen body. The disease had come. It was thyroid cancer. My God. One day when I got home from giving my classes, I found her crying on the couch and she told me something that tore me apart: ─You brought me bad luck. I was to blame for that disease. We had been through a drama before getting married. The church wedding had been called off and was done in Hounslow gamble. Poor Mr. Hugh, how nice and patient he was with me! He had to postpone the ceremony, the banquet expenses, everything. Her mother Mary Joseph suffered greatly. The reason for that unfortunate decision on my part was my mother who opposed like crazy. "You are going to marry an English whore." Work Mr. Hugh, a gentleman, a holy man. Now after more than fifty years I forgive the one who gave me being and I ask forgiveness from my father-in-law, but I do not forgive myself. I have to confess with verses from León Felipe "I will beg forgiveness from many people but I am incapable. All those who could forgive me are dead." I pick up from the Calepino what I wrote in my personal diary of washed-out promises, a cry in the dark that fills me with remorse: Juana Galindo Martín, my mother I will not praise your greatness as an implacable Castilian I will say nothing of your beauty You never get old for me You don't know anything about this love for Suzanne that penetrates me And you don't understand They are the strange ligaments of the flesh That