(Set in Andalusia, Spain in the 1970s, based on a true story).
The coach drew out of the bus station onto the main road. The radio churned out popular Spanish music and every now and again, a news bulletin informed the somnolent country about political events that almost nobody understood or cared much about.
Maria sat comfortably, looking out of the window at the anonymous little, whitewashed houses and narrow streets, as the coach sped by on its route towards the city. She felt excited when she thought that at long last she was on her way to fulfilling her dream of becoming a nurse. Ever since she had visited her grandmother in hospital and watched how the nurses worked, she was convinced of her vocation.
The figure of her father loomed up like a daunting giant in her memory. He was not a bad person, she persuaded herself emotionally. His dark, sun-dried skin and calloused hands told of how hard he worked for his wife and five children. However, Maria could not help feeling a bitter grudge for the way he had treated her.
“You don’t need to study,” he would growl. “It’s a waste of time for a girl.”
His words rang in her ears and provoked a surge of rage. She pursed her lips and tossed her head defiantly as she thought of them, pushing her dark, curly hair back off her face. She looked sadly at her own hands, also hardened by hours of work in the fields.
She thought of her poor, overworked mother, so understanding and affectionate, but helpless to solve the conflict. Maria had a clear picture of her, practically begging her relentless husband for the week’s allowance. Her mother justified every peseta and painstakingly explained what bills and expenses she had to pay, with no more response than grunts and insults. That image was maybe the strongest motivation to study that Maria had had.
“I’ll never beg for money,” she swore to herself over and over again.
Rows and rows of equally spaced olive trees stretched out ahead and behind the coach for kilometres. They gave the undulating fields a dark green colour over patches of tough, parched grass and stony earth. She remembered the hours of hard labour in the fields, picking up olives from the ground, dropping them into a black rubber carrier and tipping them into carts. After eight hours in the fields, she would come home with her back aching and hands sore. Then she would have a shower, gather up her books and hurry off to night school. She had earned her keep, so her father could not complain about her studying, and made a great enthusiastic effort to pass her exams.
Now that was all over. She was eighteen, she had graduated from school and got a place to study nursing. She felt satisfied and confident. She was on her way to fulfill her dream. She had a little scraped-up money in her pocket and her head full of hopeful expectations.
The coach turned into the bus station and drew to a halt. Maria put on her rather drab, blue coat and slipped her arm through her brown shoulder bag. She waited patiently for the passengers to file out of the bus. She collected her leather suitcase from the boot and lugged it out into the street. People pushed past her, each one going about their business and ignoring her completely. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with the address on it and plucked up the courage to ask a friendly-looking woman the way. Following her directions, she started off uphill towards the centre.
She spent some time straining her neck to read street names, and tramping around with her suitcase getting heavier at every street corner. Eventually, she arrived at an ominous building with ‘Nursing School’ on a plaque outside and joined a short queue at the registrar’s office. She smiled nervously at any other girl who met her eyes, awaiting her turn. When it came, the clerk, a sour-looking woman in her forties with short fair hair and red lips, looked up her name on a list and gave her a form to fill in.
“You have to pay to enrol and two months’ upkeep in advance,” said the clerk mechanically, for the umpteenth time that day.
“How much is that?” asked Maria, fearing the worst.
“Seventeen thousand pesetas.”
Maria’s jaw dropped and her heart sank. She only had two thousand pesetas in her purse.
“I haven’t got that much,” she half whispered in shame.
“Then you can’t enrol,” spat out the clerk. “Next, please.”
Maria picked up her suitcase and left the desk. Looking around miserably, she found a wooden bench and sat down, her case by her side. Whatever could she do now? She could not and would not ask her father for money. He probably did not have that much anyway. A wave of despair and frustration came over her. After all her efforts, it seemed that she would not be able to become a nurse. Tears welled up and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.
A girl her own age, with long dark hair and a friendly face, sat down beside her.
“Have you enrolled already?” she asked.
“I can’t,” muttered Maria with a lump in her throat. “I haven’t got the money.”
“Oh, dear, what are you going to do?”
Maria reacted. Of course, she had to do something.
“I’m going to speak to the person in charge,” she said, convincingly. “ Can you look after my case for me?”
She spotted a uniformed man at the door and asked him who ran the school and where her office was. Then she searched the wide, empty, aseptic corridors with huge, sash windows and white painted doors. When she found the door with ‘Head Matron’ on it, she knocked tentatively.
“Come in,” answered a stern voice.
Maria took a deep breath, plucked up courage and opened the door. Inside, Maria saw a middle-aged woman with greying hair under a nun’s coif and dark blue uniform, sitting at a desk and pouring over some papers.
Maria stood, fidgeting with her bag and pushing back her rebellious hair.
“What do you want?” asked the voice.
Maria explained her situation as coherently as she could, feeling more and more awkward as she got no response.
Finally, the Head Matron looked up over her glasses and surveyed the young girl in front of her. She looked sensible, healthy, clean with no makeup, tidy except for that hair, and unpretentious with sensible shoes. She liked that. She did not like these squeamish girls with romantic ideas about nursing.
“I’ll do anything to pay my way,” pleaded Maria, her beseeching brown eyes wet with tears.
“Anything?”
“Yes, cleaning, cooking, whatever…”
The Head Matron thought for a moment.
“Do you really think you can work and study at the same time?”
“Of course. In my village, I worked in the fields all day and studied at night. Here I can study in the morning and work in the afternoon.”
This was the kind of girl the Head Matron wanted in her school, courageous and hard-working. She thought it would not be difficult to find her a job in domestic service, girls were always in demand in the houses of the wealthy.
“I’ll see what I can do for you,” she decided. “You can enrol.”
Maria felt a wave of gratitude and happiness as she backed out of the office. She mumbled thanks and almost danced along the corridors, taking the Head Matron’s note back to the registrar’s office. The clerk looked at it nonchalantly and shrugged, wondering why this country bumpkin deserved a special favour.
The girl who was watching her suitcase smiled when she saw Maria’s face beaming with satisfaction.
“How did you manage it?” she asked inquisitively.
Maria grinned and shrugged her shoulders mysteriously.
Half an hour later, Maria was hauling her suitcase up the stairs to her room, chatting to her new friend, Susana. She took in everything excitedly. The bleak rooms with iron bedsteads looked to her like those of a five-star hotel. She smiled innocently at the other girls with an open heart, ready to make friends. She sat on a bed and read to the last comma the instructions she had been given so as not to do anything wrong. Her mind was dazed at the thought of a new thrilling life. It would not be less hard work, but she could take that in her stride because now she was sure that her dream would come true. She really was going to be a nurse.