Short Story Competition Llanito Category: Runner-up: Yvonne Sacarello with ‘Mamaita’

“Isabelita me llamo yo, yo soy la hija de un pescado….”, the song drifted through the open window, along with the various alternatives as to who Isabelita’s father might have been! Stretching on tippy-toes to catch the banter from the patio below, I’d hear their comments then run and repeat these to my grandmother, before I forgot them.

“Mamaita, dicen que ai una que tuerce como un hombre, eso que es?” and she’d go off into gurgles of wheezy laughter.

I’d sit with her, repeating what I’d heard, singing the songs and giving reports on comments from the patio. She’d chuckle her throaty laugh, her eyes twinkling wickedly and though I couldn’t see what was funny, I was content just to see her laughing. This was the soundtrack to my childhood, and I loved it.

Those days with her were special, magical, she knew everything that was going on in “her world”, she brought motion and excitement from the armchair she never appeared to leave. Sitting there with her big black phone beside her on a sturdy Morocan side-table, she’d start her morning rounds of calls. Beginning with her sisters, then her children and finally ‘the friends’, she dialled all their numbers from memory, turning the clumsy dial with the help of a rubber ended pencil. I listened to these one-sided conversations and knew exactly when she was being naughty or telling a ‘white lie’ as she’d wink, holding up crossed gnarled fingers.

She was Mamaita, my ‘little Mama’, which seemed appropriate seeing she was so little. I rarely saw her out of her chair, but when I did, her tinyness always impressed me. Though years later I found out her name was actually Ita, after an Irish saint, I never found out the why of this, but possibly the red hair that popped up through the family, her sharp wit and love of the magical might account for this nod to the Irish. But to me she was always my Mamaita, my always swaddled in black bundle of entertainment and fount of all knowledge.

She never spoke a word of English and if I ever did speak to her in English. She would make it very clear she was NOT well pleased, waving her hand and harrumphing at my faux pas.

“Anda, anda, háblame en Cristiano”, she’d say, and occasionally, by way of explanation, she’d let me have a glimpse of what the years in London “en pleno bombardeo” had been like.

“El dia que nos fuimos de nuestra casa, hice promesa de vestirme siempre de negro si volvíamos todos a salvo – y volvimos!”

She’d tell me how they’d left their home, shipped out with a few of their possessions, not knowing when or if they’d ever return. In those moments her eyes would fill with tears, lost in the memories that still brought her so much pain. Taking our the hankie stored up her sleeve, she’d blow her nose, give her eyes a rub, and after a few sighs and sniffs, return it to its storage place, leaving only the scent of lavender behind.

“Que nunca se repita lo ya pasao” she’d say, changing the subject, and her mood, in the blink of an eye.

“Pasame las cartas, anda, ave que nos quentan hoy ….”, and with that she’d take the well-used pack of cards, shuffling them roughly before laying some out on the table next to her. I loved watching her though I didn’t for a minute believe she actually saw anything, it was just the fun of making up what she thought I’d like to hear. And we did have such fun.

“Yo veo un moreno guapo que viene buscando una muchachita peliroja … y trae muchas historias de aventuras”, and I’d smile and look amazed.

The changes happened so gradually I missed their beginning. Too slowly I became aware of changes in her humour, the almost extinguished twinkled in her eyes and the loss of that ever-present laughter. She barely used the phone now, and this sounded my first really loud alarm, instead she sat motionless, silent, when she would have been nattering on her morning ‘rounds’. I tried to coax her, to rouse her out of her lethargy, but my efforts were mostly met with indifference, or even annoyance.

I was too young to understand what was happening, why she couldn’t remember the games we’d played, or the jokes we’d shared. My attempts were brushed aside with an “Anda, anda, dejame ya, vete a jugar, no ve que no tengo gana?”

I was told to leave her be, that she was old and tired, but I knew that wasn’t it. I felt as if someone had locked my Mamaita in a shell and she couldn’t come out. But I knew she was in there as every now and then I caught that twinkle in her eyes and for a moment, before it faded, I’d catch a glimpse of her.

One day, as I went past the open window, I heard someone singing in the patio, picking up on the song as I went by, I sang along,

“Isabellita me llamo yo, yo soy la hija de un pescado …..”, and from behind I heard,

“Cuando era chica así de chica, cuando era grande así de grande”.
I couldn’t believe it, my Mamaita was signing! She carried on it her trembly voice, remembering all the words to the silly, childish son we’d shared. Her smile lit up her eyes and her face was alight with her old joy! I didn’t want it to stop. I started the song again, and again, the tears streaming down my face and I saw she was crying too, but she was more alive than I’d seen her for so long. She looked at me, smiled her old smile and said,

“Cuentame, que has oido hoy?”.

And then just as if someone had turned off a switch, she leant back closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Judge’s Comments:

As someone who grew up in Humphreys with bustle of el patio all around, this story brought back fond memories. There are many Gibraltarians for whom patio life, the tiny grandmother dressed in black and the morning round of calls will resonate. The story weaves the Llanito language through seamlessly and lends the narrative accuracy; the flashback to ‘el bombardeo’ also recognises the shared history of so many Gibraltarians of that generation. A heartwarming story that will remind many locals of their own grandmother.