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THE
BLUE DOOR
Mr.
Bellamy sat on a bus that was carrying him from
the coast of Las Palmas up into the countryside.
The bus was an old Leyland and bore that logo on
its radiator. He had been surprised and rather
proud to find an English bus so far from home.
In England it might have been come across in a
Transport Museum, but here it was still
treasured as a serviceable and reliable vehicle.
The colours of the company that ran the service
were blue and orange and the number of this
particular bus was 303. The seats were of
imitation leather, worn and flattened through
many years of use, but nostalgically more
comfortable than their moulded plastic
equivalents deemed fitting for modern bottoms.
Mr. Bellamy thought them to be part of the
quaint experience, like the bus itself.
He had not intended to catch the 303 – it was
about to depart when he had arrived at the
Estacion de Guaguas, the bus station, and since
his mind was open to any new experience (it was
a sort of indolence really – he didn’t care
where he went)) he had got onto it. There was
only a handful of other people besides himself
and he supposed that at two o’clock most of
the islanders were eating or having their
siesta.
As the bus pulled out of its underground refuge
Mr.Bellamy looked out of the window attentively,
willing to be impressed by scenery that was new
to him, for this might be the last trip he would
ever make. In England Mr. Bellamy had been to
his doctor about pains in his chest. He had been
sent for exhaustive tests, some of them not at
all pleasant. The prognosis was not good.
Barely twelve months ago his wife had been
snatched away from him after an operation that
had failed to halt the disease that finally
defeated her. He was alone; they had had a son
but had lost him through meningitis when he was
eight. There had been no other children, for
neither of them had dared risk another such
loss. Somehow they had carried on, had changed
their ways to make room for the empty space and
became set in them. Although they were sociable
enough (they were members of a local bridge
club) they had never made any close friends.
Nobody knew how their tragedy had dulled any
desire to make relationships.
Mr. Bellamy was fifty-two and had taken early
retirement to be with his wife as much as
possible when things had got too bad for her.
His second loss enlarged the empty space within
him and there could never be anything to fill
it. He and Mrs. Bellamy had been very close and
he had not yet been able to settle to a new life
that did not contain her. He had heard of people
remarrying soon after the loss of a wife or
husband, but he could never understand that. How
could one spend a life with someone for so long
and so intimately that each knew the other’s
thoughts and could anticipate the other’s
feelings to a T then wipe the slate clean and
start again? Mr.Bellamy considered that to
transfer one’s self, one’s body and daily
habits to another was an act of treachery to the
person with whom they had previously been shared
so happily.
Being left alone after twenty-four years of
close marriage was not something he could adjust
to easily. His life became one of sterile
routine and the difficulty of facing each day
without his wife never lessened. And now this -
all the tests and the gloomy forecast. He was
feeling pretty low. He thought that his life was
not worth living and he was at the sort of loose
end that could turn into a noose. But he had a
religious superstition about ending things
prematurely. He resolutely took the prescribed
one sleeping-tablet when it was needed; he was
never tempted to take more.
After he had come out of a particularly morbid
patch he told himself that what he needed was a
break. It would do him good to get away,
although he knew that it would not improve his
health nor alleviate his loneliness. He knew
only too well that tragedies are internal and
are not to be escaped from simply by changing
one’s surroundings. But maybe a fresh scene,
away from the semi-detached and all the memories
it breathed, away from the routine they had
happily shared, which was now stale and
lacklustre, would take his mind of things
temporarily. He had retired on a decent pension
and he had savings, so there was no worry on
that score. Why not take his grief on a little
holiday?
When he finally went into the travel
agency he had no ideas about places to go
to and when the young man behind the counter
suggested the Canaries he had accepted it
without discussion. The only choice he had to
make was between Las Palmas and Tenerife, and he
chose Las Palmas because it came first in the
alphabet.
Mr. Bellamy was of middling height, slight in
build and with a full head of hair that had
greyed a lot more since the death of his wife.
His features were pleasant but impassive, and
his grey eyes had a deceptive blankness that
offered no revelations. His first name was
George and his peers in the office who were on
an equal footing had called him that. Younger
members had called him Mr.Bellamy. Even
neighbours and people at the bridge club called
him Mr.Bellamy. Perhaps this had something to do
with his manner. It wasn’t exactly cold or
stiff in any way, but he did not open himself to
familiarity; he did not, as it were, open the
door wide and invite you in. When introduced to
anyone as Mr.Bellamy he would let that stick, he
would never dream of saying, ‘Call me
George.’ He kept his distance, and his sole
intimate friend had been his wife.
The bus had made another stop before it left the
city, near a large grey building which the
little tourist book he had bought at a kiosk in
the Parque Santa Catalina told him was the Perez
Galdos Theatre. Now it was passing through
little clusters of buildings and open spaces
where palm trees, aloes and other plants, some
unknown to him, could be seen. It stopped at one
or two places to let down passengers but there
was never anyone to get on. Mr. Bellamy supposed
that they were climbing for he gradually felt a
not unwelcome coolness, and the palm trees had
given way to eucalyptus. The bus did not travel
at a great speed for there were a deal of curves
in the road and very few places where traffic
could overtake. In fact they had trailed behind
a slow moving lorry for quite a distance before
it turned off at a junction and they were able
to go a little faster.
Mr. Bellamy began to feel drowsy and now and
again his eyes closed despite his effort to
concentrate on the scenery outside. Suddenly he
was brought to awareness by the bus’s effort
to climb a short steep incline that brought them
into a village larger than any they had yet
passed through. The buildings lining the road
were not typically Canary, being built of modern
materials in a square unappealing style that was
becoming ubiquitous
in the island. Happily there were views of
hillsides which edged in the village where
typical houses with their old white walls and
red roofs could be seen.
The bus was moving more slowly now. It passed a
small street in which Mr. Bellamy saw three
taxis waiting to be hired; two of the drivers
were playing a card game at a stone table set
into the pavement. A few more yards up the road
and the bus turned to the left and went round a
small block of buildings to come out into a side
street opposite the one where the taxis stood.
The bus stopped with its nose facing the main
road they had just come along, and Mr.Bellamy
guessed, correctly, that it would return the way
it had come. There was a bar on the corner.
The remaining three or four passengers left the
bus. One of them, an old lady in black with a
large bundle, hurried across the road and caught
one of the taxis. The bus driver locked his
money drawer and shuffled out of his seat. He
took out the destination board from the two
clips that held it to the window and turned it
over so that it now showed to the world LAS
PALMAS instead of SAN PEDRO. He turned his head
and called out in a rough but not unfriendly
voice something that Mr. Bellamy took to mean
‘We’ve arrived’ or ‘Here we are’, got
down and went into the bar.
Mr.Bellamy looked at his watch and saw that it
wanted half-an-hour for the bus to begin its
return journey. He assumed that he was free to
sit where he was or get down and stretch his
legs, or even go exploring and catch the next
bus an hour later. He got down.
He passed the entrance to the bar and saw the
driver of the bus seated at the counter; a
barman in a grubby apron was pouring him a drink
of some sort into a small glass. Another man sat
a little further along the counter, eating and
reading a newspaper. The place was untidy and
squares of tissue that clients had wiped their
mouths on littered the floor. Obviously the busy
time had passed.
Mr.Bellamy crossed the road and walked up the
street past the taxis. The taxi drivers were
playing their cards on a round stone table that
was supported on a central column; and were
seated on smaller versions of the table. A large
tree planted in the pavement gave them needed
shade. Mr. Bellamy thought they looked like
large gnomes sitting on mushrooms. They glanced
up momentarily and eyed the stranger with open
curiosity. The cards they held in their brown
hands were not the sort Mr.Bellamy used to play
bridge with in England; they had odd pictures on
them and as he walked on he heard the men
shouting excitedly. Perhaps they were accusing
each other of cheating; or perhaps it was the
normal way of playing cards here. No one ever
raised their voice at the bridge club, even when
a partner laid down the wrong cards. Mr. Bellamy
thought foreigners must be more excitable.
The sun beat down out of a sky that was the
clearest blue. Mr.Bellamy was uncomfortably hot.
He wished now that he had bought one of the
straw hats he had seen in Las Palmas. He did
something he would never have dreamed of doing
back home. He took off his jacket, put his
finger through the loop at the back of its
collar and hung it over his shoulder. With his
other hand he took out a handkerchief and wiped
his brow.
He turned a corner at the top of the street and
in front of him was a church with a clock and a
bell, and a broad set of steps going up to the
door. The clock was not working, for it showed
eleven-fifty. He stopped at the foot of the
steps and thought he heard the faint strains of
singing. He climbed up to the door and the sound
was louder. He put his ear to the wood and to
his amazement could clearly make out the
stirring rhythm of the Hallelujah Chorus. He
turned the huge iron ring in the door but the
door did not budge. He put his shoulder to it
but it would not give. Abruptly the Chorus was
ceased. Mr. Bellamy pressed his ear against the
oak panel until it hurt, but he could hear no
more sound from within. He stood back and gazed
at the locked door for a few moments, then
descended the steps and crossed over to a low
walled square that seemed to offer a little
shade from the fierce sun.
A building that appeared to be of some
importance faced this square. Perhaps some
offices to do with the running of the area,
Mr.Bellamy thought. He sat down on a stone seat
near a tree that cast a welcome shade on him.
Two brown doves with black rings round their
necks that had been pecking about at the foot of
the tree flew up into its branches. He was sorry
to have disturbed them. He kept quite still so
that they might be encouraged to come down and
carry on with their lunch. He had no idea how
long he sat there. He looked at his watch and
that too had stopped – and at the same time as
the church clock, ten-to-twelve. That puzzled
him, for he had checked it with the digital
clock at the bus station in Las Palmas and it
was then two-fifteen. There must be something
wrong with the spring in it, he thought. It was
an old watch and a cheap one; perhaps it was
worn out. Mr.Bellamy hated to be reminded of the
passing of time and had never thought it
important to spend a lot of money on a watch;
and he rarely wore one since he had retired.
He gave up on the doves and stood up. He had
grown cool in the shade so he slipped his jacket
back on. At the left-hand side of the building
he saw that there was another small exit and he
made for it. It led him into a narrow street of
old houses. Their doors, of different brightly
preserved colours, were all fastened and there
were no windows. Most of them had only one-storey.
The roofs were of corrugated red tiles, old and
weathered and coloured with lichens. Mr. Bellamy
liked their oldness and their historic
quaintness. This is what one comes to see, he
said to himself.
He strolled gently along the narrow way between
the rows of houses. It was not wide enough for a
car to pass through and Mr. Bellamy was glad of
that for he suddenly hated the thought of that
quiet place being shaken and disturbed by metal
and modernity. Because of the absence of windows
he was able to observe closely the character of
the walls and doorways without fear of giving
offence. Then he came to a door that was
slightly ajar and above which in a stone lintel
was engraved a word: BIENVENIDO.
Something came over Mr. Bellamy. He was not an
unusually curious man by nature, and certainly
not one to trespass, but he suddenly had an urge
he could not conquer to push at that door. It
gave easily.
The little scene inside came as a great and
delightful surprise to him. It was a small
shaded patio with a large stone bowl in the
centre, decorated with acanthus leaves and in
which burbled a gentle fountain. There were
ferns, real acanthus plants, and even
aspidistras. There were flowers in tin cans
hanging from the stone walls and a jasmine in a
large pot filled the air with its pungent scent.
Moorish tiles were set into the earth. The place
was cool and quiet, a tranquil oasis after the
hot sun outside. Mr.Bellamy felt quite odd:
disturbed with pleasure is the way he might have
put it.
Conscious of intruding, he entered cautiously. A
door in the left-hand wall caught and kept his
attention because of its colour. It was painted
blue, but such a blue that immediately called to
his mind flowers of that colour in his garden
back home. Was it the muscari? No, not quite
that. Ah, the myosotis, the forget-me-not. He
was about to step forward and examine the door
more closely when it suddenly and quietly
opened. A woman stepped into the patio. It was
difficult to guess her age but her manner was
that of a mature person confident in herself.
She wore a black dress that reached to her
ankles and held in at the waist by a band of
white macramé. Her long grey hair, almost
white, was tied back with a piece of black
ribbon. Perhaps his eyes had not become
accustomed to the shade after the brightness of
the street, but it seemed to Mr.Bellamy that her
features subtly changed from one moment to
another so that it was difficult to describe
them. For one fantastic moment he thought she
looked like his wife
She came towards him smiling, so he relaxed –
he was not about to be criticised for entering.
‘Forgive me,’ said Mr.Bellamy. ‘The door
was open. I was so curious, I couldn’t help
stepping in.’
‘You are welcome,’ the woman replied in a
compliant voice.
‘Excuse me for asking, but what is that word
over your doorway?'
‘Exactly what I have wished you. Bienvenido
– welcome.’
Mr.Bellamy felt a warmth in his heart that he
had not felt for a long time.
‘Your English is perfect,’ he complimented
her.
She smiled and said, ‘It should be.’
‘You are English then?’ (She nodded).
‘Have you been living here long?’
‘Not very long.’
‘I was admiring the door,’ said Mr. Bellamy.
‘Such an unusual blue. It’s beautiful.’
The woman, still smiling, gave an almost
imperceptible nod of her head in agreement and
took Mr. Bellamy by the hand and led him to the
door.
‘I have someone I would like you to meet,’
she told him.
Mr. Bellamy was mystified. ‘To meet?’ he
echoed.
‘I’m sure you will find him interesting,’
the woman assured him. ‘Call him.’
‘But I don’t know him. I mean…what shall I
call him? What’s his name?’
‘Call him whatever comes to your mind,’ said
his new companion.
‘Anything? Any name?’
‘Whatever crosses your mind. Don’t be
hesitant. Call.’ Her manner was gentle and
reassuring.
Mr. Bellamy had no need to think of a name,
there was one on his lips already:
‘Nicholas,’ he called softly, and the walls
of the patio echoed the three syllables, making
of them a musical phrase. A small hand gripped
the edge of the door from within and gently
opened it wide. A boy of eight or nine years
stepped out. He was dressed in a white suit and
a white cotton shirt open at the neck; his shoes
were white, too. His skin was the colour of
milk, his hair the colour of honey. To
Mr.Bellamy, who was, despite his dryness, an
impressionable person, the child seemed
preternatural, a shimmering apparition in that
cool and silent patio. He held a small book in
his left hand and with his right hand he took
Mr.Bellamy carefully by the sleeve and led him
to a wooden seat that was painted green and
covered with a small Turkish rug.
They sat down side by side and the boy pressed
the book into his hands. Mr. Bellamy understood
that the child wanted him to read from it.
The mother (if indeed she was) stood aside,
smiling down on them, her hands clasped in front
of her.
Mr.Bellamy began to read and the boy attended
raptly as though anxious not to miss the least
preposition.
The tale was an allegory couched in simple but
fantastic terms suitable for a child or a
sensitive adult. It had to do with a child and
his journey from darkness to light. On his way
he was accosted by various personages, some good
and some that tempted him away from
righteousness. But the outcome was joyful and
the moral crystal clear.
Mr. Bellamy read with honesty appropriate to the
simple tale, in a modulated voice that could
scarce have reached the woman. The little fable
came to an end and the child gave a soft sigh
that had more of contentment in it than sorrow.
Mr.Bellamy closed the book gently and looked at
the boy. The eyes were faltering and the little
red mouth was open. He laid his head on
Mr.Bellamy’s lap and slumbered. Mr.Bellamy
gently put his hand on the golden head. He was
acutely aware of his strange situation, but he
was not ill at ease in it, nor did he wish it to
cease.
The woman came forward and took the child in her
arms as though he were a feather and carried him
back into the inner room. Mr. Bellamy stood up
and watched her go. She was not gone long. She
returned without the child and said to Mr.
Bellamy, ‘It’s time for you to go.’ It was
not a dismissal, merely a gentle reminder.
Mr. Bellamy raised his left arm to look at his
watch, remembered and let it drop again. ‘Yes,
I suppose it is,’ he said.
‘I’ll show you the way,’ the woman said.
‘No, please. Please don’t bother yourself. I
know the way.’
She laid her hand on his arm and said, ‘Please
come again. Soon.’
Mr. Bellamy stepped out into the hot street and
began to retrace his steps. At the corner he
looked back and saw the woman standing by in the
doorway, smiling but not waving.
He went past the doves, which were pecking
again; past the taxi drivers, who had started a
new game; past the bar with the litter on the
floor; and arrived at the blue and orange
Leyland bus.
He climbed into it and resumed his old seat. He
looked out of the window; he laid his head
against the glass and closed his eyes.
Later the driver of the bus was to tell that
when he arrived at San Pedro he called to the
foreign gentleman that he must leave the bus
until it was the proper time for its return
journey in half-an-hour’s time. The stranger
had not responded, and when he went up to him,
thinking him to be asleep, he found that he was
sin vida, without life. To English ears that
sounds a very quaint way of putting it, but the
meaning is clear enough.
April, 2001
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