Dolores and Other Sorrows

By Denis Smyth Díaz and Marta Muñoz Cuesta

Life is full of unexpected twists, but how do ordinary people like us handle these pivotal moments? This insightful book delves into the myriad choices we face: those thrust upon us, made subconsciously or where the right path is shrouded in uncertainty. It’s a reflection on the signs that guide us – those we heed and those we overlook – and a meditation on the intricacies of human nature encompassing frustration, joy, growth, and the subtle progression of ageing. It’s a celebration of the strength of the unnoticed heroes who don’t make it into the history books but move forward regardless.

“Often, Denis speaks so softly that you have to put your ear down close to the page to hear what he is saying. Then the b*st*rd turns the volume up.”

– A snippet of praise, from Greta Voitel, musician and artist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398445901

Denis Smyth Díaz

Denis Smyth Díaz was born in Madrid, Spain, to English and Spanish parents, he studied English at a university in Spain (and briefly in France), and also attended creative writing courses. Denis then moved to Belgium to pursue his day job in translating. At night, he would translate some of his own Spanish stories and work on some new ones, kids permitting. Find more about the author here: www.smythdiaz.com

Book preview

About the Author

Denis Smyth Díaz was born in Madrid, Spain, to English and Spanish parents, he studied English at a university in Spain (and briefly in France), and also attended creative writing courses. Denis then moved to Belgium to pursue his day job in translating. At night, he would translate some of his own Spanish stories and work on some new ones, kids permitting.

Find more about the author here www.smythdiaz.com

Dedication

To my Muses

Copyright Information ©

Denis Smyth Díaz 2024

The right of Denis Smyth Díaz to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398445895 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398445901 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Jelen Liam Megan Martin Alicia for their support and for putting up with my grumpy days.

Thanks to Carlos Pitillas and Javier Yagüe for their support and for being amazing intellectual companions.

Huge thanks to Marta Muñoz for her wonderful cover.

And more thanks than I can express to Mary Kennelly for making this book happen. Yes, you read that right: if it hadn’t been for her support, her insight and her enthusiasm, you wouldn’t be holding this book between your fingers right now.

Dolores

‘I’m not crying.’

‘Yes, you are. And all you do is moan. You’re ugly and all you do is moan.’ I always think that I’m whispering, but then Mum calls from the living room.

‘What did you say, honey?’

‘Nothing, Mum.’

She doesn’t ask anything else, so I don’t say any more either. ‘You see? She notices everything. She can hear everything.’

Lola stays quiet. I don’t know if she’s angry, but I don’t care. She’s always teasing me at the worst possible moment. One day, Mum is going to find out what Lola is up to and she’s going to be mad.

I sit in the corner, facing the wall, with my plastic bricks, so that Lola doesn’t bother me. I could call her Dolores. Sometimes, when I do that, she leaves me alone, but other times that makes her mad, and when she gets mad she says nasty things that make me cry. It’s easier to play with the plastic bricks and not pay attention to her. I build a tower with my bricks and then pick all the pieces apart again. I rebuild it with the bricks in a different order and I drop it so that it crashes on the floor.

Lola is behind me, making a fuss. She knows Pups is my favourite doll, so she’s always telling me how ugly he is. I like him because he’s soft and doesn’t break if I drop him on the floor. It’s true that half his filling is gone now and Mum fixed him, but there’s not much she could do. It looks as if he’s lost weight. He’s not as soft as he used to be, and the colours are pale and almost gone, and Mum says that if she puts him in the washing machine again he’s going to break. I believe her, but Lola says it’s because Mum doesn’t care about me. I’m sure that’s not true. Mum always combs my hair and asks me every day what I ate at school so that she doesn’t prepare the same thing at night.

I also like my wooden dolls. These belonged to Jenny, the new girl. She said her grandad brought them from Russia and that her grandad had a lot of them, but that these were hers. I like them more than she does. And she’s a know-it-all, too. She always raises her hand when Miss asks something. She cried a lot when her dolls went missing, but Lola told me that is because she’s always crying and that it served her right. Cry-babies deserve it. She once cried because she fell and hurt her knees. I don’t cry anymore. Lola says I shouldn’t cry for silly things like that, that I am always crying and that God punishes girls who cry.

The wooden dolls are not like the bricks. I can put one inside of the other, but they need to be in the right order, because if they’re not they don’t fit. The largest one is like Grandad, then there’s Mum and me. There’s also the smallest one, which you cannot open. It is as small as the baby Jesus of the crèche. Lola says it’s her, but I don’t like it when she says that. I don’t like it that she’s there.

Some books fall from a shelf and crash against the floor. I gasp. ‘Lola, don’t drop the books. You’re going to bother Mum.’

‘It wasn’t me who did it. It was you. You moved them with your arm.’

‘That’s not true, it was you who did it.’

‘You’re a clumsy girl and you lie and God is going to punish you.’

‘That’s not true, and I didn’t touch the books.’

‘And why do you want books, anyway? You haven’t even read them.’

‘Yes, I have. This one is about a man that goes to a farm, and this one is…’

‘You can’t even read properly. You’re a silly little girl. And you wet your bed. And you always cry!’

‘Leave me alone, Dolores!’

‘It was Mum’s boyfriend who got you those books, because he wants to fuck her. I heard them say that. When Mum screams at him that he’s a Bible basher and she says that all he wants is to fuck her. I heard them say that.’

‘You don’t even know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone. He’s always nice to me.’

‘Cry‑baby, you’re nothing but a cry‑baby,’ she says, and starts biting me and pulling my hair.

At that moment, Mum comes in. ‘Honey, what are you doing? Who are you talking to? My God, stop hurting yourself!’

Then Mum takes me in her arms and kisses me, and I know I can just let go. I can cry. And I do. And there’s peace. Mum doesn’t mind if I wet her T-shirt with my tears. Lola looks at me. She’s angry, but she stays in the room. She always stays in the room and watches me when Mum picks me up. Mum kisses my head, says ‘oh, my God, so many bruises.’ a lot.

I snuggle into her. And it’s peaceful for now.

Home

Awake. In a car. Warm feet.

My hips are sore. This happens when I don’t move for a while. There’s a sound next to me – could be a voice – but I can’t understand what it’s saying. All I can see is the car and the road. Miles of road. All the same. But outside. My world now is the car seat. The rest is outside. I cannot turn my head because when I do my neck hurts. I stay silent and look at nothing in particular.

The car stops. Why? Where am I?

‘We’re here,’ someone says. The door on my right opens and someone takes my arm. I imagine they want me to get out. The sun hurts my eyes. I have to squint.

I move gingerly. My feet are swollen and sore. They feel as if they were floating a few millimetres above the ground, but the uneven surface almost makes me stumble. The person holding my arm helps me. I turn my head as much as I can and I realise it’s a woman, and that she’s smiling at me.

Martha.

I don’t know why she’s here, but she’s helping me towards a door. Where are all these voices coming from? Or is it just water rushing somewhere? I don’t know for sure because I’m focusing on the door ahead of me. It is vaguely familiar. Dark wood, two panels, with brass rings held by faces of dragons, you could stick your fingers into their eyes. They’re the same as those in… in the house where I was born. And the building? White walls, little windows. The same as the house where I was born.

I remember how I used to play in front of my home. I made piles from pebbles.

‘I played with pebbles. I made a pile with them and I tried to reach the window.’ I don’t know if I’ve said this out loud or if I’ve just thought it.

The woman turns towards me. She is smiling. ‘Really? When? When you were little?’