Last week it finally rained – two days of heavy rain, falling as snow on the sierras. With reservoirs at 37% of capacity, the rain dominated the news; people cheered and sighed with relief. In the south of Spain, the number of rainy days since spring can be counted on one hand. This year’s drought is the worst since 1992-95. Some crops are badly affected; inevitably food prices will rise, and as always, it is the poor who will suffer.

The years following the end of Spain’s Civil War in 1939 also saw a severe drought that lasted three years. It was the last thing the country needed. Food was in any case scarce, partly because the fields had been neglected during the war. Huge numbers of working men, the family breadwinners, had been killed or maimed or were imprisoned. Even after the fighting had stopped, retribution against Republicans continued. Franco was intent on rounding up as many ‘enemies’ as possible, so that all those with Republican sympathies lived in constant fear. Some 300,000 had gone into exile; others fled to the hills. Tens of thousands of prisoners were executed; large numbers died as a result of the dire conditions in gaols and camps (TB and typhoid were rife). Prisoners were used as slave labour in the mines or on construction projects, where they were exposed to grievous dangers. Those who survived were permanently weakened. Amongst the general population, illness and malnutrition caused innumerable deaths.

The situation in Spain was incomparably worse than in European countries affected by the Second World War. With the country isolated, a policy of autarquía (autarky or economic self-sufficiency) was decreed. The 1940s were known as los años de hambre, the ‘hunger years’. Women would scour the hillsides for herbs and grasses. Thistles, acorns, orange and lemon rinds – anything remotely edible – served as food. For some, prostitution was the only way to feed themselves and their children. Others resorted to stealing cabbages from the fields or digging up newly planted potatoes. If they were caught, they would get a beating from the Guardia Civil.

Cuts in the supply of energy were frequent, so that in winter people suffered terribly from the cold; water was also scarce in some places. Working conditions and wages had deteriorated dramatically. While widows of the nationalists received a pension for their husbands, this was denied to the widows of ‘reds’. The illnesses of poverty and poor diet were rife.

Rationing had been introduced in 1939 but was hopelessly inadequate, lacking the minimum level of nutrition for subsistence. It was also open to abuse, to which the government turned a blind eye. In fact it suited Franco to have the population crippled by hunger and disease.

In theory, the weekly rations consisted of 125g of meat, 1/4 litre of oil, 250g of black bread, 100g of rice, 100g of lentils, one egg and a piece of soap. In practice, what was usually available was chickpeas, sweet potatoes, pasta for soup, some salted cod and very small amounts of oil, sugar and soap. Meat, eggs and milk were rarely distributed. Some flour and milk were provided for children. Women struggled to construct meals from the sparse ingredients available to them. Journalist Claudio Grondona, in an article years later for Diario Sur, wrote about how they had to fry food without oil, make tortillas without eggs, stews with only bones, coffee from roasted barley or wheat.

White bread was a luxury item and the black bread ration was soon reduced to 150 or 200g. The ‘black bread’ was dense and hard, difficult to swallow. It might contain sawdust, straw or small stones. Often it was made from maize, chickpea or carob flour rather than wheat. However, those who had fought for Franco received an extra 250g of bread and the military, guards and priests were allowed 350g of white bread.

While the poor barely survived, often obliged to work from before dawn till long into the night on empty stomachs or at best one scant meal a day, the rich were doing very nicely. Private property had been restored, the privileges of Church and Army reinstated. In my forthcoming novel, The Red Gene, Consuelo’s adoptive family, being well-off landowners, suffer no hardships. On the other hand, the people in the Alpujarran villages, family home of another of the characters, suffer intense privation in the postwar years.

Prices of basic provisions had been fixed at the same level as existed in 1936, before the war. However, manufacturers and shopkeepers objected to this and either kept goods locked away in warehouses awaiting more profitable times or channelled them to more lucrative markets, adding to the already significant shortages. Bartering goods and services became common as the black market was only accessible to the well-off. Sugar and oil, for example, were sold at ten times the value fixed for the rationing system, which lasted for thirteen years.

In such a climate of deprivation as affected the majority of the population, the black market naturally thrived. It was known as el estraperlo, a word the people coined from Straperlo, the name of an infamous business run by two Dutchmen called Strauss and Perlowitz, who caused a scandal during the 2^nd Republic with their fraudulent electric roulette machine. It was the black market that defined the social differences in postwar Spain. The estraperlistas, those who ran the black market, were protected by the regime; many of them became rich.

So while the winning side with good jobs were well nourished and lacked little, the survivors from the losing side, including professionals deprived of their jobs (and often their academic qualifications too), suffered all the illnesses caused by malnutrition, unless they were lucky enough to have a relative on the fascist side who supplied them with foodstuffs. Worst off were the crippled or sick without any kind of work, those who were incarcerated in prisons, camps or living on the street.

There are still some alive who remember how it felt to be hungry – those now in their 80s and 90s, who would have been children or adolescents then. They are unlikely ever to forget.

While some writers take their laptops to busy coffee shops, I need the tranquillity of my writing desk at home. The spare bedroom is my haven of solitude and silence, a place where I can enter into the world of my protagonists without the distraction of other people, noise, activity of any kind. No music, no chatter, no coffee machines, clinking of glasses or scraping of chairs, no traffic din.

The sun illuminates my writing space, encouraging creativity. Through the window, my view is of the wooded hills across the valley of the river Darro. If I lean backwards a little, I can see the Generalife, the summer palace of the Alhambra built by the Moors. Closer in my field of vision is the rampant honeysuckle on my terrace. In spring, when it flowers, I open the window and its gorgeous scent wafts in. Whatever the time of year, I only have to turn my head slightly to catch sight of the pinky-mauve bougainvillea and the miniature pomegranate bush.

On the wall in front of me is a corkboard with photos of family; of people and places I love. It also has a postcard given me by a friend, with an inspiring quote from Goethe: Whatever you dream you can do begin it. Boldness has genius, power & magic in it. Begin it now. I read it often. Mementoes from my travels – batiks from Africa and Asia, small sculptures in ebony, a painting by a dear friend – adorn the walls and surfaces. Books litter the spare bed, scraps of paper with notes cover the desk. It is not a particularly tidy space.

I can write elsewhere, of course. All I need are quiet surroundings free from interruptions, away from commotion and clamour. In Bristol, an attic room with windows each end that give me the morning sunrise and evening sunset provides another peaceful haven. I have spent occasional periods of two or three weeks at writing retreats. The best was a residency in Mojacar, Almería with my own room in a beautiful artists’ house with meals and laundry service provided and the company of other artists from all over the world. One retreat was in the countryside near Comares in Málaga, another at Relleu, a mountain village in Alicante province, run by poet Christopher North.

We are all different. I can understand that for other writers, the lively atmosphere in a café or pub can be stimulating and necessary. Or it may be that they are less disturbed and distracted than they would be at home. I realise I am privileged to live in a beautiful place and also that living alone as I do is very different to living with a family or housemates. While some writers find music helpful to their creative process, I find it intrusive.

Writing seems to me a magical process. Where do ideas spring from? What triggers the imaginative leaps, the entry into other worlds? Internal and external stimuli contribute in different and often inexplicable ways. As Goethe said, we must dream and be bold enough to believe we can do it, bold enough to begin it now, in whatever environment inspires us

According to conventional belief, the British are reluctant to complain. In Spain, on the other hand, the word denuncia, which translates as ‘formal complaint’, crops up so frequently that the act of denouncing seems to me almost a national custom. Did it start in Franco’s dictatorship when Republican sympathisers lived in constant fear of being reported by their neighbours? Or do its origins go back further than that? When I ask my Spanish friends, their answers are vague. No one really knows.

After Franco’s victory in the Civil War, the threat of a ‘denuncia’ would have struck terror into the hearts of those who opposed the regime. During the early years of the dictatorship, a neighbour’s denuncia often amounted to a death sentence. Mass summary trials by military courts – there were simply too many suspects to be tried individually – were a farce. Allegations could be true or false, it hardly mattered. Those involved in feuds that had been going on for years, perhaps generations, could now achieve easy revenge. Sentences of life imprisonment were the norm and tens of thousands were executed, often with no more evidence than a neighbour’s denuncia. Not attending Mass or tuning in to La Pirenaica, the radio station of the Spanish Communist party, transmitted from Moscow, were grounds enough. In his book The Spanish Holocaust, historian Paul Preston cites an example from Córdoba province where ‘70% of trials were triggered by denunciations from civilians’. Nor was it only the men who had fought on the side of the legally elected government – or were assumed to have supported them – that were vulnerable. Their mothers, wives and sisters could also be sentenced to prison or worse, just by association. The law was backdated so that being active in the Second Republic, before the coup, counted too. Teachers and other public officials who had served under the Republic were sacked en masse. Some men went into hiding far from their hometowns, staying away for up to thirty years, their whereabouts unknown even to their wives. A few – those who had survived – returned home after an amnesty in 1969, their families having long presumed them dead.

These days, denuncias against neighbours are thankfully not political but tend to centre round issues such as noise, obstructions or nuisance from dogs. Nor do they lead to death sentences, though if laws have been broken, they can result in large fines. According to a Catalan friend, they are particularly prevalent in Andalucía, as a substitute for talking. Or perhaps it’s a symptom of malafolla granadina, the grumpiness attributed to Granada’s population.

Planning laws exist but unless there is a denuncia, that is, someone objects, often nothing happens. So, for example, if a restaurant or entertainment venue has no fire exit or disabled toilet or is operating beyond the legal limits regarding noise or hours, they may well get away with it if no one has denounced them. Once the authorities get wind of illegalities, they inspect everything, impose substantial fines and insist on changes.

Denuncias are not the same as the more serious querellas (lawsuits) or the less serious reclamaciones. Every establishment offering goods or services has by law to keep a Libro de Reclamaciones or Complaints Book, which is regularly inspected by the authorities. In my limited experience, a reclamación can be highly effective. Two years after the soap containers in Granada’s bus station toilets were removed, I finally got round to demanding the complaints book. Within a month, the soap was back. As for denouncing, it has taken me nearly twenty years of living in Spain to participate in this popular tradition. My denuncia against the disco next door was not without good cause. I won’t go into the full story – it’s a long one and not yet fully played out. Suffice it to say there have been consequences – for them and for me.

One of the issues to be resolved when writing fiction with a setting outside the English-speaking world and with non-English speaking characters is how much of their native language to use in dialogue. Too much will confuse and probably annoy the majority of readers unfamiliar with the language. On the other hand, a sprinkling of foreign words (in my case Spanish) reminds readers where the book is set and gives a flavour of the country concerned. It serves, along with descriptions of landscapes or other features of the environment – physical or cultural – to build up an atmosphere. Sometimes, when my Spanish characters speak, I find myself thinking in Spanish, of how they would say something, and then translating it back into English, though this needs to be done with care so that the English sounds natural too.

It hardly needs saying that the most important consideration when using a foreign language is that the meaning should be clear. If the words are unintelligible to readers, it defeats the purpose and will just antagonise them. The simplest way of introducing the relevant language is to use the common words with which most English speakers are familiar: si, hola, gracias, vino to give a few Spanish examples that don’t require translation. I often insert the kind of fairly meaningless words that pepper the speech of Spanish natives. Bueno or pues, meaning ‘well’ and used as fillers while people are considering how to respond, add a touch of local seasoning. The Spanish sigh, a long drawn-out ay, or common interjections like ¡anda! or ¡hombre! can easily be introduced in appropriate places. In some instances the context makes the meaning of a word or phrase obvious, but if that’s not the case, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to follow it with a translation, so long as this is done sparingly: too much and the novel comes to resemble a language lesson.

Another challenge is that of expressing in an authentic way how natives of the country in question speak English. Accents can’t easily be conveyed in a written text but the grammatical or lexical mistakes or other features transferred from the characters’ own language certainly can. Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie adds the suffix –o to English words in order to give the flavour of how Nigerian Igbo speakers converse in English. My long experience of living in Spain and teaching English to Spaniards means I am thoroughly familiar with the most common mistakes they make when they speak English. These will not be the same mistakes made by a German or a Russian or a Japanese. So writing a Spanish character communicating in English (for example, Paco to Alice in Secrets of the Pomegranate), I know exactly how he will talk.

Glancing through some of the other books with foreign settings on my shelves – books set in Turkey, in India, in Russia, in Mexico, in France, in Nigeria – I find most of their authors opt for a similar approach, using variable amounts of the native tongue. Elif Shafak uses Turkish or Arabic words only rarely while Adichie includes whole sentences in the Igbo language. Despite being totally ignorant of Igbo, this doesn’t bother me as a reader, though others might feel differently. In Sea of Poppies, Amitav Ghosh quite often uses Hindi phrases followed by their translation, as well as some wonderfully colourful pidgin-type language, the meaning of which you have to guess (but who cares?). I just love the sound of ‘cunchunees whirling and tickytaw boys beating their tobblers’. Like the made-up ‘nadsat’ slang used by Antony Burgess in A Clockwork Orange, it’s fun to try and interpret. I’d be interested to know what other readers and writers think. Are words or phrases in an unfamiliar language irritating or do they add a welcome touch of exoticism?