The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them?

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ said Grace. ‘Good luck with France. I’ll keep an eye out for the documentary, especially the bit you did here.’

  ‘It’ll be broadcast in November or December,’ he said. ‘Nice to bring some warmth and sunshine into people’s homes in the dead of winter.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, goodbye,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You got on well with her,’ said Grace. ‘Deira, I mean. Before she lost it.’

  ‘I liked her,’ admitted Charlie. ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t judge her,’ said Grace. ‘Everyone’s very quick to pass judgement these days, and we don’t always know what’s going on in each other’s lives.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’ Charlie gave her a quick smile. ‘But batshit crazy is a fair assessment.’ Then he turned away and followed his two companions out of the breakfast room.

  Grace poured herself another cup of tea and waited for Deira to appear.

  She showed up seconds before the buffet was cleared, and grabbed a couple of pastries and a large mug of coffee.

  ‘I probably would’ve still been there except a fly landed on my nose,’ she told Grace. ‘It should have been the most uncomfortable sleep ever, but it wasn’t. Mainly because it was totally dreamless.’

  ‘Ken once told me that we never have dreamless sleep,’ said Grace. ‘We just don’t remember the dreams.’

  ‘Either way, it was good,’ said Deira. ‘Thanks again for coming after me in the middle of the night, Grace. I was fine, but I might not have been. So it was good to know you had my back.’

  ‘Hey, we’re on the road together. We have each other’s backs. Are you feeling OK now?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I need to put things into perspective, but I’m . . . I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Well, maybe not exactly fine, but getting there.’ She glanced around. ‘Hopefully Charlie has already left and I won’t have to see him again.’

  Grace didn’t say anything about having spoken to him.

  ‘I’m keen to get us back on the treasure hunt,’ continued Deira. ‘Do you have your laptop?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’m taking the no-tech rule seriously. We’ll look at it again before we leave. It was all about a poet, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Federico García Lorca,’ said Deira. ‘I checked him out before we had to hand over our stuff. Obviously there’s a monument of some kind to him in Granada that we need to find. We can look up how many poems he wrote. The final clue was how old he was when he died.’

  ‘So it’s relatively straightforward again?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Deira drained her mug and stood up. ‘Do you want to get going?’

  ‘We’ve plenty of time,’ said Grace. ‘There was availability this morning, so I booked us a couple of extra treatments.’

  ‘You did?’ Deira looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I thought after last night we needed them. A massage for me and whatever you like for yourself. My treat,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘Seriously, Deira.’

  ‘Well . . . OK. Thank you.’

  ‘They’re at eleven thirty. So you’ve time to chill before then,’ said Grace. ‘See you later.’

  ‘I’m so glad I met you,’ said Deira, and went back to her room.

  They left at two p.m., both feeling refreshed after their massages and eager to be on the road. Grace had looked at the clue on her computer and memorised it, but, as she said to Deira while they were putting their bags in the boot of the Lexus, it was surely one of the easier ones to solve.

  ‘And then we’re done,’ she said. ‘Unless Ken has added another one to the Cartagena folder. Which I hope he hasn’t.’

  ‘Are you happy it’s nearly over?’ asked Deira.

  ‘Yes.’ Grace spoke without hesitation. ‘It’s true that it’s made the journey more interesting – although maybe it’s you that’s done that, Deira – but I don’t want to be dancing to his tune forever.’

  Deira didn’t reply. She was surprised at how suddenly Grace seemed to have moved from a woman grieving her husband, and in particular the way his life had ended, to someone who seemed to be looking to her future. It wasn’t only in the things she was saying; it was also in her body language. Her movements, always serene and graceful, were now more direct, more authoritative. Previously, she’d looked in control of herself. Now she looked in control of everything around her too.

  Grace got behind the wheel and eased them out of the car park while Deira inputted the address of the hotel in Granada into the satnav. Then, for the first time since she’d handed it over to Muireann the previous day, she switched on her mobile phone.

  There was a clatter of messages: a couple from Tillie checking up on how she was getting on, three from one of her colleagues at Solas regarding the exhibition they were working on, one from Gavin asking about the car insurance, and a final one from Bex the previous evening saying that she’d be getting the train home in the morning. Deira replied to Bex’s message straight away, saying that she’d been out of touch for a few hours but that Bex was to call or text any time she needed. Her niece responded almost immediately with a thumbs-up emoji and a message saying that she was feeling OK, though still a little shaky, but that she’d be fine at home now. Thanks again for the use of your house, she finished. I’ll appreciate it forever. Deira couldn’t help feeling a hypocrite, given how annoyed she’d been with Gill’s appropriation of it, but she was glad that Bex had had somewhere safe and comfortable to stay. She replied with Any time and was surprised to realise that she meant it. Then she replied to Gavin saying that she’d let him know as soon as possible about the insurance, and answered Tillie’s messages by saying that her friend would be pleased to hear that she’d gone to an out-of-the-way wellness centre to heal her spirit.

  Did it work? asked Tillie.

  Maybe not in the way I expected, responded Deira. But it was worth it.

  She didn’t bother with Karen at Solas. It was Saturday, after all.

  The road south from El Pozo de la Señora was less hair-raising than the road up to it had been, although there were still plenty of twists and turns and spectacular views across the mountains and valleys.

  ‘It would’ve been nice doing this in the convertible,’ commented Deira. ‘Though obviously if it hadn’t burnt to a crisp I’d have ended up somewhere in France, so I wouldn’t be here.’

  Grace grinned at her and then turned on the audio. She selected a classical guitar playlist that Ken had compiled the first year they’d driven to their apartment. The route had been different, because they hadn’t needed to come through the heart of Spain. But the music suited the dusty fields of olive trees as much as the gently sloping vineyards. Then, suddenly, they were on the outskirts of the city and she turned off the music so that she could listen to the satnav’s instructions.

  Their hotel was near the old quarter, which meant, like in Pamplona, they were driving through streets that were ill equipped for cars. But Grace kept her nerve and didn’t panic even when driving down a road so narrow that there was barely an inch either side of the wing mirrors. Although when it widened into a plaza and they saw the hotel, both women were relieved.

  ‘Well done,’ said Deira.

  ‘Thanks.’ Grace turned off the engine and got out. A warm blast of air engulfed them. ‘Let’s check in and go treasure-hunting,’ she said.

  Chapter 31

  Granada, Spain: 37.1773°N 3.5986°W

  Although their plan had been to go looking for Lorca’s statue straight away, it was far too hot to be out in the afternoon sun. Instead they sat in the hotel’s sheltered colonnade and sipped iced water beneath ceiling fans that turned languidly above them. Grace opened the laptop and did some research, discovering that Lorca had been part of an influential group of Spanish poets during the 1920s, and that he had been executed by nationalists at the start of the Spanish Civil War.

&nb
sp; ‘Europe was a cauldron back then,’ remarked Deira, as they scrolled through the information. ‘Nationalists, socialists, Bolsheviks, fascists . . . and then, of course, the Nazis came along. Lorca was a year younger than me when he was shot. It’s hard to take in.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling that the world is always on a knife edge,’ said Grace. ‘It’s like whack-a-mole. War stops somewhere but it breaks out somewhere else. People’s capacity to exploit each other, or hate each other, or refuse to negotiate with each other is endless. It’s so crazy and yet there’s a part of me that understands not being able to forgive and forget.’

  ‘Who are you telling?’ Deira made a note on a piece of paper. ‘Look at me, for heaven’s sake. Forgiving and forgetting hasn’t been high on my agenda. Gavin hurt me and all I wanted to do was hurt him back.’

  ‘One of the hardest things about what Ken did was that he hurt us and we couldn’t hurt him back,’ said Grace. ‘He might have thought he was sparing us the harder times to come with his illness, but we were ready for that. We weren’t ready for what he did. And much as I’ve come to accept why he did it, I’m still struggling with my anger.’

  ‘I’d be angry too,’ Deira said. ‘Whichever way you look at it, you’ve had a lot to deal with. And you know what – you’re doing great!’

  Grace smiled faintly. ‘I’d like to think I’m understanding his decision more. Maybe by the time we finish the treasure hunt, I really will.’

  Deira nodded and pushed the paper towards her. ‘Look. Lorca wrote six Galician poems. So our last three numbers are 638. We need to find the statue and upload the photo to get the first number, and then we can be on our way.’

  Grace continued to search Google Maps. It took a while, but eventually she gave a cry of satisfaction.

  ‘Less than a kilometre away,’ she said. ‘I reckon we should go now. It seems to have cooled down a bit.’

  Deira agreed, and Grace returned the laptop to her room before they set out. The intense heat had gone out of the sun, but it was still very warm and there weren’t too many people about. They followed the map to the Avenida de la Constitución, a wide street with a pedestrian zone running through the centre, bordered by flower beds and trees. A few minutes after they turned onto it, they found the bronze sculpture of Lorca, sitting on a bench.

  ‘Will I take one of you with him?’ asked Deira, after Grace had captured a few snaps of the famous poet.

  ‘D’you mind another selfie? The children are expecting them now.’

  So they sat either side of the poet, copying his pose by crossing one leg over the other and trying, as Grace said, to look as serious and literary as possible. She sent the photo to Aline, and almost immediately received a reply back saying that they looked as if they were having a good time. ‘And Deira is fabulous!’ Grace read out. ‘Such a strong-looking woman.’

  Deira laughed. ‘If only she knew.’

  ‘But she’s right,’ said Grace. ‘No matter what you might feel inside at the moment, you are strong, Deira. And you definitely look it in this photo.’

  ‘It’s the hairdo and the red lipstick,’ said Deira, who was thinking, with a certain amount of pleasure, that she did in fact look rather like a young Katharine Hepburn in an early Hollywood movie.

  Grace shook her head. ‘That’s just gilding the lily. It’s your personality that shines out from the photo. I know that you’re struggling with the whole fertility thing,’ she continued. ‘I understand how important it is to you. But it’s not the defining thing about you. I admire that you’re a woman who’s done well in her career. You’ve taken some personal knocks, but you’re still looking at ways to move on. And you’ll find them. I know you will.’

  ‘I’m touched by your faith in me.’ Deira’s words were light but there was a lump in her throat, and she was cheered by Grace’s confidence in her.

  ‘I mean it,’ said Grace. ‘Now come on, let’s get something cool to drink. I’m positively melting here.’

  They walked back towards their hotel, stopping on the way at a small bar with tables outside shaded by parasols, where the young barman suggested that they needed a couple of refreshing mojitos to cool them down.

  ‘Why not,’ said Grace, and soon they were sipping the mint-infused drinks and thinking that the barman had been absolutely right.

  They had a second drink before going back to the hotel and uploading the photo. Once again, the wait was agonising until the ‘photo is a match’ message appeared and they were given the number 9 to unlock the next clue.

  ‘Or the result of the whole thing,’ said Grace. ‘You know, Deira, I’m not ready to do this yet. How about we leave it till later?’

  Deira looked at her speculatively. ‘Are you afraid of coming to the end?’ she asked. ‘Of finding out what the professor thinks might be important in your future?’

  ‘A little,’ admitted Grace. ‘He’s been pulling the strings in the background all along. I don’t know what the conclusion will be, but I don’t want it to ruin my evening here.’

  ‘Whatever you think,’ said Deira. ‘I was considering the Alhambra tour tomorrow morning. There’s one at eight thirty and there are still tickets left. I checked online. Would you like to come with me?’

  ‘Ken and I visited the Alhambra a few years ago,’ Grace said. ‘It’s magnificent, but I won’t go again. We’re not in a rush tomorrow, so you take your time and enjoy it. The drive to our apartment is about three and a half hours, but it doesn’t matter what time we arrive. Even if Ken has added a clue for there, I know the place well, so it’s no big deal.’

  ‘OK,’ said Deira.

  ‘We’re the ideal travelling companions,’ observed Grace. ‘Happy to do stuff together and equally happy to do stuff alone.’

  ‘And rescue each other from night-time encounters in the middle of nowhere,’ said Deira with a smile.

  ‘And solve each other’s problems,’ added Grace.

  ‘And share the driving – I’ll do it tomorrow,’ said Deira.

  ‘Excellent.’ Grace smiled. ‘Would you like to eat together tonight or go our separate ways?’

  ‘Oh, together, I think,’ said Deira. ‘This is the kind of city where together is good.’

  Granada would always have a place in her heart, thought Deira as she got ready to leave the following morning. She’d been enchanted by the bustling old quarter the previous night, the city’s Moorish culture clearly evident in the shops that opened onto the narrow streets, with their displays of aromatic herbs and spices, and glass lamps of intricate design and colour that lured you inside to find even more treasures. She’d felt the fire of Andalusia too, in the flamenco dresses in other shop windows and the extravagant fans that the local women snapped open and shut as they ate with their families in outdoor restaurants, where children, even at ten in the evening, sat in front of plates piled with calamari and tortilla. It had got under her skin in a way no other city had ever done before, and she knew she’d come back.

  But as much as the night life had been fun, her visit to the Alhambra that morning had touched her soul. She’d walked through the rooms of the palace, marvelling at the exquisite mosaic work, the elegance of the tapering pillars, and the serenity that even the large group of tourists couldn’t dispel. She’d thought of the people who’d walked through those rooms before her, the people who’d lived in the palace, with their thoughts and dreams and hopes, some fulfilled, some not. We’re all just passing through, she told herself as she left. We’re nothing more than a whisper in the story of time. The thought was strangely liberating.

  The sense of serenity and liberation had stayed with her afterwards when she messaged Bex to find out how she was.

  Her niece FaceTimed her in return.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘A bit achy but otherwise fine. It was the right thing for me to do, Auntie Deira.’

  It was a long time since Bex had put the word Auntie before her name. Deira smiled. ‘You look good,’ she said.


  ‘I had my hair done before leaving Dublin,’ Bex said. ‘There’s a salon near your house. The colourist did a great job with my highlights.’ She ran her fingers through it.

  ‘She did indeed,’ agreed Deira, who knew both the salon and the colourist. ‘Have you said anything to your mum?’

  ‘No. And I’m not going to. Ever. You have to promise me that you won’t say anything either.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Deira. ‘All I want is for you to be OK, Bex.’

  ‘I am,’ said Bex. ‘Thanks again for everything.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me. I did nothing to help.’

  ‘You let me stay in the first place,’ said Bex. ‘I knew I had somewhere to come back to. And when I told you . . .’ She let out a long, slow breath. ‘I had to tell someone. I couldn’t keep it in. But I knew you’d be OK about it. You always are. You’re my role model.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m that much of a role model.’

  ‘You are,’ insisted Bex. ‘You’re living your best life. Maybe it’s gone a bit wrong with Gavin and everything, but you didn’t collapse in a heap and stay indoors and sob your heart out like I would’ve done. You went off and drove through France on your own. That’s so cool.’

  Deira hadn’t updated either Gill or Bex on the situation with the car, or the fact that she’d teamed up with Grace. Her niece was seeing the surface, not what was underneath.

  ‘You got yourself into a difficult situation and you made hard choices and you didn’t collapse in a heap either,’ she said. ‘So you’re pretty cool yourself. And I’m not perfect, not even close.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ said Bex. ‘You’re not perfect but you still know what you’re doing. That’s sort of why I thought it would be fine to come to your house.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ Deira wasn’t going to shatter Bex’s illusions about her. ‘What are you going to say to your mum about the job?’

  ‘Oh, I actually have one in Galway.’ Bex smiled. ‘I had it before I ever went to Dublin. It’s at a local recording studio.’