'With you?' I say doubtfully. 'Where are you going?'
'To lunch in Costa Teguise.'
'It's a bit far.'
'You are joking.'
'Why not Arrieta?' I'm keen not to be distracted for long.
'I'm lunching with Maria.'
'Then I don't want to intrude.'
'You won't be. Come on. It'll give you a break.'
'What if Celestino comes back?'
'We'll only be an hour or two. Paula, I'm sure if he returns he'll be in touch. He'll have known you'd be worrying,' she insists, adding, 'surely,' almost as an afterthought.
'I suppose you're right.'
'Leave a note.'
It's obvious, the moment she says it.
'I won't be long,' I say, caving in.
'No rush. I'll meet you in the plaza in an hour. I've one or two things to do myself.'
Satisfied, Shirley makes her way back down the hallway. I trail behind.
'Hasta luego,' she says, pronouncing the aitch.
I watch her stride back to her house next door.
Lunch in Costa Teguise? Why ever did I agree? But there is no arguing with Shirley. Besides, it might do me good. Yet I can't help feeling disloyal knowing Celestino's opinion of her. And I'm annoyed by it. I'm an independent woman who can make up her own mind about people, and not, most certainly not, the sort of woman who lets her husband choose her friends.
I go up to the bedroom and change into a plain cotton dress and my best sandals. I run a brush through my hair and smear on some clear lip gloss, then take a quick glance in the mirror. I look as good as can be expected. Succumbing to a sudden urge to leave the house, I hurry downstairs to the kitchen. On the hunt for some notepaper I riffle through the pile of assorted books and magazines left on top of the small bookcase. In my quest, I stumble on one of Richard's business cards. I pick it up, take in the self-satisfied face, the copperplate writing detailing his particulars, and with an ironic smile promptly put it back. I find the blank notepaper at the bottom of the stack.
I scribble a short message and leave it on the kitchen table so Celestino cannot fail to find it. Acting before any of my earlier misgivings have a chance to sway me, I collect my shoulder bag, sunglasses and keys and leave the house.
Richard Parry
Richard returns the garden broom and the rake to the small storeroom at the back of the garage, the patio at last free of silt and grit. Picón, the locals call it, a form of volcanic ash. What a lot of effort. Taking in the lay of his small patch of Lanzarote, it seems to him thoroughly stupid to sink a patio below the height of the garden beds and expect the dry-stone walls to retain it all, whatever the conditions. And so much for a raised bed. His cacti nearly drowned in Saturday's deluge! Still, on the positive side, the water never lasts long here, it seems to just vanish, unlike in parts of his homeland, his blessed Bunton, where he's heard the land has turned to bog and looks set to stay that way until the summer.
He goes inside, deciding he needs to employ a gardener to attend to the weeds that are springing up out of the picón even as he watches. His back simply isn't up to the strain. Sweeping the patio alone has caused a twinge. And twinges put him in poor spirits. To make matters worse, he's at a loss as to how to find a gardener. It occurs to him that his wife, Trish, whom he's left at home in Bunton as he always does, would one way or another have arranged for a chap to come in. Perhaps he'll ask Paula. Yes, Paula is sure to know, or at least know whom to ask. She might even do it herself. Besides, he has another reason to consult her and this gives him the perfect opening.
Paula became his mainstay when she moved to the island—little does she know it—for the demands of churning out another work and finding himself in a persistent hiatus has just about rendered him in solitary confinement.
She's taken the role of Celestino after he proved an impossible and outright obstructive research assistant. Richard only latched on to him after the sudden departure of Domingo, whose fiancée, the dear Ann Salter, miscarried and fled back to the Cotswolds. They were going to call the child Ico, if it had been a girl. An awful tragedy that left Richard at a loose end with his project. Then, he encountered a replacement, another local, and hope returned. But Celestino was always preoccupied with one thing or another, and became tetchy when pressed. The work, Ico's Promise, an epic tale of Lanzarote's history, flopped as a result, and his agent, Trent, wanted to know why he didn't visit the archaeological site at El Jable, since that was what a number of astute and better-informed readers had indicated might have set him straight. Celestino never said a thing about El Jable.
He also suffered the ignominy of being confused with another Richard Parry, with one reviewer referring to an earlier work, a work not of his own pen but of this other chap's—from New Zealand, for heaven's sake! It turns out there are two, or at least two other Richard Parry authors, and to save confusion Trent urged Richard to change his name. But what of his previous works? Richard had asked. They couldn't be re-printed in another name; that would be absurd. 'You must find a way of being distinct, Richard.' Then Trent had a moment of inspiration. 'Do you have a middle name?' Richard did, but he was reticent. Trent pressed him. Richard wouldn't divulge it. Then the tone of Trent's voice changed and he started to talk about midlist authors being dropped by their publishers, in droves. Alarmed at the insinuated threat, Richard muttered, 'Alright, alright. It's Harry.' After a short pause, he heard a snicker on the other end of the line. Richard Harry Parry. 'Richard Harry Parry,' Trent said with a distinct chuckle in his voice. There was a long period of silence. Trent broke it with, 'I tell you what. We'll shorten it. Richard H Parry. How's that? I'll get onto your publisher in the morning.'
All of Richard's works were re-printed with new covers featuring the obligatory capital aitch. Richard has felt singled out and picked on ever since.
It was a windy day when, some months later, Richard spotted Paula and Celestino having coffee in the plaza. He was on his way to the library with a new copy of Ico's Promise under his arm: a donation. He intended to wave and pass by but Paula called him over. When he sat down at Paula's behest, he put the book face down on the table. Celestino appeared preoccupied with the contents of his satchel.
'How are you, Richard? How's the writing?' Paula said, removing her sunglasses, a welcome act of conviviality as she never liked to take them off.
'Very well thank you, Paula. Where's the little one?'
'Gloria's with her grandparents,' Celestino said without looking up.
'Her grandparents? But I thought…'
'My parents, Richard. They've just moved to the island.'
'That must be terrific for you, Paula,' he said, feeling oddly ineffectual.
The wind picked up and blew a napkin across the table. Instinctively, Richard leaned forward to retrieve it and when he sat back he found Celestino eyeing his book. He didn't have a chance to put his elbow down before Celestino reached across and shunted the book his way. He eyed the back cover for what felt like an age then turned the book over and scanned the front.
'Richard H Parry,' he said, aspirating the aitch with a guttural inflexion. 'What is this haitch doing there?'
Richard tried to snatch back the book but Celestino handed it to Paula, who glanced at the cover then up at Richard.
'Yes, Richard. What's with the aitch?'
Richard cringed inwardly.
'Long story. My agent insisted I distinguish myself from the other Richard Parry authors.'
'There are more Richard Parry authors?' Celestino said.
Richard offered a carefully crafted explanation. As he got to the part about the mistaken identity, Celestino interrupted with, 'What does it mean, this haitch?'
Richard cringed at Celestino's over-pronunciation and fell silent.
'Come on, Richard. Tell us.' Paula turned in her seat to grin at him squarely.
Trust her to wade in. Humiliation tightened in his chest in anticipation, and he had to quash an urge to stand up a
nd make his excuses.
'Tell us.'
He wouldn't be pressured. He reminded himself that Trish would never tease him like this. He succumbed to an uncommon longing to be back in Bunton.
'You have to, Richard,' Paula said cheekily. 'You can't leave us in suspense.'
He kept his mouth closed.
'Okay, let me guess.' She paused, her grin widening. 'Henry.'
She looked at him closely.
'No? Okay, then what about Horatio?' She spoke the name in an exaggerated fashion.
Celestino sniggered.
'Herbert?'
'No, it isn't Herbert,' he snapped.
Celestino sniggered again.
'Harold then. It has to be Harold.'
'Close,' Richard muttered, suddenly wanting to fall into a crack in the paving.
Celestino and Paula exchanged glances.
'Harry,' Paula said softly. 'Richard Harry Parry.'
'Richard Harry Parry,' Celestino repeated, enunciating each syllable, with that special emphasis on the aitch. His lips spread wide and in moments his body convulsed with laughter. A single tear trickled down his cheek and before long he was clutching his belly. Then he bent over double and all but fell off his chair.
Paula, too, was laughing loudly.
Failing to see what it was that they both found so amusing, Richard stood up, snatched back his book and marched away, only to collide with the waiter approaching to take his order. The waiter trod on his foot, adding injury to insult and he changed his mind about the library, and made a swift about face and went home.
A sharp sciatic pain grips his calf, shooting through his hip and into his buttocks. There's nothing for it. He has to give up gardening. Focus on his next book, whatever that might be.
He hasn't written a thing since the dreadful reception of Ico's Promise. 'A tiresome, confusing narrative.' 'Utterly unconvincing.' Worse: 'I'm looking forward to when this author's writing matures.' He's never been so stung. Upon that string of ghastly reviews, he fell into a slump, re-injured his back and, after being required to change his pen name, all but sulked for most of the following year. From time to time Trent telephoned and urged him to persist. When Richard complained he lacked the inspiration, Trent told him to get himself to Lanzarote and find some. Richard then voiced a vague inclination to write a sequel to the successful Haversack Harvest, a crime novel set near Bunton, but Trent wouldn't hear of it. 'Not another bloody Midsomer Murder wannabe. Go and write something else set on Lanzarote. Stick to crime, yes, it's what you do best, but think setting Richard. Setting.'
Richard obeyed, and having arrived on the island in time for Saturday's deluge, he's come up with a promising title: The Aljibe.
He even has the inklings of a plot: a body found floating in an underground water tank at the base of a volcano. The aljibe at La Corona would be ideal. A lady sleuth making the discovery, a woman resembling Paula perhaps: petite, fair-haired, pretty. Not as becoming as his beloved Ann Salter—she has small brown eyes, her mouth is a little large for her face, her jawline somewhat square—but she has a certain sparkle about her. An expat eking out a living cleaning holiday lets. Isn't that what Paula was doing the last time he was here?
Poor Paula. She used to have a full-time job in tourism. Her working life gone to waste for the sake of a baby and the love of a man. She'd have fared better holding onto her old job back in England. At least it was a profession of a sort, even if she had tired of it. She'd thrown away her life on a local, had his child and doomed herself to a life of drudgery. She puts on a brave front but he knows she despises menial work. That time he caught her entering a villa in Punta Mujeres, bucket and mop in hand; she had blushed the deepest of reds and hurried inside, tripping on the doorstep on her way in. He hadn't meant to embarrass her and vowed never to mention it again, but he couldn't help it one night the last time he was on the island, when he found himself in the plaza and spotted the Diaz's at a table supping on a shared bowl of meatballs.
Still annoyed at Celestino's mirth over his middle name, he decided not to join them, but then Paula looked over and waved and Celestino turned around.
'Hola, Harry,' he said, with what had become a standard, overly aspirated aitch.
Anger pinged in Richard's belly as he approached.
'Hello, Celestino,' he said coldly. 'I see you are dining. I'll leave you to it.'
'Taking a break from writing?'
He nodded and forced a smile. He wasn't about to tell them he hadn't written a thing all trip.
'Ah, señor escritor,' Celestino said. 'Your book sales better now you are Harry Parry?'
The anger rose up and took his breath away. 'At least I put food on the table,' he said sarcastically.
'¿Qué?'
'He means he earns money for his work.'
'And my wife doesn't have to char.'
'¿Char?'
Celestino looked to Paula for clarification. A worried look appeared in her face.
'He means clean houses,' she said, briefly lowering her gaze.
Celestino made to stand. Paula reached for his arm.
Seeing the waxing of Celestino's wrath Richard's waned. 'I'll be getting along, I think,' he said and he hurried away, filled with a turbulent mix of loathing, uncertainty and satisfaction.
Clearly, he had hit a nerve. Celestino couldn't possibly make enough out of his pictures to sustain a family. Especially now Richard has not only stopped making purchases, he's started to offload the pictures decorating his house, having struck a deal with a market trader in second-hand goods, undercutting Celestino by a considerable margin and splitting the profits. He has no qualms about it. Besides, it's only a few sketches. Celestino must know it's only the high-end artist who makes an adequate living out of his creations. Just as it is for authors, Richard thinks with a slight jolt.
In the recollecting, he unwittingly invokes his greatest fear: to find himself stuck midlist. He knows he can't afford to produce another fizzer. The Aljibe will need to be cracking to recover the ground he's lost, for his critics are sure to harken back to Ico's Promise. Which leaves him no choice. Since tourist sites are to be the theme of his book, he needs to consult the expert: Paula.
With renewed determination, he heads for the bathroom to comb his hair. Then he plucks a couple of stray long hairs from his eyebrows and splashes on a little aftershave. Satisfied, he collects his keys from his writing desk and leaves the house.
Costa Teguise
Standing in the shade of the eucalypt at the café end of the plaza, I observe a few customers as they make up their minds to take an outdoor table in the warm spring sunshine, or opt for the seating shaded by the laurel trees. On Mondays, the village centre is always quiet, even at the intersection of the roads coming down from the north and the south and the road heading east, where cafes take advantage of the passing trade, and where villagers go about the business of the day, frequenting the supermarket, the florist, the town hall or the hardware store.
I watch with sudden envy an elderly couple in loose clothing, replete with backpacks and walking shoes, as they head off, probably on their way to the cliff. It's where all the walkers go. The views are breath taking, the cliff edge accessible in its entirety to those with a good head for heights.
An old man enters the café across the street, and a young woman in a figure-hugging emerald green dress and matching hat hovers on the narrow pavement at the entrance to the children's playground situated up the hill a short way. She seems familiar. Then I recall the woman in the red, wide-brimmed hat yesterday and wonder if it's her. She looks dressed for a wedding and is paying close attention to the goings on inside the florist opposite. Perhaps she's waiting for a bouquet. The woman shifts her weight and I look away.
The wind stirs. I catch a waft of the scent of eucalyptus and inhale. Do all eucalypts smell the same? My neighbour in Ipswich had one in her back garden but it was a spindly, sick-looking thing and obviously unhappy with the environment. Too wet, proba
bly. That is one thing I'll never miss, the wet. Despite the travails of my life on the island, I love it and the longer I stay, the less likely I'll fit in if I went back. Yet my existence on the island is dependent on Celestino. Without him, I have means, no income. I'd be forced back to England, back to the cold and the murk and the life of a single mother. What on earth would become of my parents? I feel sick in the imagining. The loss of Celestino is a devastating prospect in every respect, never mind the emotional loss. I never considered myself dependent on him quite so profoundly, but I am.
Shirley seems late. I had assumed she would be on time and wonder what's keeping her. When I left the house, I knew I had half an hour to spare, so I walked up to the crest of the hill that separates the valley of Haría from that of Máguez, stopping where several roads meet in an awkward intersection. And without a second thought I made to walk up a track in a field of picón accessed through a break in a stone wall. It wasn't far to the top but I soon turned back, my sandals the wrong footwear for the terrain. I had to lean a hand against a large stone in the wall, rough to the touch, to remove each of my sandals in turn, shaking them free of gravel. Then I waited for a couple of cars to pass before strolling back down to the plaza.
The woman in the green dress crosses the street and disappears inside the florist's. Is it like Shirley to be late? I have no idea. I consider taking a quick look in the hand-stitched leather shop nearby when I spot Richard, dapper in black, emerging through the trees that fill the plaza. To be polite, I wait. It would look bizarre to suddenly walk off, especially when it's obvious to all that I'm waiting for someone. I haven't seen Richard since the last time he was on the island, which, thinking back was about a year ago, around the time my parents moved to Máguez. A year, and in all that time, I haven't cared to see him again. I'm still feeling stung after he called me a char. The humiliation was so great I forewent my mop and bucket shortly after.
A Matter of Latitude Page 8