by Rosanna Ley
‘Si.’ He didn’t flinch as he looked at her. ‘What can I do for you, Sister?’
Sister Julia held herself erect. Of course he would not recognise her. Why should he after all these years? ‘I am come to see my sister Paloma,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
But behind him she saw Paloma herself materialise from a front room. ‘Julia?’ She edged past her husband and held out a hand. ‘Julia?’
Ignoring Mario Vamos’s curious gaze, Sister Julia allowed her hand to be taken as he shrugged and stepped away from the door and Paloma pulled her inside. She smelt the sweet scent of tobacco clinging to his clothes and skin as she moved past him, mingling with the smell of alcohol and sweat. And she noted the way they responded to one another; Mario’s curt tone of dismissal as he spoke to his wife.
She and her sister sat facing one another in a small and shabby room at the front of the house. Paloma brought coffee and left it on a side table. ‘Julia,’ she said again. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘And you too, Paloma.’ Sister Julia bowed her head. But in truth, it was a shock. Her sister had changed so much. Her hair was greying and unkempt, her eyes were dull where they had always shone like dark diamonds and the generous curve of her mouth was now tinged with bitterness. ‘How are you?’ she asked.
As if in reply the front door slammed and Sister Julia saw Mario saunter off down the street, hands in pockets, whistling.
Paloma closed her eyes. ‘He will not return tonight,’ she said.
Sister Julia did not know what to say. ‘You are not happy?’ she ventured at last. She remembered what Paloma and their mother had said the last time they visited. ‘You and Mario still have no children?’
Paloma shook her head. ‘We have no children,’ she said. ‘And we will not.’
And Sister Julia could see how it was. How Paloma had become bitter and plain as she watched her husband flirt with younger women of the neighbourhood, as they fought a battle which Paloma could never hope to win, as she failed to give him children and lost her husband time after time, more wholly with each year that passed – until he no longer wanted her at all.
‘I am leaving our city,’ Sister Julia told her as she got up to go. ‘I am to live in a convent in Fuerteventura.’
Paloma nodded, seeming unsurprised. ‘I wish you luck, Julia,’ she said. ‘I wish you love.’ She smiled. And just for a second she seemed like the old Paloma, the careless, laughing girl.
‘And I you, my sister.’ They embraced. ‘And I you.’
*
Sister Julia left Barcelona in the middle of the Easter festival. The streets were full of people watching the processions and the floats. Peanuts, chocolate and caramelised almonds were being thrown to the children standing by the roadside. By the church, a priest stood holding a missal and a rosary, blessing people as they passed by. There were women wearing mantillas, those delicate traceries of lace, black high heels and black dresses, and men in black suits with slicked back hair. There were upturned faces, people crossing themselves as they murmured a silent prayer. The scents of celebration were in the air for Holy Week – wax, incense, garlic, tobacco smoke … And orange blossom, for the blooms were now cloaking the trees in the city. It was a heady cocktail, and one which reminded Sister Julia of how the city had once been when she was a girl. At last Spain’s fortunes had changed.
And Sister Julia was to retreat from her world at last.
CHAPTER 28
‘Shall we?’ Andrés was holding out his hand. Sure and safe.
‘Are you joking?’ Ruby looked towards the stage. The band – a new band – was playing swing and people had started to dance.
‘I never joke about serious things,’ he said, ‘like dancing.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ruby slid off the stool. As always when she’d been playing, she felt emotionally drained, a bit of a wasteland. That was OK – she always put a lot in because she wanted to, it was the only way of getting a lot out. But afterwards, she needed to wind down – a few beers or a large glass of red, some food, an easy conversation.
Not dancing.
On the dance floor, the beat picked up. Andrés strode forwards, still holding her hand and looking purposeful. He was wearing faded black jeans, a linen shirt the colour of a pale mushroom and a slightly crumpled linen jacket. His thick dark hair curled against the collar. He had a furrow of concentration on his brow as he found a space on the floor (this was worrying; was he expecting her to move around that much?). He took her in a kind of ballroom hold. She quite liked the proximity of that. So far, so OK.
‘Just relax,’ he said.
And before she knew it, they were doing some sort of swing jive; him leading, her clinging on by osmosis, telepathy and prayer. At first, she tried to concentrate on the steps, but it was hard to follow the rhythm and they either knocked knees or ended up miles apart. Ruby thought of Mel and what she’d told her. Jump.
She’d found out why Mel was unhappy. She’d gone round to their place for supper and Mel had confided in her while they were clearing up. Stuart wanted them to start a family. Time was running out, he said. It meant so much to him to have kids, it was what he’d always wanted.
Ruby touched her arm. ‘And you don’t?’
Mel looked towards the kitchen doorway. But Stuart was in the sitting room now and he’d put on some music – classical guitar – which was wafting through the house. ‘I don’t want my life to change, Ruby,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think I’m … ready.’
Ruby took the stack of plates Mel was carrying and put them down on the counter. She hugged her. ‘It isn’t compulsory to have children,’ she murmured into her hair. She couldn’t help thinking of Laura and Vivien. And now Mel.
Mel drew away. ‘But I’m being selfish?’
‘Maybe.’ Ruby shrugged. ‘But you’re entitled, aren’t you? It’s your life.’
Mel sighed as she bent down to open the dishwasher. ‘Our life,’ she said.
*
*
But it was good, wasn’t it, Ruby thought now, as she tried not to think too much about the dance steps, to have that with someone? Even if what you wanted didn’t always coincide.
So she changed tack. She closed her eyes and jumped. Gave herself up. Went with him wherever he’d decided to take her. Lost herself in the beat. And it worked. This made sense to Ruby. Music had a direct route to the heart.
‘Where did you learn to do this?’ she shouted mid-spin. She’d always liked to dance, but she’d almost forgotten how. And this was the kind of dancing that was way outside her experience.
He caught her, held her steady. ‘I never learnt. Just did.’
Hmm. Ruby relaxed in the cradle of his hold for a moment – cocooned; she liked that – before he spun her out again. She felt the adrenalin bubbling like champagne. Heady stuff. Hang on a minute. Wasn’t she supposed to be chilling out?
In the next number, the band slowed it right down. ‘That’s more like it,’ Ruby murmured. They were both breathing heavily.
He held her slightly apart – as if she might break – not pulled close in to his body, which was where she’d rather like to be. She tried not to look at his mouth. His lips were full, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw; his cheekbones high and defined. There was something primitive about him, something straightforward that drew her. And she could smell the warm resinous scent of him, like amber. The man was seriously sexy. Seriously hot. She must be careful. In her fragile state, she didn’t want to get burned.
She closed her eyes for a moment and Laura obligingly stepped into her mind. Laura … Who are you? Where are you? Why did you do it? Had she thought about Ruby over the years? Had she ever thought about her?
What had it felt like, she wondered, to carry a baby for nine months, to care for that baby for another six months, and then to give that baby away? Why had she done it? Was it for selfish reasons? Or had she wanted to give Ruby what she saw as a better life, one that included all the things
that she couldn’t give her? Had Laura carried any guilt? Or had she blithely got on with her own life as if she had never been a mother?
Ruby tried to relax in his arms. There were so many questions and she wondered if she’d ever find all the answers. Because so far everything pointed to the fact that she’d been right. The trail had gone dead in 1976 when Laura first went travelling. Laura had apparently been a bit of a loner. And in 1976 she had cut all her ties and simply disappeared. Ruby had found out where Laura went to school – her name was on the old girls list of the local girls’ grammar school, now a shiny, rebuilt comprehensive. But no one had answered the ad she’d put in the local paper, nor had Facebook or Friends Reunited yielded any results. Laura must have lost touch with old school friends. It happened – especially after almost forty years.
It seemed then that there was nothing to go on – apart from that Mediterranean beach …
Slowly, gradually, Andrés pulled her closer until her face was resting against his linen shirt. Inside every relationship was a deal – whether unspoken or not. And this, she realised, was very different from the contract she had unknowingly made with James. She didn’t have to be anything. This man accepted her as she was, or even as she might be on some non-specific day in the future. He accepted her grief. He didn’t want her to be anything – or anyone – else.
She could feel his heart beating, she could feel the warmth of him. There was something so familiar about him, as if all her life she had been slightly lost, slightly dislocated and now at last she was finding her feet. She felt stronger than she had since the accident. She felt as if she had a purpose.
When the last notes faded and the song was over, he let her go. Ruby moved reluctantly, gave him a small smile. But as they walked back to the bar, he looked at her, touched her hand and something seemed to shift inside her. It was as if the past pain slipped back a little, there was the smallest chink of light and something new and hopeful was emerging in the tunnel of now.
*
That night, as they walked back to Ruby’s new place – small but cosy and exactly what she needed for the moment – she told him how she had discovered she wasn’t really her mother’s daughter. The darkness seemed to make it possible to talk. The streets were quiet, there were hardly any lights in the windows of the houses they passed; most people were in bed asleep. And only a crescent moon glimmered in the dark sky. The pavement was damp from an evening shower but now the air felt fresh and clean. There was a sense of peace and tranquillity after the music, the dancing. A time for telling. She told him about the shoebox she’d found in the wardrobe and the letter from the doctor. She told him about the family photo album. She told him the story that Frances had told her. And she told him about Laura.
‘I can show you a picture,’ she said.
They stopped under a lamp-post as they arrived at the cottage and she pulled the photographs out of her bag. ‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘And that’s me.’
‘She’s beautiful.’ Andrés held the photo up to the light. He frowned. ‘Do you know where this was taken?’
‘I’ve got no idea.’ She leant against him and peered over his shoulder. ‘It looks like a pretty special kind of place though.’
‘It looks like Fuerteventura,’ Andrés said. He handed it back to her.
‘Really?’ Well, the light wasn’t good. It could be anywhere, couldn’t it – with sand and sea and a few black rocks?
‘My island is the kind of place people like that come to,’ Andrés said. He put his arm around her. It felt good.
‘People like that?’
‘Surfers, hippies, travellers.’ He laughed softly. ‘People who drive VW camper vans.’
‘I can’t get over the fact that she’s out there somewhere,’ Ruby said. ‘That I’ve got someone somewhere who once had to make such a big decision about me.’
Andrés didn’t speak, but he put both his arms around her now and held her tight.
‘I’ve been feeling scared,’ she told him. Their faces were only inches apart. ‘It’s an odd thing. Even my memories don’t seem mine any more. I don’t know who I am.’
‘I know who you are, Ruby,’ Andrés said.
She was wrapped in his arms. Really wrapped. Not just like in the dance, but so close that there was no space between them. So close that all she could feel was his warmth. And she wanted more of it. There was something about him that made her nerves jangle; that left her dizzy and wanting to hold on.
She edged out of his embrace and felt for the key that was in her bag. She had let him into her life. There was no going back. She opened the door and turned to face him. Took him by the hand. Led him inside.
CHAPTER 29
Andrés was working in the studio when his mobile rang. He cursed under his breath. But it was his mother so he must answer.
‘Mama?’
‘Andrés.’ Immediately, he heard the held-back emotion in her voice.
‘What’s wrong?’ Something in his belly dipped with foreboding. Was she ill? Was Izabella ill? Was … ?
His mother sighed. ‘It is your father.’
Andrés tensed. ‘What of him?’ His voice was flat. He looked down at the painting he was working on. He had prepared it with a background wash of palest blue. On this he planned to paint Chesil Beach in all its glorious shades of toffee, honey, amber. The warmth of the high-bricked sandstone cliffs, the rise of tiny pebbles, the buttercups freckling the grass. And the sea. The end of summer exhibition was coming up and he wanted to put in as many pieces as he could. He had reserved an exhibition space in the Salt House at Pride Bay – a wide open high-roofed barn near the sea – which would be perfect for showing his work. It almost didn’t matter to him how much he sold – though sales would obviously be good. What he wanted most, he realised, was recognition.
‘He is not well, my son.’
Andrés held his breath. ‘What is wrong with him?’ He heard his own voice – harsh and grating.
‘We are not sure.’
‘Well, then … ’ He released the breath. It would be nothing. His mother worrying about nothing.
Andrés had gained recognition once before in his life – from his father. The boy can paint … But it had only brought hatred and resentment from the man who was supposed to love him. Because shouldn’t you automatically love your own child? Si, por supuesto. Of course you should. So. Andrés was looking for a different kind of recognition this time.
‘He is losing weight, Andrés. He has none of his old energy. He coughs. How he coughs.’
‘He smokes too much.’ She’d said it often enough herself.
‘He coughs up blood.’
‘Has he been to the doctor?’ Andrés kept his voice steady now. But his mind was reeling. Coughing up blood was not good. ‘He must let the doctor do tests.’
‘I keep telling him.’ She sounded exhausted.
Andrés sighed. Apart from the rest of it, his father was a stubborn man. ‘Call the doctor out to him if you are worried, Mama,’ he said. ‘Give him no choice. Tell him you will not cook him another dinner until he does the tests.’ Be firm with him, woman, he thought. Be strong in the way that you have never been strong before. For God’s sake. Stand up to the man.
‘He has lost his appetite too,’ she said.
‘You must do it, Mama.’ Andrés was unyielding. ‘You must make him go.’
‘Very well, my son.’
Andrés nodded. ‘I will phone you in a few days to find out what they say.’
There was a pause. Well, what else was she expecting? He had cut himself off from his family – he’d had no choice. He knew though what she wanted.
She sobbed. ‘Oh, Andrés. I wish that you were here.’ He pictured her suddenly, the telephone receiver pressed hard against her ear, her dark hair swept back away from her face. It had been seventeen years and yet he could visualise her as if he had seen her yesterday.
‘For him?’ he demanded. It hurt to deny her. But was that why
she wanted him to come? For a man who hated him? She had always said, hadn’t she, that nothing had changed. So what had changed now? His father was ill and Andrés must run home to the island like a puppy with his tail behind his legs? As if Enrique Marin had done nothing?
‘For us all,’ she whispered.
Andrés sighed. It was no use her wanting a reconciliation between father and son, or for them to pretend there was a thimble of love between them. There was none. The chance for that was long gone. ‘I cannot come back,’ he said. ‘You do not understand.’
‘I do understand, my son.’
But she did not. His father had told him never to darken their door again and only his father could now ask him to come home. And he would never do that. Andrés knew he would never do that.
‘It may not be as bad as you think,’ he said. What did he think? Andrés didn’t want to think. Coughing. Blood. Loss of energy and appetite. He guessed he knew what his mother was thinking too. ‘Fetch the doctor, Mama,’ he repeated. ‘And then you will know.’ Then they would all know.
After they’d said goodbye, Andrés tried to refocus on his painting. He mixed some colours on his palette and looked at the shots he’d taken of the cliffs in the light he’d wanted to capture; compared them with what was in his mind’s eye. Damn his father. Damn him for everything he’d done and everything he did still to mess up Andrés’s life. And damn him for making Andrés care.
The colour was right. He filled his brush and began. Broad strokes. Bands of gold.
Ruby was coming down to the studio later and he wanted to have something to show her. Ruby … In less than a month, their relationship had swept him away. Friendship and a feeling of wanting to protect her had become … What? Sometimes it felt as if there hadn’t been a time before Ruby. He wanted her here, but what he didn’t know was how long she would stick around.