by Jo Thomas
I set off down the dusty drive, my case bumping along behind me, my wedding file still under my arm. As I walk, I breathe in the fresh air, a promise of better things to come, I think. To my right, over a whitewashed wall and another track, is a well-swept yard surrounded by sheds and what look to be stables. Beyond that there’s a paddock, with three . . . no, four beautiful horses in it, dozing in the sunshine and flicking their tails at the occasional fly. There is a big black one with a long mane, a bay with black mane and tail, and two greys. The bay looks much younger than the others.
The track continues round the side of the two-storey farmhouse, opening out on to a gentle slope full of trees behind the restaurant. As the field gets steeper, it’s made up of neat, shallow steps, like the pages of a book.
‘Hello? Hola?’ I tentatively try out my Spanish, then, when there is no reply, poke my head through one of the doors leading off the tiled terrace. There is a small room there with a fireplace set into the wall and a set of whitewashed shelves; what appears to have been the old farmhouse kitchen. Beyond that is another room, larger, that looks like it’s used as a storeroom. I go to the other door. Inside, it’s dark and cool; in one corner I can see a bar, which looks new and sort of out of keeping. There are optics and a music system and a big TV screen on the wall. Beyond the bar, there is a big kitchen at the back of the house, with modern stainless-steel work surfaces and bright lighting.
‘Hola? Sí?’ A woman suddenly appears and walks towards me in high spiky heels. Click, click, click go her shoes on the dark tiled floor. She is small and slim, with dark waist-length hair. But despite being small in stature, there is something slightly intimidating about her. I take a step back on to the terrace, feeling like I’m trespassing.
‘Um, hola. Craig sent me. I’ve come about the um . . . finca to rent. Are you Valentina?’
She says nothing at first; just looks me up and down, one hand resting on her hip lazily, appraising me like she’s buying a horse.
‘Sí,’ she says at last. ‘I am Valentina. You want to rent the old finca, sí?’
I don’t think there’s an option to see it before I agree. I take a deep breath. ‘Sí,’ I reply, then glance back towards the spacious kitchen. ‘And I’m looking for work, too. I do lunchtimes down in the burger bar in the harbour, but I’m free in the evenings, if you need anyone.’
Valentina looks me up and down again, as if she thinks I’d be good for practically nothing. Eventually she says, ‘We need a kitchen hand, someone to wash up, put out the bins, mop the floor at the end of the night. But if you don’t think—’
‘No! I’ll do it!’ I say quickly. ‘Gracias.’ Anything is better than sitting at home alone night after night, and this way I’ll be earning, too. I need every euro I can scrape together for the Butterfly Bar.
Valentina instructs me to wait. She goes away, coming back with a large key on a piece of string. She tells me the finca is in the top right-hand corner of the field behind the farmhouse, up the path, next to the old barn. Then, taking a pile of banknotes from me, she returns to whatever she was doing, not bothering to show me the way. But I don’t care. I clutch the key tightly. It might not seem like much, but now I have somewhere to live, as well as another job, and I’m going to do everything I can to get my bar. No one back home need know there’s been a change of plan. It’s just been a bit . . . delayed. Oh, and I’m doing it on my own!
I can hear the birds chirping loudly to each other outside, and I surprise myself by smiling for the first time since Will left and knocked my world off its axis.
Chapter Five
I swill the sheets around in the shower tray, chasing the dribble of water as it runs hot, then cold. I found some rather dried-out washing powder under the little sink, and now I’m rinsing the thoroughly washed bed sheets before wringing them out as hard as I can and carrying them outside to dry over the old wooden fence at the front of the little finca in the late-afternoon sunshine. The sheets flick-flack in the breeze and I have to chase one that flies off and attaches itself to the tree just in front of me. I hang it back over the fence and this time weigh it down with a couple of rocks I scavenge for.
Craig was right: this place is small and basic. Apparently, it was the original dwelling on the land before the farmhouse, stables and barns were built. It hasn’t been lived in for a while, but for now it’s a place of my own, and not the spare room at my parents’ house. The building itself is made from stone – big ones, little ones, all different sizes. It has a terracotta roof in various shades of red and orange, and slightly listing shutters, painted cherry red, peeling at the edges. Outside there is a stone terrace, with a wobbly fence made up of two criss-crossed poles and one along the top where my sheets are hanging, faded but clean.
Down two steps there is a little patch of worn grass with a few big stones marking out the garden area, and beyond that, well, it’s just trees. Row upon row of them, covered in tiny tight buds, the land dropping away like the layers of a flamenco dancer’s skirt. My nan used to have one that went over the spare loo roll in the toilet – a Spanish doll with layers of ruffled skirt. Here in the finca, it’s like sitting in a tree house, looking out over the treetops as they roll away beneath me. I can see the town square and the church tower, and in front of me, across the bushy green valley covered in more trees, another little white pueblo blanco nestled into the hillside.
Around the door there are some shrubs, overgrown and unruly: lavender and I’m not sure what else. There are birds chattering loudly, as if speaking Spanish at volume – because that, I have noticed, is how people are here in Spain, loud and excitable, just like the three blackbirds squabbling round the roots of that tree, flapping and dancing around each other in animated argument. And there are lots of little birds too: finches with gold fronts and red splashes on their heads, and even sparrows. But their sound is the only noise I hear. It is so peaceful. Just the birds and the wind in the trees. It is mesmerising.
But I can’t stand here staring at the view. I have to get on. I have my first shift in the restaurant to get ready for.
Inside, I rinse out the bucket I’ve used to wash the worn terracotta-tiled floor, and wipe down the wooden draining board in the corner. At one end of the room, against the stone wall that joins the finca to the disused barn, which is three times the size of this building, is a big dark wooden bed, with solid headboard and foot. The mattress is thick and hand-stitched. There is a window looking out over the trees, and on the other wall a small bathroom with the dribbly shower. But when you wake up to a view like that, who cares! On the other side of the front door is the snug kitchen area: a wooden table and chairs, a bookshelf, and a sagging two-seater settee in front of a small woodburner. There are wooden beams across the ceiling and running through the walls, uneven, gnarled and knotted. It’s about as rustic as it gets.
Having washed everything down, I unpack my case into the wardrobe that matches the bed, old, solid, deep-reddish-brown wood that smells slightly musty and feels like it has a lifetime of stories to tell. I leave the doors open ajar to air it. As I put Will’s belongings in the back of the wardrobe along with my wedding file, I feel like I’ve stepped off the edge of the world. It’s surreal. A tired leftover tear slides down my cheek, but I brush it away quickly with a big sniff, and push the belongings as far back in the wardrobe as I can.
Once I am ready, I step out on to the terrace, where the sun is slowly setting. As I turn to lock the door, I suddenly hear a hissing noise. Oh God! Don’t tell me there are snakes up here! I freeze. It’s right behind me! I whirl around quickly to see, not a snake, but a sprinkler on the ground at the base of the trees, dousing the roots. It coughs, splutters, stops and then starts up its constant hiss again. Feeling relieved, I find myself smiling. It’s just the watering system. And then I realise: it’s sprinkling my sheets! I run and gather them up in my arms like a toddler and carry them inside before they get soaked. Des
pite them only being out for a couple of hours, the warm sun and gentle breeze have done their job and they’re practically dry. I bury my face in them and inhale their freshness. Then, feeling ready for anything, I put them on the bed and make my way down to the farmhouse.
Valentina shows me round the kitchen and the restaurant. As she checks the table settings with an exacting eye, she tells me that she divides her time between managing the restaurant in the evenings and her day job as an estate agent in Lado del Puerto. Her partner owns the restaurant, she explains, but is currently away on business, so she is in sole charge. My station at the sink at the back of the kitchen overlooks the field of trees. At the big cooker stands the chef, short and stout, an overall stretched over her wide bottom. She doesn’t acknowledge me. She is scowling into a large pot she’s stirring. I turn the taps on and start filling the sink with warm soapy water.
‘Hola! I’m Frank. I am the waiter here.’ A man in black trousers and waistcoat, brandishing a pad and pen, has arrived in the kitchen. ‘The very best service all around!’ he jokes. He is the spitting image of the chef, but about my age and smiling. I’m relieved to see a happy face, to be honest.
‘Hola!’ I smile back and go to hold out a hand to shake his, but it’s covered in soapy bubbles so I wave instead, some of the bubbles breaking free and floating up to the ceiling.
‘And this is my mother, Bonita. It means pretty one!’ Frank beams at the chef, who tuts as he kisses her boisterously on the head, shrugging him off while squinting at a recipe book and muttering in Spanish. She’s clearly not happy. Frank peers into the pot his mother is stirring with a large wooden spoon, then looks at her questioningly. She shrugs, and he shrugs back and then goes out on to the terrace, where I can hear Valentina giving instructions. The mood in the kitchen drops again.
I stand over the big porcelain sink, ready to wash the dishes that come my way, nervous that I’m not going to meet Valentina’s exacting standards. I watch her overseeing the food that Bonita is plating up. Despite there seemingly only being a trickle of customers, the atmosphere in the kitchen is tense, making me nervous.
‘Sorry, lo siento,’ I say as a pot slips from my soapy hand into the water with a splash. Valentina turns and glares at me sternly, hawk-like, and the chef rolls her eyes, making me drop a plate into the sink with a clatter.
I spend the evening waiting to be told that my services are no longer required and I’ll have to find somewhere else to live to boot. No one speaks to me apart from Frank when he brings me the few plates from the handful of customers. His mother glares at them as they return, still with food on them, her face puckering up with disgust. And what’s more, they’re square plates, that won’t fit in the dishwasher, I’ve discovered. So each one has to be washed by hand. When it looks like there will be no more customers, that’s when the work really starts, as I collect up the pots and pans that Bonita has used and discarded all around the kitchen. I wash and scrub and clean like my life depends on it, until the ache in my back makes me forget about the ache in my heart.
‘Frank!’ I hiss to him at the end of service. ‘What am I supposed to do with all this leftover food? I can’t throw it away like Bonita told me to.’ I stare at the big pan of soup and the plate of chicken.
He shrugs. ‘People don’t like it!’ he whispers.
‘They don’t like your mother’s cooking?’
‘They used to. She has cooked here all her life. But Valentina, well, she wants different things. Things that will bring the tourists. Classy food.’ He uses two fingers to make quote marks in the air. ‘Not real Spanish food like my mama used to make. People came for miles for tapas made from whatever ingredients were in season. And her paella . . .’ He looks dreamy for a moment, and I struggle to marry up the grumpy Bonita and her nondescript food with the expression on his face.
‘Why doesn’t she leave?’
‘Jobs round here are hard to come by. And down at the harbour, that’s a world away for people like my mama.’ He smiles that infectious smile again. ‘She has worked here since she was a young girl. She is trying to make the changes.’
‘What about you, don’t you want to go?’
He shakes his head. ‘I love it here. You wait till the blossom on the trees comes. There is nowhere better. It’s my home. We all want it to work here. This is our livelihood.’
We both look down at the dried-out meat.
‘What was it?’
‘Chicken tikka masala!’ he says. ‘Valentina thinks the tourists will come if we offer world foods. Mostly British with a modern twist.’
‘What’s the twist?’
‘I have no idea!’ Frank shakes his head, and I laugh.
‘But what am I going to do with it all? I can’t throw it away.’
‘Take it,’ he says, and nods. ‘It will only go in the bin otherwise.’
I look at it and sniff. Well, a girl’s got to eat, right? I put the leftovers in tin foil and wrap them up.
‘Wait!’ Frank goes to a shelf and pulls down a cake tin. He cuts a slice and wraps it in a napkin. ‘To take away the taste,’ he says. ‘It’s my mother’s orange and almond cake. She makes it just for us, and sometimes lemon cake. When the cherries came out, she used to make cherry and almond cake too. Ahh! We loved that cake!’ he says with a wistful smile.
I take the cake, checking over his shoulder that he won’t be caught. ‘Thank you, Frank.’ I’m thanking him for so much more than just the cake. For making me feel welcome and for smiling. For helping me through the first day when there were times I felt so homesick I didn’t think I could manage. For his jokes that kept me going.
‘Buenos noches, Beti,’ he beams back.
I call goodnight to Valentina and Bonita, who seem to be in heated discussion, looking at the bookings and deciding next day’s menu by the looks of it. Frank grimaces and ushers me out of the back door, and I don’t need telling twice.
As I step outside, I breathe in the fresh, scented air. Despite its invigorating effect, I am exhausted and pray that tonight, I will finally sleep.
I pick my way by the light of my phone to the path between the trees that leads through the field to the finca. I can hear the horses stamping an occasional foot to the floor, the odd snort and heavy breathing. I’m almost at the cottage when suddenly there’s a rustling sound close by, making me jump and catch my breath. Then I smile and my heart rate slows to normal as a cat jumps down from a tree and starts winding its way around my legs in a figure of eight.
‘Hello, puss.’ I bend down and stroke her head, which seems to make her ecstatic. If only my touch had worked like that on Will! I manage to smile at my own joke.
I set off towards the finca again, and the little grey cat follows me, head and tail held high, seemingly glad of the company. As am I, I realise. At the cottage, I pull out the big key and unlock the door, and the cat wanders inside, where she prowls round as though to check that everything is in order. Once she’s satisfied, she trots back out and hops up on to the ramshackle bench on the terrace, where she starts cleaning her paws and ears. I say ‘she’. I have no idea really. But I get the feeling she’s in charge and I’m just the lodger.
I smile and spoon some of the chicken tikka masala into a bowl, then pick out some choice bits of chicken and put them on a small plate. I carry the food outside and sit myself down on the bench. The cat sniffs her plate suspiciously, then looks up at me with an expression that tells me she’ll accept the food, and that I can stay as long as I understand who’s boss.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘That’s that sorted.’
I finish the food, despite its unusual taste, which might be the ‘twist’. But the cake is delicious, and I savour each mouthful, as soft, fluffy and full of orange flavour as it looks. Then I gaze out over the trees falling away in the field below me. It’s dark now, probably about ten o’clock. As if answering my question, the chur
ch bells ring out. The little town is dead, unlike the port, where everyone is only just going out at this time. I wonder where Will is, and if he’s ever going to get in touch. I pull my phone from my back pocket and check it, as I seem to do every spare waking minute since he left. But there’s nothing. I text Craig to tell him that I’m at the finca and everything is fine. He sends back a smiley emoticon and a glass of wine, with a kiss.
As I breathe in the night air, I spot a battered old kettle barbecue in the corner of the terrace. I pick it up and carry it down the wooden steps on to the patch of worn grass. Then I go inside to find a hoody and a box of matches. From the wardrobe I pull out my overstuffed wedding file. There isn’t going to be any wedding now. Will has gone and I have to get used to that, starting with getting rid of this.
Out in the garden, I tear out the first two pages. Mood boards containing ideas for table settings and floral displays, with different themes and colour schemes. I give them one last look and then quickly scrunch them into balls. I toss them into the barbecue and strike a match, holding it high, then lower it into the barbecue.
Whooof! The paper goes up in dancing flames, turning to fluttering ashes, like grey moths flying off into the night. I open the folder and take out another page, and another. The flames keep dancing and the ashes lift on the gentle breeze over the tops of the trees.
I keep tearing out and scrunching until all the pages are gone. I watch the flames, mesmerised; all the plans I made going up in smoke, literally. As I stare into the orange glow, I tell myself that I will never again be stupid enough to believe that there is a happy-ever-after out there for me. It’s over, well and truly over.
Chapter Six