by Jo Thomas
As he made his way over to his horses, standing by the fence to greet him, his fists clenched as he remembered the look on Felipe’s face. The smirk as the man had finally rid himself of the last remaining piece of Antonio from their lives: his son. It had taken all Antonio’s willpower not to punch him. But what good would it have done? He’d been there before. Done that. Felipe knew he was the stronger man. But it took more than one battle to win the war, and Antonio wasn’t going to lose what he had because of this man.
Biting his tongue, he had lifted his head high and put an arm around his son’s shoulder, leading him out of the narrow streets, past the women standing in groups, arms folded, gossiping. Neither of them looked back. But as they reached the end of the lane, Miguel shrugged off Antonio’s arm from his shoulder, stepping away from him. Their moment of solidarity was over. It would take time. Antonio knew that. He also knew what Valentina’s reaction was going to be.
He moved away from the horses puffing and blowing in the spring sunshine, took a deep breath and turned to the balcony, where Valentina’s long dark hair, much like the beautiful mane of his favourite black stallion, was blowing in the light spring wind. Valentina was slim and very beautiful. Why then did he have no desire to whisk her off to bed right now and tell her everything would be OK? Instead he turned back to the horses. Maybe a ride would clear his head. He needed to reassure her, but he had to work out what was happening here. He suddenly had a son living with him. He had never been a parent before. What made him think he could do it now? What if the boy really was trouble? He’d acted on instinct when he’d told Esmeralda that Miguel was coming to live with him. Now he had to find a way to make it work.
He stroked the beautiful curved neck of his beloved horse, running his hands through the white streak in amongst the black. He had told Miguel to go on up to the apartment, make himself at home. He would be fine for a little while longer. They both needed some time to think; adjust. He strode over to the barn, pulled back the door, letting in the afternoon light, and picked up the light-tan leather saddle and bridle that hung there.
The horse stood patiently as he swiftly slung on the saddle, did up the girth and slid the bridle over its head. Taking up the reins, he swung himself up. He knew he should say something to the woman in the finca, apologise. He’d had a bad day. He shouldn’t have taken it out on her. But she had damaged his cherry trees! He thought about her comment that she hoped his cherries weren’t as sour as he was, and suddenly, without warning, for the first time in days, he found the corner of his mouth lift into a smile.
He took another look at the apartment. Valentina was still calling to him to get back and sort out his mess. He raised a hand and replied that he would be back soon. He would smooth things over with her later.
He made a clicking sound in the corner of his mouth and the horse set off, striding out up the pathway, eager to get going, up through the cherry orchard towards the finca. He wouldn’t knock and apologise. He wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone. Instead he stopped and picked up the fallen branches, placing them on the doorstep on the small wooden veranda by way of apology. Then, as silently as he could, he remounted his horse, gave it a gentle kick on and rode away into the forest.
Chapter Nine
I step out on to the veranda to be greeted by the little grey cat, and almost trip over a pile of branches. I catch my breath. Is someone trying to tell me something? When I bend to pick them up, I realise it’s the bunch I dropped earlier. But who would’ve left them here? Certainly not my unfriendly boss, that’s for sure. I look around for signs of life, but there’s no one there. I wonder if it was the young man I saw by the truck, and a tiny ember of happiness glowing in the pit of my stomach attempts to relight. It’s such a kind thought; it would be a waste if they were thrown away now.
I wash out an old plastic water bottle and cut the top off it, then arrange three of the branches in it. I cut the fourth into shorter pieces and put them in a chipped mug, then set the mug on the little wooden coffee table on the veranda. I can’t help but smile at how the branches brighten up the little finca, imagining them as centrepieces for the tables at a spring wedding . . . I stop and berate myself. No more wedding planning!
In the restaurant that evening, Valentina is conspicuous by her absence. Instead of watching our every move like last night, overseeing plates of food, table settings and my washing-up, she stays mostly in the apartment upstairs. And when she does appear, to bark out orders, she is far fiercer. I keep my head down and focus on my soap suds. Finally, at the end of service, she storms down the steps past the kitchen window, shiny dark hair swinging, overnight bag over her arm and her spiked heels piercing the ground as she marches out to her little red car. With a slam of the car door and a spinning of wheels that leaves the few diners on the terrace clutching their cutlery in terror, she speeds off in a cloud of orange dust. Silence falls over the restaurant and the diners look at each other with inquisitive stares and shrugs.
I make my excuses and go to the toilet, pressing the on button on the CD player as I pass it, just to try and soften the uncomfortable atmosphere. As gentle guitar music fills the air, the diners shake their heads, but start eating again. Frank looks at me and gives me a thumbs-up.
When I get back to my sink full of soapy bubbles, Frank and Bonita are carrying on with their work as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, but the looks they give each other say that this turn of events is very much out of the ordinary. Who is the new arrival upstairs, and what is going on? I hear Frank asking his mother. Is it a full-time kitchen hand instead of the English girl? he adds, and winks at me, joking. But I wonder how close he might be to the truth. Is my time here over before it’s even begun?
In the apartment over the restaurant, Antonio poured himself a large brandy with anise, a medicinal, restorative mix. Miguel was in the spare room, the door firmly shut. He wondered if he should knock, talk to the boy. But maybe he’d gone to bed. Frustratingly, the floral bedding was all Antonio had been able to find. He’d buy some more when he went to town. Something more suitable. Not that Miguel seemed to mind. But Antonio wanted to make him feel at home.
What did young people like? He didn’t know anything about Miguel, his interests or hobbies. They’d barely spoken since he got here. The boy had just been plugged into that phone, headphones in, head down. He didn’t eat either. Antonio had offered him the restaurant menu, said he could have whatever he wanted, but he’d just looked at it, bemused, and said he didn’t want anything.
Antonio thought he’d get some food in tomorrow and use the little kitchen in the apartment. He usually just ate from the restaurant, but even he had trouble working out what Valentina’s menu offered half the time. It was a long way from the old days when his grandmother was in charge. Maybe he could ask Bonita to cook Miguel something, like the dishes his grandmother used to make. Something traditional . . . not chicken tikka whatever it was! He just hoped Miguel would stay, not run off back to the city. Back to the gangs he’d got in trouble with. But he hadn’t even unpacked, which left Antonio feeling on edge.
He took another sip of the drink and felt the burn in his throat as it went down. He let his eyes rove over the orchard. His trees were doing well. He hoped the blossom would be good this year. And in turn he hoped it would mean a good harvest. He knew where he was with his trees. Relationships of all kinds he appeared to be useless at. Valentina had stormed off in a fury at not being told of Miguel’s imminent arrival, or the plans for him either. But that was because Antonio had no idea himself!
Movement caught his eye and he wondered if it was Valentina, back for another row. He didn’t have the energy. He didn’t want Miguel to hear another fight either. He’d had more than enough fuss around him for one day . . . a lifetime even. He looked closer and realised with guilty relief that it wasn’t Valentina. It was the girl from the finca, the washer-upper. Well, hardly a girl, but younger than him. Sh
e was picking her way up the path by the tiny light of her torch. He remembered her comment to him again, and smiled. He liked that.
He still felt bad about chewing her ear off about the branches. By all accounts she was a good worker and a good tenant, having scrubbed the place from top to bottom. He really wasn’t good at putting his thoughts into words. He hoped she realised he’d left the branches there as an apology. He wouldn’t want her to move out and leave. Good workers and good tenants were hard to come by. Despite the efforts of the estate agent where Valentina worked, renting and selling apartments, the expats and the locals up here rarely mixed, each community keeping themselves to themselves. It was how it had always been. The real Spain, up here in Colina de Flor, was a long way from the apartments, bars and nightclubs on the front.
He sighed. He’d let Valentina down again. It was no wonder she’d driven back to her apartment down at the harbour. He hoped she’d be back tomorrow. He’d have to find a way to say he was sorry. How she put up with him he had no idea. She wanted so much more than he could give her.
I leave the restaurant and walk up the path with my tin foil parcel of untouched leftovers for me and the cat, and a piece of lemon cake Frank wrapped in a napkin and handed to me without his mother seeing, with his usual cheeky wink. As I reach the finca, I look out over the old farmhouse. It really is beautiful, with its tiny rooms, full of original character. I can’t understand why they’re not used. People would love them, I’m sure. If I was doing a party . . .
I stop myself and look at the upstairs apartment, where two lights are on. I spot a figure and wonder if it’s the young man I saw today. I wonder why he’s here and why Valentina has left. He looked like someone who’d been through it, who’d lost their world. I have an inkling I might know how he’s feeling, like your heart is a piñata at a children’s party, brutally beaten to smithereens whilst others around you cheer and applaud, leaving you with the pieces to pick up.
Next morning, after feeding the cat and promising myself a cup of tea at Craig’s breakfast bar, I head towards the path leading round the outside edge of the cherry orchard. As I pass the horses’ enclosure, they stamp and neigh. I jump as I see Antonio standing beside the big black horse, its neck beautifully rounded, its mane long and wavy, like hair a young girl would die for.
I stop. He looks up. Neither of us says anything. Any words that might have formed, any apology, catch in my throat. At last, he nods firmly, just the once, and then steps into the stirrup and swings himself into the saddle. I find myself nodding back, and then quickly moving on to the opening between the whitewashed gateposts, past the restaurant and out on to the road.
In the square, the café is open for business. The scarves outside the souvenir shop flutter in the wind and people are coming out of the bakery with fresh warm loaves under their arms, stopping to exchange news with neighbours. They nod and greet me as I pass. Relief washes over me. It appears my job and my house are safe for now. Antonio would have said if he was going to sack me. It looks like my new boss has other, more pressing worries on his mind. I promise myself that from now on, I’m going to keep my head down and my thoughts to myself.
Chapter Ten
Finishing my shift at the burger bar, I pull off my apron and hat and step outside the back door just as a large drop of rain falls and hits me squarely on the head.
‘Ah, bugger it!’ I hear Brenda curse. ‘Harold, it’s raining!’ She is standing outside the big glass patio doors, looking out on the precinct, just where I hope to be standing in a few months’ time. As the rain gets heavier, Harold winds in the big awnings and I make a mental note to self: wind in awning in rain.
‘It’s April, Brenda. It does sometimes rain!’ he shouts back at her. ‘Otherwise nothing would grow!’
I run over and help move the chairs out of the rain, stacking them against the glass doors.
‘You staying for a livener?’ Harold waggles a bottle of rosé at me. I shake my head.
‘Not before I work this evening. I’m already on thin ice there.’
‘Problems, Beaut?’ he asks, still holding up the chilled bottle of wine.
‘Oh, nothing much. Just got off on the wrong foot with my boss, but y’know, I’ll be fine. Keep my head down. Gotta go. The bus’ll be here,’ I say.
‘Wait!’ Brenda shouts. ‘We’ve got Pilates here later if you fancy it. All the expat ladies are coming.’
‘Can’t. Working,’ I call back and smile. Both of us know that the more hours I put in, the quicker we’ll all get what we want. I wave, and then turn in the direction of the bus stop. Pilates! I’ll have to plan a weekly events list. Maybe have a blackboard up and deliver flyers to the resorts. My mind is whirring with plans. Well, at least they’re not wedding plans any more. They’re ideas for my bar!
Holding my apron over my head against the rain, I make a quick detour into the souvenir shop, reappearing just as the bus pulls up. As we trundle out of the harbour, I take out my new ‘start the rest of your life’ notebook, with a dolphin diving through blue waters on the front cover, and a pack of pens. Ripping them open, I turn to the first crisp white page and run my hand over the smooth, cool sheet.
I write down ‘Pilates’, and then a few ideas of my own: ‘Spanish for beginners’, ‘tapas and tunes night’. Will would have loved that, I think, and then try and push the thought out with a good shove. Maybe I could link up with one of the kayak companies down at the beach, offer a deal: kayaking followed by sangria at sunset. The ideas just keep coming, and for the first time in ages I start to feel good inside. At the back of the book I make a note of the hours I’ve worked, how much I’ve earned and, in a separate column, what I need to pay out on rent and bus fares. The figures make me dip. Even if I work every shift and spend no money on food whatsoever, it’s going to be tight. But not impossible, I tell myself. I can do it. Maybe I’ll see if there are some extra hours I can pick up at the burger bar.
I close the book and look out of the window, watching the rain slide down the glass, smiling at the sight of the now familiar cherry trees. I have a book and a plan, and that’s all that matters.
By the time we reach the village, the rain has eased to a drizzle. I walk through the big trees in the middle of the square – which I now know are cherry trees too – under the wrought-iron black lanterns and around the drinking fountain tiled in brown, white and blue. I’m heading up the lane towards the restaurant when my phone rings. It’s my mum. My heart fills up at the sound of her voice.
‘Hi, Mum!’
‘Hello, lovely, how’s things? I’ve been looking for you on that Faceoff thing on the computer, but I can’t see anything you’ve put up. Is everything all right?’
‘It’s great, Mum.’ I can’t help but laugh. My mum getting to grips with Facebook; who would have thought it!
‘Sunny?’
‘Of course! Well, mostly.’ I look around at the big raindrops hanging from the blossom buds like fat, shiny crystals, and smile.
‘Oh, smashing! I can see you now, sun on your face. Bet you’re going a nice colour already. So much better than dreary Britain. Tell me what it’s like where you are.’
‘It’s lovely, Mum.’ I turn around, taking in the view. ‘There are cherry trees all around me. And there’s a little bakery and a gift shop. There’s a supermarket and post office and even a school. And the restaurant here has a terrace area where people sit and eat. An outside grill,’ not that it’s used, ‘and fairy lights everywhere,’ I add, letting my imagination run away with me. Then I check myself. What am I doing? I’m describing Cortijo Ana instead of the Butterfly Bar and the port where I’m actually supposed to be living. I bite my bottom lip before I give myself away any more. I don’t want Mum to worry.
‘Oh, it sounds just lovely. I’m so proud of you for doing this.’
‘Thank you, Mum,’ and it catches in my throat.
‘An
d how’s Will?’
‘Will?’ My voice cracks and I feel my eyes prickle just at the mention of his name. Damn it! I was doing so well. I really thought I was pushing him to the back of my mind.
‘Yes, you know, dear – Will, your fiancé!’ and she lets out a little tinkle of laughter.
I swallow hard, trying to moisten my throat. ‘He’s fine,’ I manage. And he probably is, I think. I can’t tell her he’s run out on me and taken Nan’s money. Mum and Dad thought he was perfect. And he was! At least I thought he was . . . It will hurt them as much as it’s hurting me. He was going to be their son-in-law, the son they never had, and who knows, maybe one day father to their grandchildren. Now that will never happen. It makes me even more determined to make it work out here, at least give them something to be proud of when I let them down about Will.
‘He’s got a gig, actually, with a band. He’s away for a bit, playing . . . away.’ I hate lying to my mum. By the time they come out for a visit in the summer, I’ll have it all sorted. I’ll explain about Will then, but not now. Not until I’m in my own bar.
‘Well blow me! That is exciting. And you’re OK, on your own?’
‘Yes, fine, Mum. I’m doing just fine.’ I walk towards the restaurant entrance; Frank and Bonita are on the terrace, having some sort of argument. The little grey cat comes trotting down the lane to greet me, meowing loudly as if telling me off for being away. She rubs her head on my ankles as I bend to stroke her.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Mum. ‘You’re probably very busy. Can’t wait to see some pictures soon. Dad sends his love. We’re very proud of you.’
‘Send him my love too,’ I say, and suddenly I feel a huge rush of homesickness for the pair of them. ‘Bye, Mum, love you.’