Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘So if you agree, I could go and hand out flyers,’ I continue, my mind brimming with ideas and fingers itching to get to my notepad.

  ‘I said no,’ he says more forcefully, and slams the cupboard door shut. Then he turns to me and looks straight at me to make his point. ‘No flamenco!’

  ‘What?’ I decide to push the matter. After all, this feels like my last chance to make some money. ‘But it would be perfect! The restaurant is empty in the daytime, and you have that big covered terrace, with heating if needs be . . .’

  With a huge resigned sigh he says, ‘Flamenco has been banned in this town for many years. Our local priest ordered it, and that is the way it has to be.’ He takes a final look around the little room and nods, as if closing my window of opportunity for good. Then he turns and leaves.

  ‘Antonio, wait!’ I run after him. He stops and turns back to me. ‘Banned? Why?’ I’m wondering if I’ve heard him right.

  ‘It is how things are around here. That’s all there is to it.’

  He means it. Flamenco is banned. And by the sound of it, he’s not wasting his breath explaining. But even so, I really need to find more work.

  ‘OK, I get it. No flamenco. But would you have any other work for me at all, anything?’

  He looks pointedly around at the empty tables and chairs, and at Miguel, who is sitting on the steps of the terrace with a large net on his lap, darning the gaping holes. ‘I’m sorry. You can see how it is,’ he says.

  But to be honest, I can’t. This place could be amazing with the right ideas.

  ‘Valentina will be back soon, ask her. She runs the restaurant. Sorry.’

  He obviously doesn’t want to do anything that might step on Valentina’s toes, and I understand that, I suppose. I watch as he shrugs and marches off to the sheds beside the horses’ enclosure, where he stands over a large square piece of machinery and switches it on. It doesn’t seem to want to jump into life, and coughs and splutters a few times before falling silent again. Antonio lets out a torrent of what I’m guessing are Spanish expletives. Miguel looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

  ‘His pump is playing up,’ he says with a hint of a smile as I pass him on my way up to the finca.

  No flamenco then, I think, still wondering why on earth you would ban a dance. It’s back to the drawing board for me and my money-making ideas, I guess. Looks like I’ve landed on a snake and slid back to square one again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That evening as I walk to the restaurant, I take the time to breathe in deeply. The smell is amazing, filling the air and lifting my spirits, despite my worry about my current predicament. Contrary to what Victoria told me, it looks like there are people who have heard about the blossom and want to explore the mountains. They’re different from the younger crowd down at the harbour and the beach: older holidaymakers, in walking gear, enjoying the trees in full bloom in the evening sun.

  When I reach the farmhouse, Bonita is crashing about in the kitchen, complaining noisily about the dishes on the menu Valentina has set. It’s all hands on deck by the looks of it.

  ‘How can I help, Bonita?’ I strip off my bag and hang it on the peg by the mop and bucket and broom.

  She points to some potatoes. ‘For French fries! What is wrong with patatas bravas? We are in Spain! You want French fries, go to France!’ She tuts and shakes her head.

  The restaurant is filling up. As I peel the potatoes, I look out on to the terrace and realise that it’s just Frank, me and Bonita again tonight. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Bonita, can you show me how you cut these for patatas bravas?’

  She looks at me and frowns, then glances around nervously, puts a potato on the chopping board and cuts.

  ‘Patatas bravas,’ she announces, and steps back.

  ‘Patatas bravas is it then!’ I say, and start chopping. ‘Blame me, I’m just the washer-upper. I don’t know one end of a potato from another. I thought I was helping.’

  She looks at me for a moment, and there is a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth as she goes back to the big pot of something indescribable and the printed-off recipe beside the stove.

  Once I’ve cut up all the potatoes, Bonita tells me she’s made a tomato sauce for them, just like she used to.

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ I say as she drains them ready for the oven. ‘And maybe . . .’ I take another bold step. There are people out there paying good money and expecting edible food. ‘Maybe the chicken tikka could be something a little more . . . Spanish too, just for tonight. It looks like it’s going to be busy. Might be easier . . .’ I trail off, just as Frank calls me to help move the tables from the bar area back outside underneath the wisteria that has burst into life. As I leave the kitchen, Bonita is standing stock still, deep in thought.

  A young couple are sitting in the little room where I put the candle and the terracotta pots. The fairy lights are on. Frank must have done it. He gives me a little wink. The two of them are leaning over the table towards each other like they’re the only people in the world. I feel a little pang of envy, and try and remember when Will last looked at me like that. Did he ever? Or did I just imagine it?

  I turn my attention back to the filling car park. Surely Valentina knows it’s going to be like this when the blossom comes out and tourists venture out this way. But there’s no sign of her little red car. And no sign of Antonio either.

  I’m heading back into the restaurant behind Frank when I hear a shout from the direction of the sheds.

  ‘Heeey!’

  Followed by another.

  ‘Bravo!!’

  At the same time there is a sudden rush of water, like an unexpected shower of rain. But it’s not. It’s the sprinkler system for watering the cherry trees, suddenly erupting into life, making the diners turn and look.

  As Antonio emerges proudly from the barn, he catches my eye, and for the first time since I’ve met him, he’s smiling, actually smiling. He looks very different without his usual scowl. He goes to join Miguel, who is standing over the big metal box that is now chugging along noisily, like an unfit runner trying to make it to the finish line. Even Miguel looks pleased. I find myself smiling too, as father and son finally find common ground in getting the pump to work. But as Antonio raises his hand for a high five, Miguel suddenly looks embarrassed. Antonio drops his hand and the moment of united triumph ebbs away. Miguel turns away and wanders off up the path towards my cottage, checking his phone. Antonio watches him go, his face a picture of concern. Then he turns and looks at the sprinklers, hands on hips, the happy smile returning. And just for a moment, I can see what Valentina must have seen in him.

  Back in the kitchen, I look at Bonita, who is beaming.

  ‘Spanish chicken!’ she announces, holding up a wooden spoon. I go over and taste the sauce. It’s amazing!

  ‘What’s in it?’ I ask, savouring the flavours as they run over my tongue.

  ‘Chicken, paprika, oregano, chorizo, vegetables. Is simple but good, sí?’

  ‘Sí!’ I confirm. It’s gorgeous. Soft, moist chicken; spicy red chorizo; deep orange paprika. My taste buds are tingling from their experience.

  ‘I will save you some,’ she says, and gives me a little wink. She actually winks! And I smile.

  ‘Beti!’ Frank calls me to help move a table from the bar area as another car pulls into the drive and a group of British pensioners get out and look around with wonder.

  ‘Is it always busy at this time of the year?’ I ask as the table catches my shin.

  ‘Mostly. People like to see the cherry blossom. It is unusual. They have cherry blossom all over the Jerte valley, but here, in Colina de Flor, this is very special. A rare breed! It only grows here. That’s why we have to look after it,’ he tells me as he walks backwards with the table. ‘You OK?’ he adds kindly, and
I nod that I’m fine.

  We put the table back under the pergola. This time there is no rain leaking through, just the gentle pitter-patter of the sprinklers in the evening sun and the glow from the patio heaters on the outside diners. Frank has turned the CD player on, and the air fills with light Spanish guitar music. I look round the terrace. If only it was like this all the time: busy and buzzing. If only Antonio would let me organise the flamenco nights. I wonder again why flamenco is banned. It seems so odd, and how on earth is it policed? I can’t imagine anything like that happening back home. It would be like banning singing: impossible!

  ‘Oh, how pretty!’ exclaims a British woman in her early sixties. ‘Is this table free?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll just get . . .’ I look around for Frank, who is taking orders. ‘I’ll just lay it up for you,’ I say, and run back into the restaurant to grab cutlery, glasses and napkins.

  ‘Take a seat.’ I pull out a chair. A rogue spray from the watering system catches me on the backs of the legs, and I move the table an inch or two away from it. ‘The waiter will be with you in just a moment.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. It’s beautiful here. We were just passing, out walking, when we spotted this place. So tucked out of the way. What a find!’

  I just hope the food lives up to the setting, I think to myself.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ smiles her companion. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary. This is perfect.’

  I smile. ‘Congratulations,’ I say, wondering how people manage to make it to milestone anniversaries when I’ve never even managed to get out of the starting blocks.

  ‘Thirty years ago today. I knew he was the one.’ The woman smiles and puts her hand over his. My heart aches momentarily, but I bat away my sad thoughts.

  ‘I’ll ask the waiter to get you some drinks,’ I say. ‘And can I recommend the chef’s special, Spanish chicken and patatas bravas?’

  ‘Thank you, dear. You’ve been most helpful. You’ve got a lovely place here.’

  ‘Oh, this isn’t . . .’ but they are leaning into each other, enjoying each other’s company, the music, the blossom and the scented night air.

  The rest of the shift passes quickly, in a pile of pots and pans and those blooming square plates. The Spanish chicken and patatas bravas are a huge hit, and I see a hint of triumph on Bonita’s face as she passes me the empty baking trays.

  ‘Gracias,’ she says as I take them from her, and she nods her head and smiles again.

  ‘Gracias,’ I smile back.

  I’m carrying a black bin liner outside to the big green bin when the anniversary couple call me over and thank me for a lovely evening.

  ‘I wish we’d done something like this when we were still young enough. You’re very brave,’ she tells me. ‘I didn’t have the nerve to risk everything on a new life overseas.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not brave,’ I say. I haven’t even told my family I’ve lost all my money and that my fiancé has left me. A pang of guilt, followed by panic, hits me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll never get a place of my own.

  ‘Thank you again, dear. It was a wonderful evening.’ She pulls her fleece jacket round her and I turn back towards the restaurant, cheered by their happiness. That’s when I hear the voice.

  ‘There you are!’

  My warm, happy glow freezes over like Elsa’s palace in Frozen, chilling me to the bone.

  ‘My Find My Friends app says you’re up in a field somewhere over there! I thought I’d never find you! I was beginning to wonder if this bar in Spain was made up!’

  I turn slowly. There, holding out a phone in one hand, an oversized handbag over her arm and sunglasses pushed up on the top of her shiny chestnut head, is the last person on earth I want to see right now. And my heart sinks like it’s been weighted with a stone and plunged into deep, dark, freezing-cold water.

  Chapter Fourteen

  What on earth is my cousin Olivia doing here! In Colina de Flor! I try and manoeuvre my tongue to form words whilst my brain is doing a crazy dance; questions and thoughts crashing into each other. Does she know Will’s run out on me? Does she know he’s taken Nan’s money? Does she know I’ve blown everything . . . again?

  ‘Wow! This place is actually . . . really . . .’ She looks around in disbelief, clearly unable to bring herself to say that it’s fabulous.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ I nod several times, knowing I’m going to have to get back to the kitchen or Bonita, despite tonight’s success, will be on the warpath. I can’t afford to mess things up here; it’s the only income I have right now.

  ‘What is all this stuff?’ She brushes the blossom with her hand.

  ‘Cherry blossom. A rare variety that grows only here. It lasts about ten days, so you’ve caught it at just the right time.’

  What am I talking about? ‘Caught it at just the right time’?!

  ‘Very knowledgeable,’ she says with raised eyebrows. ‘It looks . . . amazing.’ She bleeps her key fob and an expensive-looking black car lights up. Clearly she isn’t planning on leaving straight away, and my heart sinks.

  ‘So, you remember Gav, don’t you?’ I look across to the car park, where Olivia’s boyfriend from back home is walking towards us, phone glued to his ear.

  ‘Yes, we’ve met,’ I say. Oh God! This can’t be happening. Why are they here? I had it all planned. I was keeping my head down until I got the key to the Butterfly Bar. Then another thought strikes me. What if it’s bad news?

  ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, at home? There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘No, no . . . Dad’s still spending all his time at the golf club!’ She hoots with laughter. ‘Mum’s busy with her charity work. Oh, and Reykjavik . . . amazing! Did you see our photos on Facebook? Great hen destination, but a bit done to death now, if you know what I mean . . .’

  I zone out as Olivia rattles on. I need to know why she’s here. Is it Will? Has something happened? Has she seen him? I swallow hard.

  ‘So, this is where you’ve been hiding!’ She looks around with an approving nod. ‘I mean, a bit rustic and out of the way, but it’s really not bad, for a bit of backward Spanish life.’

  I can’t decide whether to agree proudly or bristle defensively. Instead I clap my hands together, needing to get back to the kitchen. ‘So. What brings you two here?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to message you. You’ve gone dead on FB. What’s up with you? But then I guess this is what’s up. The pair of you must be working your butts off! Manual work must be exhausting,’ she says, as if she has a high-powered office job. ‘Where is Will? I must say, I’m stunned he agreed to this. I always thought you were punching above your weight there, but fair play, if he’s gone along with living out here, you must have something I don’t.’

  I’m reading between the lines and digesting it all slowly. She thinks Will is here with me. That means she hasn’t got news on his whereabouts.

  ‘Can’t wait to say hello.’ She looks around, and I swear she runs her tongue over her top lip.

  ‘He’s . . . away. Got a gig. With a band!’ I say quickly, without engaging my brain. Just tell the truth, a voice in my head shouts, but I silence it immediately. I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing I’ve blown it. I just need to buy some time . . .

  ‘What? He’s gone away, leaving you to run this place on your own?’

  ‘Oh, this place isn’t . . .’ I stop myself. Do I own up now? Get it over and done with? Once she hears that Will has left me and taken Nan’s china-cow money, I’ll never hear the end of it. There is a moment of silence as she looks at me quizzically. I slowly roll my lips in on each other, and say nothing.

  ‘God, the things you could do here. I mean, it’s out of the way, but you could certainly tart it up.’

  ‘Beti!’ Frank calls to me and nods towards the kitchen. I raise a hand to say I�
��m coming.

  ‘Are you here for long?’ I ask Olivia as politely as I can.

  ‘Just a weekend break. A bargain flight out of Cardiff to get a bit of sun. Isn’t that right, Gav? I must admit, I thought the whole thing about you running a bar might have been a joke, another of your ideas that never came off. So I said to Gav, let’s surprise her! See if she’s really pulled it off.’

  Gav nods but says nothing.

  Surprise me! She’s certainly done that! But at least she’s not staying long. They’ll be gone very soon, and then I can return to getting my life back on track. With a bit of luck, and a few more nights with tips like we’ve had tonight, I’ll have my own bar by June and then I’ll invite them all out to see it.

  ‘Beti!’ comes the shout again. Frank is carrying armfuls of plates towards the kitchen, and I know the pile will getting higher and higher out there.

  ‘Anyway, it’s been lovely to see you both. Come and say hi again in the summer. Let me know!’ I turn in the direction of the back door.

  ‘Oh, we’ve time to eat, though. Couldn’t go home and not report back, could we? I mean, I thought it was just going to be a bar. I have to say, I’m impressed, aren’t you, Gav?’

  Gav gives a silent shrug.

  ‘You’re staying to eat?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes, that is what you do here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course!’ I try and take control of the situation, which is rapidly running away from me. ‘Um, I think we may be full.’ I look around, desperate for an excuse for my unexpected and very much uninvited guests to leave.

  ‘That one there.’ Olivia points to the table the wedding anniversary couple have just vacated.

  ‘Of course!’ I say, more high-pitched than I expected, and quickly start to clear away the detritus of their meal.

  ‘Oh, lovely!’ Olivia claps her hands together. ‘How romantic!’

  They sit down and I practically run back to the kitchen, where the plates are indeed piled high, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.