Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘We need more plates,’ Bonita is chiding. ‘We have run out!’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry!’ I push up my sleeves, turn the taps on full blast and squirt in a big slug of washing-up liquid. Before I plunge the first plate into the scalding water, though, I have a brainwave.

  ‘Wait!’ I rush out into the restaurant, returning with a stack of terracotta plates from the cupboard.

  ‘I’m not sure Valentina will be happy.’ Bonita looks uncertain.

  ‘Mama, Valentina isn’t here; we are!’ Frank joins in with my little act of mutiny. ‘This is always our busiest week of the year. People we have never seen before come for the blossom.’

  ‘And Antonio never helps! It’s always the cherries first with him. Why can’t the new boy help in here instead of out there?’ Bonita nods towards the cherry orchard, branches touching each other like a snowy mountain range, and the sound of the gently falling water from the sprinkler system.

  I wash the terracotta plates, then surge through the other plates stacked by the sink, head down, motoring on, like an Olympic swimmer heading towards the finish line. I’m just surfacing from the bubbles as Bonita serves up the last two portions of Spanish chicken and patatas bravas.

  ‘For your friends.’ She nods towards the crowded terrace, and the courtyard beyond.

  ‘Oh, they’re not my friends,’ I say as I grab the plates. The last thing I want is for Frank to blow my cover.

  ‘Wow! This place is busy!’ Olivia says, looking round.

  ‘Yup!’ I nod, realising I’m soaked from the washing-up.

  ‘You need more help,’ she tells me. ‘Get some more staff in the kitchen.’

  I nod again.

  ‘So, what are your plans for this place?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I try and think on my feet. ‘Obviously it’s all about al fresco dining,’ I say, repeating Valentina’s vision. ‘That’s what the tourists want.’

  But my head is telling me that it should go back to being the farmhouse it once was. No fancy menus or square plates.

  ‘I’m planning to cover all these trees in fairy lights,’ I add, nodding to the line of trees leading to the white gates beyond the car park.

  ‘Pull up a chair, Bet. Gav, pour her some wine. Hey! ’Scuse me!’ Olivia shouts to Frank, and I cringe. ‘Can we get another glass here?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve really got to get back . . .’

  ‘Surely you can have a bit of time off. You’re the boss, aren’t you? You can do what you like.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Frank comes over carrying a glass, and sets it in front of me. ‘Bonita sent you this.’ He puts down a piece of orange cake. ‘To say thank you.’

  I look at it and smile. Bonita has finally offered me her cake tin, and that feels very special indeed.

  ‘Tell me more about your plans . . .’ Olivia says.

  I sit down slowly on the edge of my chair and glance at the menu, overpriced and overcomplicated.

  ‘We’re looking at simplifying the menu,’ I say. ‘Maybe making a few changes to the seating area, make it more welcoming.’ I gesture towards the terrace.

  ‘Well it’s certainly minimalist at the moment,’ says Olivia.

  ‘Focus on its strengths,’ I continue, and as I glance around, I suddenly feel the colour drain from my face. Antonio is standing in amongst the trees on the drive, where he’s obviously been fixing bits of piping in the watering system. He’s watching me, one eyebrow raised in a mix of incredulity and possibly amusement. I freeze. He’s the last person I want to see me in this position.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Um, I really have to get back to the kitchen now . . . The, um, staff need . . . um . . .’ He’s still watching me, making my cheeks burn furiously. ‘Supervising,’ I finish painfully, trying to say it quickly and cover it with a cough.

  ‘Well, I have to say, I never thought you’d do it, Bet. I never thought you’d get over the finish line. You may not have made it down to the altar after all those years of planning, but you’ve gone and got your own place in Spain. Respect.’ Olivia nods, but I can tell she’s finding it hard to get the words out. The bottle of wine she’s sunk must be lubricating them somewhat.

  Antonio’s eyebrows rise even higher and my cheeks burn even more. And oh God! I think he’s coming over.

  ‘Beti? Could I . . .’ He’s going to ask me what the hell I’m playing at, sitting with guests and telling them I own the place . . . his place. I’m the washer-upper, for God’s sake!

  Olivia turns as Antonio approaches. ‘Oh good. Could you get us another bottle, waiter?’

  He stops in his tracks and his one raised eyebrow nearly reaches his hairline in utter astonishment.

  ‘Quickly!’ she insists, waving the bottle in his direction, and I think Antonio might explode with outrage.

  ‘You were right that you have to supervise them,’ Olivia tells me. ‘You’re having to hand-hold them. Your staff really do need to remember who’s boss. And try and smile!’ she tells Antonio.

  I want the floor to just open up and swallow me. I’m going to have to come clean before Antonio blows a gasket and fires me on the spot.

  ‘Look, Olivia, about that, the supervising thing . . .’

  Suddenly there’s a shout from Miguel. Antonio whips round away from Olivia, who’s still waving her empty wine bottle in his direction, and then throws his hands in the air. There is a phut, phut and a splutter from the hoses running in between the cherry trees, and one of them suddenly starts spitting violently in Olivia’s direction.

  ‘Oh! Aargh!’ She brandishes the bottle at the water spraying in her direction. But just as quickly as it started, it gives up and stops completely. The water pump, it would seem, has broken down again.

  ‘Mierde!’ shouts Antonio angrily, and marches off in the direction of Miguel and the pump.

  ‘Well, really! You should get rid of him, for starters!’ Olivia says, looking like she’s been spat at by a passing orang-utan.

  I have a sinking feeling it’s going to be the other way around.

  Finally, after some rather strange dishes of English trifle for dessert, Olivia stands slightly unsteadily and blows big wide air kisses as she gets ready to leave.

  ‘I’m so pleased we found you! Thank God for Find My Friends, eh?’ She waggles her phone at me, beaming like a woman who’s drunk the best part of two bottles of wine. ‘And don’t forget, don’t take any nonsense. Get rid of that sour-faced waiter, or washer-upper, whoever he is. You need to take control. Like this, look.’

  I turn to see Antonio walking down the path.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Olivia calls.

  What? No! Antonio stops and looks behind him, then points at his own chest and says, ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you!’

  The last of the diners sitting out on the terrace all turn and stare. Desperately, I start to gather up the dessert plates and glasses from the table. When I look up again, Antonio is marching towards Olivia.

  ‘How can I help?’ He pulls a tight smile through gritted teeth before his face falls back into its usual scowl. I can see why he doesn’t get involved in the restaurant. People skills are clearly not his forte.

  Olivia turns to me and grabs a stack of bowls from my hands. ‘Here, take these!’ she orders, and thrusts them at him, the spoons clattering against the sides. Then she dusts off her hands, gives me a look as though to say that’s how you do it, and totters off on her high heels towards the expensive hire car.

  Avoiding eye contact, I take the plates from Antonio’s outstretched arms and make a run for the kitchen, where I hide in amongst the plates and pans and bowls of soapy water until I judge it safe to come out.

  At last everyone seems to have gone, apart from Frank, who is still finishing up at the till.

  ‘Here.’ He puts a glass
of red wine and a small bowl of olives down for me on the bar, and points to one of the stools. ‘Have a seat.’

  Reluctantly but gratefully, I attempt to sit on the high stool, which seems to have a life of its own, swinging round whenever I approach it. Finally I wrestle it into submission. I feel as if I’ve worked a twenty-hour shift. My back is aching and so are my feet.

  Frank puts a small white plate down beside me with a piece of paper on it.

  ‘What’s this?’ I look up at him and smile. He shrugs apologetically.

  ‘Your friends’ bill. They said as they were family that it was on the house.’

  I’m so exhausted and fed up, I could weep. The few savings I have are gone, leaving me with nothing. Just like that, I’m back to square one. But at least Olivia has gone, and no one back home is any the wiser about the mess I’ve made of things. As I take a large swig of wine, I tell myself that it may have been ruddy hard work, but I’ve just about got away with it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I slept like a log last night. I didn’t think I would. I thought I’d lie there listening to the whooshing of the breeze in the blossom trees outside and worrying, but in actual fact my head hit the pillow and I was out like a light. I suppose that’s the effect of being on your feet all day.

  I make tea with the last of the tea bags I’ve brought with me, slip on my flip-flops, pull back the old wooden door and take in the fabulous white scene in front of me. The wind is chilly but the sky is blue and the sun is lighting up the valley slowly but surely. I grab my one jumper, slide it on and step out on to the veranda, where I sit at the little wooden table, surrounded by the smell of the jasmine and honeysuckle growing wild around my finca. There is only one thing missing: the sound of the sprinkler system giving the trees their early-morning drink.

  Ana the cat meows and jumps up on the seat opposite me.

  ‘Good morning,’ I find myself smiling.

  In the distance, down by the barns, I can see Antonio standing over the pump. The silence from the pipes weaving through the trees in front of me is all too telling. It’s still not working.

  I’d advise anyone to keep out of his way today, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. I sip the tea and drink in the spectacle of the blossom trees once more, making the most of them. Today, I’m going to the harbour. I have a bar to finance. I need to find more work and I won’t rest until I have some.

  The pump chugged into life then expired again. ‘Damn it!’ Antonio muttered, clenching his fists and kicking the metal box. ‘Miguel! Miguel!’ he shouted up to the apartment.

  He needed help. He needed to get this pump fixed, and quickly. If he couldn’t water the cherry trees . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. This was the most crucial time of the year, once the blossom was over and the fruit began to bud. If he didn’t make the harvest – well, it wasn’t an option. If he didn’t produce his quota, he’d be letting the whole town down. He was the biggest farmer by far in the town’s cooperative and they relied on him. He had to get these cherries ready for the buyer when he came. The supermarket would only take them if he could guarantee their full amount.

  ‘Put down that phone and come and hold this,’ he said as Miguel appeared, hood up and phone in hand.

  ‘It’s just a few photographs . . . I just . . . I sent some home. Wanted to see if they got them,’ he finished. Antonio immediately felt bad. He’d been worried that Miguel was in contact with the gang he’d left behind. Now it seemed he was just sending pictures of the farm to his mother and her boyfriend. Where was the harm in that?

  ‘Did she reply?’ he asked. ‘Your mum?’

  Miguel shook his head and Antonio bristled, feeling for the lad. Esmeralda had never been happy about becoming a mother. She hadn’t wanted anything to interfere with her career. But to still be holding it against the boy . . . well, it was just cruel. Antonio had to keep him working. Take his mind off things. He could tell Miguel was still hurt by his mother chucking him out. He didn’t want him running off, getting into more trouble. He knew what it felt like to be an angry young man; he had been an angry young man himself when his marriage broke down.

  He thought about the text messages Esmeralda had sent him when Miguel had first arrived, demanding a divorce settlement. Ha! If he didn’t get this pump fixed, he wouldn’t even have a business for her to claim a piece of. It was a preposterous suggestion: a divorce and half his business! Never! Not after all he’d worked so hard for.

  ‘Ouch!’ He’d pushed down too violently on the spanner, wrapped around a rusty nut, and scraped his knuckles. Miguel looked up from his phone, shoved it away and ran over to help, distracted for the time being.

  I grab my phone from the drawer on my way out. I close the door and bend down and stroke Ana, telling her I’ll be back later. Then I smooth down my lightweight denim dress and make my way down the path through the orchard.

  I’m rounding the last corner when there’s a thundering from a pathway leading off into a field of trees.

  ‘Aargh!’ A stupid scream leaps out of my mouth and I jump backwards. The beautiful black stallion is cantering towards me, his legs high, his rounded neck gleaming with sweat under his long wavy mane, like an elegant ballet dancer. Fit, solid yet elegant all at the same time.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!’ Antonio brings the animal to a halt and looks down at me from the saddle, running his hands over his unruly dark curls. He’s not wearing a riding hat. The horse is dancing on the spot, like a jogger not wanting to stop, raring to keep going, shaking its head, traces of white foam in the corner of its mouth around the bit. Antonio talks to it in a low, measured voice, and the animal slowly starts to calm, finally standing still and dropping its head.

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Can I stroke him?’

  ‘Of course. His name is Suerte. His first owners named him Diablo, Devil, but I prefer Suerte. It means luck, chance, fate. It is also the word used for when the bullfighter attacks or makes a pass.’

  I reach out and stroke the horse’s hot neck. Suerte shakes his head, and flies flit around. I rub in between his eyes as Antonio sits relaxed in the saddle, dropping the reins so they hang loose like empty washing lines either side of the horse’s neck. A sure sign that he trusts his horse not to bolt off, I think. I’m not sure he feels the same about Miguel yet, though.

  I run my hand over Suerte’s mane, jet black with a white streak two thirds of the way down.

  ‘Why is this bit white?’

  Antonio looks down. ‘He was attacked, when he was a young colt, by a bull. He defended himself, but the bull left its mark.’ He runs his hand over the white streak. ‘I found him, brought him back here to my grandparents. The owner had left him for dead. Apparently he had been a difficult horse. Angry, strong-willed, wouldn’t be broken. He found it hard to trust for a long time, but we learned a way to work together. Like two dancers finding each other’s rhythm and finally realising how they fit together.’

  I feel tears prickle my eyes and I have no idea why.

  ‘What about the other horses?’

  ‘They’re not all mine, but they are all Andalucían horses, pure bred. They are beautiful creatures. A famous horse master once said, “An Andalucían horse is born with the knowledge of how to do it; it is us that have to learn how to ask.” I take on horses that . . . well, that people are finding difficult; with behaviour issues, shall we say. I listen to the horses and work with them.’

  ‘So that’s what you do, as well as the cherry farm? Is that why Valentina runs the restaurant?’

  ‘Yes, I’m much better with horses than I am with people.’

  ‘You’re a horse whisperer!’

  He laughs, a full, rich sound, a glint in his eyes. ‘Well, you can call me what you like. I just do what I do.’

  His laughter peters out, and a slightly awkward silence falls.

 
‘Um, Antonio, about yesterday. I really feel I should explain . . .’

  He looks down at me from the horse’s back. My mouth goes as dry as the dusty path under my feet, which is already staining the edges of my white canvas shoes a light orange. I try and put my thoughts in order and then look up at him again, expecting to see him waiting for my explanation. But he’s not looking at me; he’s looking up, at the sky.

  ‘You see, the thing is . . . that was my cousin. She’s very . . . It goes back a long way. We don’t really get along because, well—’

  ‘Ssh! Ssh!’ He silences me mid-sentence and, understanding him a little better now, I stand and listen. In the background I can hear a buzzing noise.

  ‘Is it the water system working again?’ I glance around at the hosepipe, like a black snake running between the trees, but it’s lying dormant, still.

  He looks at me and shakes his head. Even Suerte stands still as if listening. Then Antonio holds up one finger and a smile spreads from the corner of his mouth across his face.

  ‘Bees,’ he says. ‘We need the bees to pollinate the trees. No bees, no cherries. It is good to hear them working.’

  ‘Ah.’ I nod, and now that he’s said it, I recognise the sound. I turn around and watch the bees, like jumbo jets roaring around the skies, as they fill their pollen sacs and head back to their hives in the far corner of the cherry orchard.

  ‘They only fly when the temperature is between twelve and fifteen degrees.’ Antonio swings his leg over the hindquarters of the horse and lands on the ground in front of me with a thump. ‘If the weather is warming up, we’re all happy.’ He twitches an eyebrow. Clearly the bees bring out the best in him. ‘Last thing we want is any more rain. Rain is a cherry farmer’s worst nightmare. Cracks the cherries, splits them. Ruined!’ he says, and I realise it’s the longest conversation we’ve had. He’s obviously comfortable talking horses and cherries.

  Suddenly he whistles and waves his arms and shouts, making both me and the horse jump.

  ‘Birds,’ he tells me. ‘The cherry farmer’s other nightmare. We must get the trees netted . . . Miguel!’ he shouts.