Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Oh! That is fabulous news! Isn’t it, Harold? That’s brilliant news! Let’s have a sangria to celebrate. Harold? Pour us a couple of sangrias!’

  Harold nods. ‘Righto, Beaut!’ Smiling, he picks up a large glass and pulls down the handle on the shiny pump. Without turning it off, he fills a second glass and adds a slice of orange with a cocktail stick.

  ‘Cheers! Here’s to happy endings!’ Brenda raises her glass, and the Spanish sunshine shines through, lighting it up like a jewel. ‘That’s brilliant news, Beti love. We can book to see those flats now. He’ll be so excited.’ She nods in Harold’s direction. ‘He’ll be Skyping back home already.’

  ‘How’s your daughter?’ I ask.

  ‘Getting bigger by the day!’ She laughs. ‘It could be any time.’

  I get a little pang of envy on behalf of my parents, who would have made wonderful grandparents.

  ‘We can’t wait to be more involved with all the grandchildren on a day-to-day basis. They grow so much when we don’t see them.’ Brenda looks around, misty-eyed, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s missing her family, or because she’s going to miss this place. ‘Everything changes,’ she says with a smile and a sigh, and turns to go back into the bar.

  I look around and barely let myself think it. It is actually going to happen. I’m going to be taking over the Butterfly Bar! I can’t help but smile happily again.

  ‘Hey, Carlos!’ Brenda waves at the fisherman coming in from his boat, his daily catch in a sack over his shoulder. ‘Do you want something to take back to the restaurant today, love?’ she asks me.

  ‘I have sardines . . . or prawns.’ Carlos pulls one out of the sack and holds it up. I put my hand up and shake my head, laughing.

  ‘No, but thank you. Not today,’ I tell him. ‘Valentina’s back at the restaurant,’ I say to Brenda. ‘She’s put a stop to the daily specials.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Brenda grimaces.

  ‘But it has given me an idea for the party.’ I make a note to google seafood tapas. I’ll need to prepare lots of dishes in advance. I look around the market. There’s a British couple selling ready-made British meals in foil takeaway dishes. I wonder if they could do tapas but with a traditional British twist. Mini Yorkshire puds with a slice of beef, tiny fish and chips in a cone, that kind of thing. Or even retro ones like vol-au-vents, cheese and pineapple on sticks and mini prawn cocktails. I’m sure it’s the sort of touch Olivia and her friends would like. Maybe I could introduce similar food when I take over the Butterfly Bar. I write down the idea and make a plan to talk to the couple in the market, and to Olivia. I’ve started my list and suddenly it feels like life is back on track.

  ‘Thank you, Carlos,’ says Brenda. ‘Hasta luego.’

  ‘Not if I see you first, baby!’ he jokes back in a thick Spanish accent, and we all laugh. Clearly a well-rehearsed line. It is wonderful how these two communities have embraced each other and are living harmoniously together down here at the harbour. Shame the same can’t be said for Cortijo Ana. Despite Valentina trying to attract the tourists, they never seem to visit twice. Who wants foam dots on square plates when you could be eating fresh seafood straight from the sea or Bonita’s special Spanish chicken?

  I wonder if Harold and Brenda will miss all this when they go home. But with a new baby to enjoy, who can blame them? I think with a tiny pang in the pit of my stomach. I would have loved a family: me, Will and our children sitting round a table with their grandparents eating paella. I’d get Bonita’s recipe from her, but it’s not like I’m going to have anyone to cook for now.

  I look out towards the harbour, where the boats are bobbing about the jetty and a group of elderly men and women are taking a swim.

  I carry on making my list, wondering if we can do a grown-ups’ piñata. If only I could ask the flamenco teacher from the Pink Flamingo to come and do a class. That would have been perfect, but I have to keep to my word. No flamenco. I sigh. What else could we have instead? Maybe I could speak to Maxine about doing her Cher act. It could be great fun, very retro, though I wonder if it’s classy enough for Olivia. And karaoke! Everyone thinks they’re the next Robbie Williams after a few drinks. I make a note to find out where I can hire a machine.

  I look around at the precinct. Maybe I could organise for them to have a kayaking trip at sunset and cava on the beach before the party starts. But that would involve a minibus. Scrap that idea. I could offer it as an option for the following day instead. Oh, and I must find out about drink suppliers and make sure I have enough glasses. I’ll ask Frank. My head is buzzing with plans and ideas. The only trouble is Valentina. How am I going to make any of this happen with her not letting me have any help? The rest of the organisation I can handle no problem, but I’m going to have to find waiting staff from somewhere. By way of distraction, I start sketching table layouts and napkin-folding ideas.

  ‘Another?’ Brenda points to my empty sangria glass. I hardly noticed it slipping down, I was so busy scribbling notes.

  ‘A coffee this time, please, Brenda.’ I don’t think Valentina will be too impressed if I turn up to work half cut. I think she’d find any excuse to sack me right now. I jot down ‘sangria’ on my notepad and make a note to get the recipe from Harold. Oh, and we’ll need jugs. Maybe I could use the jugs from the cupboard in Cortijo Ana. Let’s hope Valentina won’t notice.

  I glance at my phone, checking the time. Miguel should be here by now. I look around.

  ‘Hey!’

  It’s Craig, swinging his man bag beside him. He kisses me on both cheeks.

  ‘How’s things?’ he asks. Before I can tell him all about the party, he says, ‘I’ve just seen that young friend of yours, the good-looking lad, heading up towards the club in the old town.’

  ‘A club? In the daytime? What sort of a place is it?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s not somewhere the expats or tourists go really. It’s a locals’ place. Not heard much about it.’ He shakes his head and orders a white wine with ice.

  Something about this doesn’t feel right. What on earth is Miguel doing in a club? I imagined he’d be going for coffee somewhere, or hanging round the beach, making friends over at the bar there. But a back-street club? All my fears rush into my head at once.

  ‘Was he on his own?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t see me. He was too busy texting.’

  ‘This place, this club . . .’ I pick up my notepad and quickly stuff it in my bag. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Los Picadores, I think.’

  ‘I’ll be back!’ I call, leaving Brenda holding a hot cup of coffee that right now, I really need. I don’t know if it’s the sangria or the thought of losing Miguel to some den of drunks and drug dealers, but I’m feeling a little light-headed.

  I follow Craig’s directions and head up the narrow road leading towards the old town. It’s not somewhere I’ve been before, and nor have many tourists by the looks of it. It’s just a stone’s throw from the harbour, and yet so different. Dark, narrow streets, with shadowy doorways. Walls stained green from poor guttering, and washing hanging out of tiny balconies that will barely see the sun, which is blotted out by the huge apartment blocks all around. There are overfull plastic bins and all the shutters seem to be closed. No wonder not many tourists visit here! They could do with brightening the place up: a few flowers, some white paint. I think of lovely Colina de Flor and the blossom in full bloom. So full of light and life! My spirits really lift when I picture it, as if . . . well, as if it’s my happy place right now.

  I finally reach a fork in the narrow road. In front of me is a big wooden door that looks like it’s been there since the beginning of time, and a worn painted sign of a man on horseback in traditional Spanish bullfighting outfit, with two words underneath: Los Picadores.

  I stand and look at the door, which is firmly shut. I feel suddenly nervous. What do
I do? Knock and see if they’ll let me in? Panicking, I wonder if I should just go to the bus stop and wait for Miguel; give him a chance to explain. Just then, a man arrives carrying a large black case. He pushes the door open and slides in. For a moment I can hear voices, calling and shouting, stamping. My heart leaps and starts thundering. And then the door slams shut again.

  I look around. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around on these quiet streets. There’s no way I can leave. What if Miguel’s getting into trouble again? I imagine Antonio’s set and angry face, but then also remember the look on it when he asked me to keep an eye on the boy. I must find out what’s going on. I have to try and keep Miguel safe. Safe: that was how I felt with Will. But it turned out I was anything but. He left me on my own, in a new country. That’s not what you do to people you care about! I suddenly realise that I’m not upset any more about what he did; I’m angry. You don’t leave people you care about. You just don’t!

  I step towards the door. There is nothing here to tell you this is a bar or a club. No posters or signs. What is this place? As I put my hand on the rough, dark-stained door, I can feel it vibrating. The walls are thick and solid, but there is something going on in there that is making it shake.

  Slowly, copying the man I just saw, I turn the metal ring handle, push open the door and slide in, wondering what on earth I’m going to find behind it.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The noise hits me straight away. Loud shouts and stamping of feet, making me jump and my nerves jangle. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark smoke-filled room. Clearly the smoking ban hasn’t ventured this far. It’s cool in here, and smells musty. There are people standing around, leaning against the old stone walls and pillars. Pairs of women share seats, leaning forward, arms on their knees. There doesn’t seem to be a single red- or pale-skinned tourist in sight. No straw hats or patterned shorts and flip-flops. These women have long hair, flowing free or piled up on top of their heads, some with flower clips at the side. They are wearing off-the-shoulder tops, full skirts or trousers with triangular scarves tied across their tummies. There are even children sitting cross-legged under tables and on the floor. Whilst the rest of the country is taking its siesta, this place obviously comes to life.

  At the back of the room is a woman standing with her arms poised. The audience is silenced. Then a guitarist begins to play and she starts to sing, a long, slow lament that comes right from the heart. I’m mesmerised. I slide into the shadows along the wall, and tuck myself away so I’m not noticed. She stamps her feet, and the women surrounding her clap in rhythm. ‘Olé!’ they shout, making me jump.

  Another guitarist joins in, and the woman’s feet begin to move, stamping and clicking on the worn stone floor. The music and dance build and build and seem to whisk me along with them. In what seems like no time at all, I have felt this woman’s worry, her pain, her grief, her anger and finally her determination to carry on. The song builds to a heady climax, and I feel practically moved to tears.

  When it’s over, I feel a strange sense of release, elation and exhaustion. The people round me clap, and call, ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Olé!’ They start moving around, talking animatedly. The guitarist, an old man, stands and stretches. From my hiding place in the shadows, I scan the room for Miguel. At last I spot him, talking earnestly with a small dark-haired girl. He takes her hand and gently tugs at it. She shakes her head. The old guitarist walks over to them, and the three of them look to be conferring in hushed tones. I don’t know what’s going on, but I promised Antonio I wouldn’t let Miguel get into any trouble. I step forward.

  ‘Miguel?’ I call. ‘Miguel!’

  There is a sudden hush, and Miguel turns and stares at me. I feel like I’ve announced to the whole club that there’s a tourist in the mix. Miguel looks as though he’s been caught red-handed. But red-handed at what? My heart is in my mouth, and in the space where it used to be, there’s a furious banging, like the heels of the woman dancing on the stone floor.

  The girl standing with Miguel dips and turns and is suddenly gone, lost in the crowd.

  Miguel puts his hand on the old man’s shoulder, bidding him farewell like there is unfinished business to settle. Then he turns and runs to me, ushering me out of the big dark door into the bright sunlight and back to the real world outside.

  ‘What is that place?’ I ask as soon as we’re outside. ‘Is it some kind of flamenco club? Why don’t tourists go there? What were you doing there?’ The questions rush out, one after the other.

  ‘Nothing!’ he laughs. ‘Just making friends, like you told me to.’

  He slings his arm around my shoulders in his lazy way and ushers me back through the narrow streets towards the bus stop.

  ‘Who was that girl? And the old man?’ I persist.

  ‘What girl?’ he says innocently. And I know in my gut that he’s hiding something from me.

  ‘I promised Antonio,’ I tell him.

  ‘Promised him what? That you’d spy on me?’ His cheerfulness suddenly disappears and the sullenness he arrived with descends again.

  ‘No,’ I say gently, keen not to push him. I don’t want him to pull the shutters down completely. ‘That I’d look out for you. Make sure you were safe.’

  ‘I am safe. Don’t worry, Beti.’ He smiles, and the good-natured Miguel I have come to know and care about is back. ‘Now come on, we have evening watering to do!’ he says.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s up to something, I can feel it. And I have to find out what, because by the looks of it, Miguel’s lips are sealed. I’ll have to stay out of Antonio’s way whilst I do, though. I can’t tell him about today, not until I’ve got something more than a head full of worries. I gulp, hoping it won’t come to that.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The next morning, I’m up early. It’s clear and fresh and promises to be another sunny day. The birds are noisily courting one another, dancing to and fro, and I’m reminded of the dancer I saw yesterday, mesmerising me with her story and her movement. Ana the cat walks across the small terrace of my finca, tail high, demanding my attention, again like yesterday’s dancer. I reach down to stroke her but she trots away; then, when I stand, she comes back and twists around my legs. I dress, feed her and make my way to the bottom of the hill, where Miguel has promised to meet me on time.

  ‘Miguel? Miguel?’ I call up to the little balcony at the back of the farmhouse, but there’s no reply. He is nowhere to be seen, again!

  ‘Everything OK?’ Antonio’s head and shoulders appear over the stone balustrade. I curse to myself; I thought he’d be out with the horses.

  ‘Um, yes, fine,’ I smile. ‘Just looking for Miguel.’ I try and sound casual.

  ‘How was yesterday?’

  ‘Um, good . . .’ I swallow, nod and find myself chewing my top lip. What else can I say?

  ‘Sure?’ he pushes.

  ‘Yes, we had a good time down at the Butterfly Bar. We met up with Craig; he runs a breakfast bar down there. Saw a few of the other locals. It was great.’ I find myself lying and hating myself for it. But I can’t tell him about finding Miguel in the club, not until I have something more concrete.

  ‘He wasn’t drinking, was he? He’s only seventeen.’

  ‘No, no, not drinking.’ I hold my hand over my eyes in the early-morning sun and start to turn away.

  ‘He seemed in good spirits when he got home. Did he meet some friends?’

  ‘I . . . er, I’m not sure,’ I say.

  ‘You were with him, weren’t you? You didn’t let him go off on his own?’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean, we had a lovely time. We drank coffee. He said he was interested in getting a job, maybe at one of the cafés or bars, or possibly the water-sports place.’ No he didn’t! shouts a voice in my head. Stop talking before you make even more of a mess of things!

  Antonio lif
ts his eyebrows and nods approvingly. ‘Good, good,’ he says. ‘But there is plenty of work for him here in the orchard for the time being.’ He indicates the corner of the orchard. ‘He has gone to start on the trees over on the far side.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. He must be waiting for me up there,’ I say without thinking. I have no idea why I’m covering for him. But if he is getting into some sort of trouble, Antonio might blame me and pull the plug on the party.

  I run to the yard to see if the bowser is still there. It is. Which means that Miguel hasn’t gone to start on the watering. Where on earth is he?

  I pull the bowser out of the yard. It groans and creaks, and I know how it feels. I’m annoyed about Miguel’s disappearance, but a little worried too. Has he gone back to the club in the old town? Who was that girl, and the older man who joined them? What has he been getting himself into? The questions keep running round my head as I struggle up the zigzag path pulling the heavy bowser, my upper arms aching and the blood whooshing in my ears.

  I’m nearly up to the top field when I stop to catch my breath. As I thought, no sign of Miguel. I’ll have to try and find him as soon as I’m done here. As I turn and look out over the cherry orchard, the blossom all nearly fallen, I’m startled by a noise. I whirl round and catch sight of a slight figure, dark-haired, running from the barn.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout, and drop the handle of the bowser. It rolls back slightly but doesn’t go anywhere. ‘HEY!’ I shout again, louder.

  I break into a run, chasing after.

  ‘Come back!’ I call as the slight figure disappears over the wall and into the woods. I try to follow, but find myself hooked in brambles. By the time I’ve freed myself, the figure has disappeared. They’re either hiding or are long gone.

  I’m out of breath as I make my way back to the barn. I’m not even sure if the figure was a girl or a boy, but there was something vaguely familiar about them . . . I look down at the scratches on my arms and legs where I got caught in the brambles. I rub them, but it’s not the scratches I’m thinking about. Something is nagging at me – I just can’t put my finger on what.