by Jo Thomas
I turn and see Antonio riding the stallion through the cherry orchard.
‘Antonio!’ I wave at him with both arms. ‘Quick!’ I point towards the woods. ‘There was someone in the barn; they’ve gone that way!’
He turns the horse and canters up the path in the direction I’m pointing. Suerte clears the wall with ease, Antonio leaning forward to duck beneath the low leafy branches, and disappears into the trees. I wait, holding my breath, until I see them returning, the horse taking big relaxed strides, the reins loose and low. Antonio is shaking his head.
‘Whoever it is, they’ve gone.’ He jumps down and leads Suerte through a small opening in the wall, then comes to join me. Catching sight of the scratches on my arms, he takes hold of my hand and inspects them. ‘Are you OK? Are you hurt?’
My heart starts clacking like a pair of castanets. It must be the shock.
‘Here, you need something on those. Let’s get them cleaned up.’
He takes my arm and guides me to my finca. I find the key in my pocket, but I’m feeling shaky. This place has been my little safe haven since Will left, where I can hide away from the world and no one will bother me; where I can be alone with my thoughts, thinking about Will, about what might have been. Now . . . well now I’m not so sure I’m alone at all.
‘Sit down on the veranda and I’ll make you some coffee. Then I’ll check the barn.’
‘Oh, it’s OK. I can do that,’ I say, not wanting him to see the cheap coffee I’ve bought, or my empty cupboards. But it’s too late: he’s in the kitchen, banging the cupboard doors.
‘There’s nothing here!’ he shouts. ‘I’ll get some from the restaurant.’
‘No, really,’ I try and insist.
‘It’s the least I can do when you’re chasing intruders from my property,’ he says, firmly but kindly, and my insides seem to jolt again.
‘Hey! Beti!’ I turn to see Miguel walking towards us. ‘You OK?’
I manage a smile. ‘Yes, fine. I . . . There was someone in the barn. They ran off into the woods. I have no idea what they were after.’ I’m desperate to ask him where he’s been, but I can’t, not with Antonio here. I’m not going to worry Antonio before I get to the bottom of this. He has enough on his plate already.
‘Someone in the barn?’ Miguel raises his eyebrows in surprise, but something about the way he says it makes me stop and look at him. Does he know what’s going on here? Has he got something to do with it? Is something being hidden in there?
‘You fetch coffee,’ Antonio tells him. ‘And something to eat,’ he adds. ‘I’ll go and check the barn.’
‘Of course,’ says Miguel, and he runs off in the direction of the restaurant. I watch him go with narrowed eyes.
Antonio is back quickly. ‘It’s all as it should be,’ he says. ‘Nothing to worry about. Maybe just kids messing around.’ He looks at me again. ‘And you’re sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine, really. Thank you.’ I nod towards his horse, tethered to the rickety old fence. ‘Where did you learn to ride like that?’
He strokes Suerte’s soft nose. ‘I have always ridden, when I used to come here to visit my grandparents. This was their farm. My grandfather was putting me up on horses before I could walk. My mother and father travelled a lot, so I used to stay here for long periods of time, even went to school here. Then when I was a young man, I started to travel too. But when my grandparents grew old, I came back to the farm. My grandfather wanted to hand over the cherry orchard to me, to pass it on to someone who would care for it and carry it on. The restaurant used to be Grandmother’s; just their front room and porch really. She would cook her home-made dishes, and almond and cherry cake when the season came. Bonita came to work here as a young woman; she learned everything from my grandmother, all the old recipes. I worked on the cherry farm and my grandfather taught me how to understand the horses, how to listen with my heart and not my head. I hope I can pass that on some day,’ he adds quietly as we watch Miguel walk up the grassy path carrying a tray loaded with mugs and a plate.
‘She sent cake . . . lots of cake!’ Miguel’s face breaks into an excited smile, and Antonio smiles back, seeing a glimpse of the boy he never knew.
The plate contains three huge slices of cake, which we all tuck into as we sit, deep in our own thoughts, looking out over the cherry orchard. The finca feels like my safe place again.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Antonio when he has finished. He starts to lead Suerte back down the path.
‘We’d better get on with the watering,’ I tell Miguel.
‘Let Miguel pull the bowser!’ Antonio calls back good-naturedly. And then, more seriously, ‘And call me if you’re worried at all, any time.’
My stomach does a little skip by way of thank-you. Clearly I’m still recovering from spotting the stranger in the barn, and my painful attempt at scaling the wall.
‘Right, let’s get to work,’ Miguel says. ‘Or I can do it on my own if you’re hurt,’ he offers.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say. I sit and look at him, giving him an opportunity to tell me what’s going on, but he says nothing; just checks his phone.
‘Do you know anything about who might have been in the barn?’ I ask eventually.
‘Me? No.’ He shakes his head.
But something tells me otherwise.
By the time we’ve finished watering, the sun is starting to warm up the ground. Like every day now, we’ll do more come sunset, before I start work in the restaurant. But now that the blossom is nearly gone, the visitors seem to have disappeared too. No one comes to see branches with leaves and buds on them. Only the bird visitors seem to have increased in numbers.
‘We need to get these nets on the trees,’ I hear Antonio call to Miguel from the paddock where he is working with the bay colt again.
‘Are you going down to the harbour, Beti?’ Miguel walks over to where I’m standing watching Antonio. He leans on the fence beside me and watches too.
‘No, not today.’
Antonio is talking calmly to the horse, never raising his voice, clearly able to communicate with animals much better than humans. I look at Miguel, who at least has his hood down.
‘I’m going to check out the barn. See if I can find any clue as to who’s been in there. Perhaps you’d like to come with me?’ I suggest, and push myself away from the fence.
As I start to walk up the field, Miguel falls into step beside me. I can sense Antonio taking his eyes off the horse and watching us go. I turn and give him a little wave of the hand, to reassure him that Miguel is coming with me. He nods his head slowly in return, and my stomach does that little skip again, making me smile. I feel I’m finally doing something worthwhile. If Miguel is with me, he’s not disappearing and getting into trouble, and maybe I can find out a little more about what’s going on with him.
‘So where were you this morning?’ I’m slightly out of breath as we walk side by side up the grassy path. I find myself having to almost run to keep up with his long strides.
‘Overslept!’ he quips quickly and gives me a killer smile.
‘Funny. Antonio said you left the apartment early and were looking for me to start watering.’ I try and speak as non-combatively as I can. I don’t want him to close up on me again.
‘He must have been mistaken. I was in bed until I heard you shouting for him.’
We fall into silence. I have no idea how to get anything else from him. It’s not like I’m his mother. He’s probably thinking, What’s it got to do with you? And he’d be right! But I made a promise to Antonio that I’d look out for him, and I’m going to stick to it.
When we reach the barn, I try and look in through the dusty cobweb-covered window, but it’s too dark to see anything. I feel a little nervous, which makes me cross. But maybe Antonio’s right; maybe it was just kids messing around. We move arou
nd to the door and I reach out tentatively for the handle. I don’t know why I should feel nervous; it’s not like I’m going to find an armed gang in there.
‘Do you want me to do it?’ Miguel asks. I shake my head.
‘I need to see for myself,’ I say.
Miguel steps back, and I take hold of the handle and slowly turn it. A shaft of light cuts through the darkness as I open the door and peer in. In it the dust moves this way and that, and I’m reminded of the dancer I saw in the club, telling her story, baring her soul. What do we do in the UK when times get tough? We certainly don’t dance, or sing. Maybe we do everything we can to ignore it. Bury our heads in the sand. Hide our feelings away and tell the world we’re doing great – with posts on Facebook about holidays, weddings, children – instead of sharing how we really feel and not caring what others think. I swallow hard. People in Spain tell each other what they think all the time. I think of the group that gathers in the taverna on the square, swapping news, talking loudly and consistently over each other. Back home, we just put up more pictures on social media.
I slowly push the door wider, scanning the huge space, checking the lurking shadows – and there are plenty of them. The place is piled high with chairs, round tables and boxes of picture frames and terracotta pots. I pull out my phone and switch on the torch. It’s just a barn. Nothing exciting to see. I turn to Miguel, but he’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A few days later, I’m heading up to the finca in the early evening to get my newly washed sheets in off the fence. I love the smell of the sheets when they’ve been dried out here. I want to get them on the bed before I start my shift at the restaurant. I’ve been in the harbour all afternoon, talking to the couple from Folkestone who make ready meals about my ideas for Spanish tapas with a British twist, and they’re well up for it. So that’s something sorted on my list. Tick, I think, satisfied.
After I’ve done my bed, I need to find Miguel to help me water the trees. He didn’t come to the harbour with me and I have no idea where he is. I can see that more trees have been covered with nets; I passed Antonio doing that this morning, and he raised his hand to greet me, almost as if we’re becoming friends.
I’m striding up the final sharp incline, towards where my sheets are flapping on the wooden railings in the warm sunshine, when suddenly I hear it again: the thumping sound from the other evening. This time I’m not hanging about. I run towards the barn as quickly and quietly as I can, my heart thudding to match the sounds coming from inside. But as I get closer, I realise that I have no idea what to do next. Do I just burst in, or should I run back and get Antonio, like he told me to? But by then whoever is inside will have run off. I have to deal with this now, on my own, I tell myself.
I stop beside the window and flatten my back against the cold wall, then take a deep breath and peer in. At first, like last time, I can’t see anything. It’s dark in there, but there is a shaft of light coming in from the window at the far end, where the shutters have been opened. As my eyes adjust, I can make out piles of chairs, tables and stacks of cardboard boxes. The light is shining right at the yellowing walls, and I realise they’re completely covered in some sort of paintings or posters, aged, weather-worn and cracked. And there, in front of the fireplace, I can now make out two figures: one short, one tall, standing facing each other.
I recognise the taller one straight away. It’s Miguel. I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. Who is he squaring up to? Then, as the light suddenly streams in, I catch my breath in recognition. That’s who I saw running away the other day. It’s a girl! The girl Miguel was with at the club that day. But they don’t look happy to see each other. They’re standing with chests out, shoulders back, as if challenging each other. Is she from the gang he left behind; is she a messenger? I need to find out.
I move towards the door, which is slightly ajar, and crouch down, peering through the crack, barely letting myself breathe. I can see them, just. But they’re not arguing as I thought. As I watch, they begin to clap, not taking their eyes off one another. Then their feet join in, kicking upwards behind them and stamping with their heels. Clap, clap, stamp, stamp. They begin to move their arms, lifting them with elbows high and fingers turning, curling in their little fingers as their arms rise. Stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp; she grabs at her skirt and whips her head away from him coquettishly, then turns back to him, her eyes on his, lifting her chest as if in encouragement, and the two dance slowly and sensually around each other.
If I thought the woman at the club touched me, this is unbelievable. Totally mesmerising. No music, just the clap of their hands and the stamp of their feet, heel to toe, toe to heel. I can’t take my eyes off them. I might not know anything about it, but I’m pretty sure this is flamenco.
Suddenly a blast of wind makes the door bang shut and open again. The pair drop their arms. The spell is broken. They spin round to look at me as though they’ve been caught red-handed, and freeze. And I do too, though I’m not sure why. Is it because I’ve discovered them hiding out, or because I feel I’ve watched something so intimate . . . not just a dance, but an outpouring and sharing of emotion without words?
The girl suddenly grabs her bag from on top of a pile of old sacks, and goes to run out of the door.
‘Whoa! Not so fast this time!’ I step in front of her, blocking her way. ‘You’re the girl I saw in that club with Miguel, aren’t you?’
She spins round to Miguel, wide-eyed.
‘It’s OK, Sophia, Beti is a friend. We can trust her,’ Miguel says in English for my benefit, and then smiles at me. ‘Can’t we?’
I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I don’t move; just look between the pair of them.
‘Well first of all, I think you’d better tell me what’s going on here.’
We sit down in the barn, me on one of the old chairs that Miguel puts out for me in the shaft of dancing dust, Miguel on an old wooden fruit box and Sophia on a rung of an old cherry-picking ladder leaning against the yellowing poster covered wall.
‘Flamenco has been banned in this town for years,’ Miguel tells me. ‘It was Sophia who told me all about it when we met. I was wandering around the back streets near the club and she asked me if I was waiting to go in. I thought,’ he shrugs, ‘why not? I have grown up around flamenco all my life. Often I was the kid sitting under the table in smoky clubs, up late, and then sleeping on piles of coats at the parties after shows. I was always in the way.’
My heart twists thinking about him as a little boy, feeling like an uninvited hindrance.
‘But I did learn flamenco. And once I met Sophia, we have been dancing together every day since. Pedro, the guitarist, says we have great potential, that we need to start to perform in public, at flamenco gatherings, competitions, to get our name known.’
‘But it’s hard, because no one here must know Miguel is dancing.’ Sophia speaks with a strong Spanish accent. ‘It would cause a lot of trouble, and for me and my family too if they knew I was encouraging him.’
‘But why is it banned here?’ I finally get to ask what’s been niggling away at me.
‘I am from the next-door village, where flamenco is not banned.’ She carries on without answering my question. ‘We are free to dance there. Miguel has been coming to visit me. But when he can’t make it because he has to be here to water the trees, I have been coming here to practise. And then of course there is the club, where we go to dance with Pedro, where they hold the peña.’
‘The what?’ I ask.
‘It is not like the flamenco shows that are put on for the tourists, like in the Pink Flamingo; a few girls dancing in floral dresses. It is where the real dancers go to share their love of flamenco. The aficionados of the art.’
‘And that’s where I saw you. Were you going to dance?’
Miguel laughs. ‘I thought we might, until you turned up!’
‘Well, they missed out on something quite special. You two are amazing!’
They smile at each other shyly and I can’t help but beam back.
‘And what is this place?’ I look around.
‘It was once a peña club too. People would come for miles, so my father tells me. Word would get around and they would turn up to see their favourite dancers.’
‘But not any more?’ I look at the posters on the walls and realise they’re advertising peña nights.
‘Like Miguel says, flamenco is banned in this village. My father told me there was a fight one year. The priest banned the dance because it brought too much trouble at a time when the cherry harvest needed to be brought in. No one here dances any more. No one even mentions flamenco,’ Sophia reveals.
‘A priest banned it? After a fight?’ I say, shocked. I understand now why Antonio was so against me suggesting it; it sounds like it has a troubled history around here.
As I look more closely at the barn, it dawns on me that it could be the perfect space for Olivia’s party. I honestly have no idea where I would start, but it’s full of possibilities. I’m feeling a little apprehensive, but excitement is starting to bubble up inside me, followed by a great big wave of anticipation. I’ve got a party to plan, and whatever my feelings for Olivia, I’m going to give it my very best shot.
‘So, you will keep our secret?’ Miguel asks earnestly.
My mind is still whirring away, thinking about the party. It’s a huge job, I realise, maybe even impossible.
‘I tell you what, I’ll keep your secret if you promise to help me clear out this place and plan my cousin’s party here. Agreed?’