Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  Antonio is there, waiting for me. The tables are pushed back. Valentina is there too, in her usual place, with a black coffee in her hand. The smell mixes with the perfume of the wisteria and the fresh scent of wet grass where we’ve watered the trees, the water droplets scattered around the roots like handfuls of crystals.

  ‘Here.’ Antonio holds out a box to me as I walk across the cool tiled floor. ‘Take it,’ he orders, waving the box at me.

  I reach out and take it cautiously. What on earth could it be? Please God, not castanets!

  ‘It won’t bite.’ He rolls his eyes. I came to realise very early on that Antonio doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

  Intrigued, Valentina leans away from the door frame and strains to see. I take the box and open the lid. Inside there is white tissue paper, and nestled in it, a pair of bright red shoes with white polka dots.

  ‘Flamenco shoes,’ he tells me. ‘Well, you can’t learn to do flamenco without shoes.’ He shrugs.

  They are beautiful. I reach into the box and pull one out. Valentina comes over and peers at them, frowning. I hold the shoe up, looking at the leather, the heel shaped like a woman’s waist, and the four eyes to lace it up.

  ‘They’re lovely. Thank you,’ I say, feeling strangely choked. I know Antonio hasn’t got money to throw around, otherwise he’d be buying a new watering system rather than relying on Olivia’s party for the funds. I’m touched.

  ‘And expensive,’ Valentina harrumphs.

  I blush and look at Antonio. ‘I can pay for them,’ I offer quickly, knowing I really can’t afford to.

  ‘No,’ he says flatly, and stares at Valentina. ‘They are a gift. After all, it is you helping me out here.’

  Valentina sniffs and nods in agreement. ‘Let’s hope they help you learn the dance quicker and look less like a duck laying an egg!’ she says, grabbing up her keys and heading for her car. ‘See you tonight. Work hard!’ she adds, more of a command than a cheery goodbye.

  ‘Ignore Valentina, she’s just . . .’

  ‘Anxious,’ I finish for him.

  ‘Yes, anxious. Now, let’s try these steps again. Put on the shoes.’

  I sit down and do what he says, loving the feel of sliding them on to my feet. They’re a perfect fit. I stand up, suddenly feeling taller, my head held higher. As I walk around, there is a swing to my hips. I feel . . . well, feminine and yet confident.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again, feeling like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz in her ruby slippers.

  ‘And now, the steps . . .’ Antonio claps his hands as I step up to stand beside him. ‘Un, dos . . .’ He starts the count again and I follow his lead, this time with more determination than ever before. Stamp with the right, then left and a heel touch . . . or was it right with the heel touch and a stamp? ‘And again, one, two, three, un, dos, tres . . .’ He repeats and claps and repeats and claps. And I keep going until I’m getting it right. I am hot. The back of my hair is damp, my mouth dry, but I won’t stop.

  ‘Look up, look up,’ he shouts. ‘Not down at your feet. They will still be there when we’re finished.’

  I don’t tell him it’s his feet I’m looking at.

  And bang, I stamp right down on the toe of my left foot.

  ‘Ow! Ow, ow, ow.’ My shoes may be beautiful, but the metal heel cap hurts like hell when you stamp on your own foot.

  ‘That was one way of getting a break!’ Antonio actually smiles. Even he is out of breath, I notice. ‘Beginner’s luck I’m afraid. Here, have a drink.’

  He hands me a bottle of water from the table. I put my hands on my hips and try and catch my breath. Even my eyeballs are sweating. I open the water and drink greedily. The sun is hot now. Everywhere looks so green and lush as I look out on the grass around the cherry trees and the bright red poppies scattered along the edge by the stone wall.

  I pull out my hair band, scrape back my hair and retie it. ‘Blow!’ I say as the band snaps and I’m left holding my hair back with one hand.

  Antonio reaches into his top pocket and pulls out a piece of baling twine. I take it, thank him and tie my hair back off my hot neck.

  And I’m ready to start again. ‘Un, dos, tres . . .’ My limbs cry out in pain but I’m determined not to be beaten.

  There under the shade of the veranda we keep going until lunchtime.

  ‘We cannot practise during the siesta,’ Antonio says. ‘We will be heard. Someone will hear the music or the clapping, whilst the town sleeps. The siesta is like a religion here.’ He gives me a relaxed smile – clearly the flamenco workout has eased some of his worries and tension.

  In the afternoon, I carry a broom, mop and bucket up to meet Miguel and Sophia at the barn, where with Antonio safely out of the way they have been practising most of the morning. We get to work emptying and cleaning out the dormant and dusty space. I open up the big double doors and gaze down the valley of cherry trees. Antonio is back in the paddock, working with the colt, only this time he is actually riding it. He works the horse on the circle, first with just the saddle on, then with him lying across it. The young horse spooks and jumps to begin with, but then settles into a confident walk. Before long, as I bring out piles of chairs and boxes so we can start to really clean the place, Antonio is sitting upright on the colt’s back, trotting round the circle, his long curly hair bouncing with every stride. I can see he is talking to the horse, encouraging it, working as hard as it is, working with it.

  By the time I come back outside again after sweeping down the whole room, coughing in the dust, he has returned the colt to the big paddock. The mare is fussing over the young horse as usual and he is responding. Suerte has gone, though, and I’m guessing that Antonio has skipped siesta to go out riding and check the cherry trees.

  We carry on working, cleaning the windows, the barn starting to look brighter. Miguel makes me practise my counting and my steps as we go.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Antonio makes me jump as I take a bucket of water outside to throw on the grass.

  ‘Antonio!’ I say louder than necessary for Sophia’s benefit. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

  He is riding the grey mare now, the colt on a leading rein beside her. The colt is like an athlete ready to race again, despite still being damp with sweat around his chest and belly. The boisterous animal flicks up its tail and head and takes a tiny leap, like a teenager getting bored as the grown-ups talk. I glance into the barn. Sophia has tucked herself away behind a pile of chairs.

  ‘Yes, everything is fine,’ I say, though every limb in my body is aching.

  ‘And your cousin, she’s happy with her party plan?’

  ‘Very. She keeps messaging me. I’ve said I’ll send pictures when the barn’s ready. But I’ve given her colour schemes, menu ideas, that kind of thing. I’m keeping it rural and rustic but with a British flavour. Spanish setting, tapas on arrival. Then there’ll be a hog roast; the catering couple have put me in touch with a friend of theirs. Also a tribute act and karaoke. I’d like to get a band to play if I can. Jugs of sangria and Spanish wine with the meal. Am I OK to borrow those terracotta jugs in the cupboard in the restaurant?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ he smiles. ‘Valentina will be happy to see the back of them.’

  The colt is snorting and shifting around, tossing its head up and down impatiently.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t ride? I could do with some extra hands here.’ Antonio waves the leading rein at me.

  I hold up my hand and shake my head. ‘Learning to dance is one thing, but learning to ride as well? I think that might be a step too far!’ I laugh, and he smiles and nods back.

  ‘She’s a good horse,’ he says, patting the mare’s neck. ‘Kind-natured. I call her Mamá. She is a great mum.’

  I step forward and rub her nose. ‘I can see,’ I say, giggling. ‘He’s a handful!’

  ‘His re
al mother died when he was born. The owners brought him to me to find a foster mare. She was a good mother to her own foal, but it died. She is very patient with this boy.’

  ‘She didn’t give birth to him?’ I’m surprised. She is so protective of him and he follows her everywhere, despite his bravado.

  ‘You don’t have to give birth to be a good mother . . .’ He trails off, and I know he’s thinking about Esmeralda and the way she’s treated Miguel.

  He looks around at the trees. From this vantage point, he can see the whole of his land.

  ‘Another couple of weeks and it will be . . . how do you say?’ He frowns, searching for the words. ‘The big drop! The buds that haven’t pollinated will fall, letting the tree put all its energy into ripening the ones left behind. You see the green buds; they will turn to straw colour. Then they will drop. This is when we find out whether we will have a good crop or a poor one . . . whether the cherries have been well watered and cared for.’ He raises a teasing eyebrow.

  ‘I have heard of some parts for the watering system in a town nearby. I will go over and see if I can get them this evening. Try and keep it going until I can afford a new system.’

  ‘Well, this party should help with that.’ I nod at the barn, aware that poor Sophia is still crouching behind the chairs.

  He smiles but looks unconvinced. I know he can’t think about what the future holds right now. I just hope he still has a farm and trees to water this time next year . . . and that, now, is all up to me. I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his worries on my shoulders.

  Miguel, standing in the shadow of the barn, leaning on the broom handle, snatches a smile at Sophia. Antonio looks at him and Miguel quickly drops it.

  ‘Behave yourself, eh?’ Antonio says as light-heartedly as he can.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m keeping an eye on him and working him hard!’ I turn to look at Miguel. When I turn back, Antonio nods, and I get the feeling he’s saying thank you.

  Once Antonio has gone, riding off at a fast trot, the colt following, Miguel gives Sophia the all-clear, and she emerges from behind the stack of chairs.

  ‘Why don’t you meet Antonio?’ I suggest. ‘Let Miguel introduce you as his friend. It’s not as if he knows . . .’ I hesitate, ‘what you’re up to.’

  Sophia shakes her head. ‘He knows I’m from the other village. He might suspect I’m leading Miguel astray.’ She smiles, and her pretty heart-shaped face lights up. ‘It’s better this way,’ she tells me.

  I shrug and get back to cleaning, running the routine for the first verse of the dance over and over in my head.

  Once we’ve cleared some floor space, with lots of laughs and banter, we sit down to take a breather. We hand round bottles of water and slices of almond cake that Bonita has provided us with. Then the two of them stand up in front of the fireplace and prepare to dance. They encourage me to clap along with them, but I don’t think I will ever be able to dance like these two. They are mesmerising together, really beautiful. Tears prick my eyes. I must be tired, I think. I try and focus on the rhythm I am clapping out.

  ‘No, no, Beti, like this.’ Miguel corrects me, just like Antonio, as I clap along and miss a beat. I pick up the rhythm again and watch them dance. Something in their chemistry brings me to tears once more, and I have no idea why. Is it because of the love I’ve lost? Or the love I had hoped to find? Or is it the frustration I feel at not being able to do this? I want to get it right so badly. I can’t bear the idea of letting Antonio down like I feel I have let everyone else down before. My big toe throbs to let me know I still have a very long way to go. But at the same time an unfamiliar sense of joy grows in me as I watch these two young people together, and Miguel starting to love life for all the right reasons. I am so proud of the young man he has become.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Practise, practise, practise. Antonio’s mantra goes round and round my head. For the next two weeks solid, that’s what I do. It is now the third week of May, a fortnight since Antonio bought me my flamenco shoes. I practise in the cherry orchard with Miguel looking on. I count my stamps as I wash up in the evenings under Valentina’s careful eye. I practise every day with Antonio, clapping, trying to add the footwork and the turns.

  ‘Pick a spot on the wall and look at it, then turn your body and let your head be the last thing to turn, like this . . .’ He turns his body and flicks his head round. I turn my body and stumble over. We have been working on the second verse of the song for some days, over and over.

  ‘You need to feel flamenco,’ Antonio tells me. ‘This verse is an important progression in the song. This is when the couple are sussing each other out. The emotions are building slowly. You must feel it!’

  ‘I’m trying!’ I practically cry with frustration as I once again stamp the ball of my foot, trying to perfect the move.

  I sit down on a seat that has been pushed back against the wall of the veranda outside the cortijo to make space for us to dance. Valentina has reluctantly left for work in the harbour, though she seems to be spending more time here than she used to. She still barely acknowledges Miguel’s existence. They give each other a wide berth. And actually, I think he’s had a lucky escape. All her attention seems to be on me right now, checking my day’s progress when she arrives back in the evening to open up the restaurant to the trickle of customers – adventurous tourists and the occasional loyal local – when all talk of flamenco must stop. She has stopped looking over Bonita’s shoulder, and the cook has started to introduce a few little touches of her own again. Patatas bravas for one. Instead Valentina focuses exclusively on me, in the corner of the kitchen by the sink, beating out the steps and counting as I wash up.

  ‘Take some time off,’ Antonio tells me the next morning as I practically fall over my own feet with exhaustion and burst into frustrated tears. ‘Go down to the harbour. See your friends. We can try again later. You are working hard.’ He pulls off his boots and swaps them for his worn working pair. I think he’s as frustrated as me but realises that just going over the same ground isn’t going to help.

  I stand up and brush at the tears, taking several deep breaths. He’s right, a trip down to the harbour is what I need. I haven’t been in what seems like ages. I’ll take my phone and catch up on some emails, update Olivia and reassure my mum and dad that I’m still alive. A lump catches in my throat. Actually, it would be really good to talk to my mum right now.

  I slip off the red shoes that seem to transport me into being the sort of woman I want to be whenever I wear them. I wrap them in the tissue paper they came in and put them into my bag. I certainly wouldn’t be able to do any of the steps I have learned so far without these shoes. Antonio stands up, looking hot, his face tight with tension. He nods and heads over to the stables, where the horses whicker in greeting as they see him approaching. He will feel better for doing something he can actually see results with, I think. I pull on my espadrilles and call for Miguel, but he isn’t joining me on my trip to the harbour. Antonio has jobs for him to do this morning. With an adios, I head for the bus stop.

  I am determined to forget all about flamenco for a few hours. On the bus I get out my notebook to concentrate on Olivia’s party. I can hear music playing, leaking from the headphones of the young woman in front of me . . . flamenco music. It would be good to have some live music at the party. I try and focus. Maybe someone playing when the guests arrive, or later, after Maxine’s act. My mind flips to the guitarist I saw in the club, the music, the soulful singing, Miguel and Sophia dancing. No! No flamenco! I tell myself off. I’ll ask Maxine if she knows of a magician instead. He could walk around the guests doing some tricks as they arrive for the drinks reception, and I’ll make up a playlist of songs on my phone.

  I hear the music change on the young woman’s headphones. My feet start to beat out the rhythm I am starting to know so well, and as I begin counting in my head, I
envisage Sophia and Miguel in flamenco outfits, perhaps serving drinks to the accompaniment of Spanish guitar. No! I tell myself again firmly. We’ll have a disco and karaoke and a good old British dance around our handbags!

  I slam my notebook shut and look out of the window. I stare at the trees, trying to distract myself. They’re now all heavy with buds, awaiting the drop. As I think about watering the trees on the farm, the music from the headphones washes over me and I start counting the rhythm of the sevillana again, but this time I don’t fight it.

  ‘We haven’t seen you for ages,’ Brenda says as she guides me into her favourite seat, from where she watches the world go by. ‘We’ve been getting worried, haven’t we, Harold?’ Harold nods from behind the bar. ‘You must be working your socks off.’

  ‘You could say that.’ I sit, happy to be in the shade. It’s market day and all the stalls are set up. I wave to the young couple who are doing the tapas for me at the party. And to Maxine, who is changing the poster outside the club to advertise ‘Ladies’ night, strippers and free shots’. It’s getting busier in the harbour now that summer is just around the corner. Craig is serving cups of tea and bacon rolls, but he waves over and I wave back, feeling cheered by seeing familiar faces.

  ‘You look . . . well, glowing. Look at your tan already, and I love your hair tied up like that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I have wound my hair into a tight bun to keep it off my neck whilst I’m practising.

  ‘Makes you look very Spanish,’ Brenda tells me. She picks up a fake flower from the vase on the table and slides it into the side of my hair. ‘There!’ she announces, and I don’t protest, but smile and leave it there. I admire my reflection in the glass of the patio doors as she gets up to fetch me a drink. ‘Sure you don’t want a cherry brandy or a sangria?’

  I shake my head. ‘Coffee’s fine. Thank you.’ I put my hand up and touch the little flower again. It makes me smile as I pull out my notebook and put it on the table.