Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘I’ve heard about this place. My grandparents told me about it. I never thought I’d get to see a peña here.’

  ‘It’s a secret. If the tourists find out, there won’t be room for those who truly follow flamenco,’ Miguel tells them with solemnity. ‘Not a word to anyone.’ And they nod excitedly.

  Eagerly the young people listen to their instructions and join the other pickers in the orchard. Miguel sets about greeting more disciples of flamenco. My heart spins and dips with excitement and terror. What have I done? Because if Antonio is going to dance in front of all these people, then so am I! I’m so nervous and light-headed I feel like I could take off and fly, join the birds on the wire, as more cars pull into the car park and Miguel tells them the same story. The peña must be kept secret. The cherries must be harvested and then the Horse Whisperer will dance again.

  I’m dizzy with excitement that our plan has worked. Then I see a big black hire car pulling into the car park, and Uncle Paul and Auntie Rita stepping out. I had almost forgotten about Olivia and her birthday party, and my heart drops like a stone.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I watch Uncle Paul pulling his belt up over his pot belly and taking in the surroundings like a vulture scanning the lanes for roadkill. Auntie Rita staggers out of the passenger door looking much the same as Olivia did first thing this morning: bemused and like she’s taken a wrong turning, though in her case with fresh hairspray and make-up intact. Then the back doors open and my heart zooms right back up again, like it’s on a roller-coaster ride.

  ‘Mum! Dad!’ I run over to them, my composure forgotten, and collapse into their arms, letting out all the stress I’ve been bottling up over the past few weeks. My head falls into my mum’s neck, and I breathe in her familiar smell of sunflowers and soap.

  ‘Hello, love,’ she says with a crack in her voice. My dad just wraps his arms around both of us in a huge hug, and I know that if he could, he’d swing me round like he used to when I was a little girl. Finally I sniff, rub my nose and stand upright. Olivia has joined us from the orchard; now she steps forward and, in contrast, kisses her parents lightly on the cheek, barely making contact.

  ‘So this is what we’ve been hearing all about.’ Uncle Paul looks around, inspecting the place as though he’s a potential buyer hoping to find fault and pick up a bargain.

  ‘Anywhere I can get a sangria?’ Auntie Rita asks hopefully.

  ‘More pickers?’ Antonio appears, looking less tense.

  ‘Yes, this is the place, Dad. Isn’t it fab?’ Olivia ignores Antonio. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.’

  ‘Antonio, this is my mum and dad.’ I zone out from Olivia and Uncle Paul and introduce them. Antonio steps forward and shakes their hands, first Mum, then Dad.

  ‘I thought you were renting a place down at the harbour,’ my mum says quietly. ‘Where’s Will?’ She looks around.

  ‘There was a slight change of plan,’ I say by way of some sort of explanation. ‘I’ll explain it all later,’ I add.

  ‘You’ve certainly got yourself a good piece of real estate here,’ Uncle Paul butts in, sounding like J. R. Ewing from Dallas. ‘But it’s a long way from the tourist trade. What happened to the place by the harbour? And where’s that fiancé of yours?’

  ‘This place is just part of Beti’s growing empire,’ Antonio cuts in. ‘She has worked wonders here. Now, time is against us! We must pick!’

  My mum looks bemused but follows Antonio up into the cherry orchard, where they all join the other pickers, happily stripping the trees of fruit. By now there are crowds of people in the orchard: young and old, even families. Everyone is talking loudly. Children are helping. Just like it used to be, I imagine.

  ‘It’s a very unusual party,’ says Uncle Paul to Auntie Rita.

  ‘Any sangria?’ asks Auntie Rita again.

  A car pulls up and three young British women climb out, wearing matching floppy straw hats and sunglasses. I recognise them straight away as the girls from the airport, Olivia’s friends. ‘Wow! This is amazing!’ one of them says. ‘So . . . authentic!’

  ‘If it’s rubbish, we can always go to Gav’s party at the beach bar,’ says another, and I bristle.

  But then my heart fills up again, because behind them come Harold and Brenda.

  ‘Saw Miguel’s Facebook message,’ Brenda says. ‘Sounded like quite an event. Thought you might like some help. I’ve never been up this far – it’s amazing! Look, Harold, real cherry trees!’

  And in no time they’re in the orchard, mingling with the families and flamenco lovers who have travelled miles to see the dancer they have heard so much about. Despite the building clouds and the darkening sky, there is a buzz in the air, like electricity.

  ‘Bonita!’ I call. ‘We’ll need plenty of paella! As much as you can! And some of your almond cake too.’

  She waves her tea towel happily, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Sí! Almond cake! With cherries!’ And as happy as a pig in muck, she waddles off back to the kitchen, finally reclaiming her domain. Everyone, even Antonio, looks content, and I can’t help feeling that we’re nearly there. We’re going to do it.

  By late afternoon, the orchard is full of people picking and chatting, and then someone starts to sing. Others join in with clapping and shouts of encouragement, the sounds of flamenco, and Antonio freezes.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?!’ The town’s mayor, the baker walks into the car park where Antonio rushes over to meet him, and the others with him: his wife and daughters, the man from the taverna, the souvenir shop owner, the schoolteacher and the young priest. ‘I heard singing. We all heard singing.’ The baker looks around suspiciously. ‘We’ve come to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s just people singing while they pick.’ Antonio sweeps an arm towards the pickers dotted over the hillside, filling crates, buckets and even the folds of their skirts with cherries. Even Uncle Paul and Auntie Rita, finally armed with her sangria, are helping out. And Dad looks to be in his element, picking with the three young people who arrived first. ‘Do you have all your cherries in? Before the rain comes?’ Antonio asks the mayor, nodding up to the darkening sky.

  ‘Nearly. Myself and the other town councillors’ – he indicates the other townspeople – ‘are just checking that there is no flamenco going on. We don’t want a repeat of last time.’ He looks around suspiciously, as if trying to sniff out trouble with his big nose.

  ‘No flamenco,’ Antonio confirms with his customary nod. ‘Just picking.’

  ‘It’s a birthday party, for my cousin,’ I explain. ‘They are enjoying a taste of Spanish life.’ I force a polite and charming smile, learned from my time working at the burger bar. ‘You’re welcome to join us if you like,’ I add with my fingers crossed.

  The new arrivals look around, eyes narrowing suspiciously, and then at each other.

  ‘It has been a long time since this town has seen so many people,’ the mayor says.

  ‘Papa, we have finished our trees. We could help here,’ says his daughter.

  Her sister doesn’t need asking twice and grabs her skirt, running up the hillside to join in. The rest of the group, seemingly satisfied, turn and leave.

  As we watch them go, I glance at Antonio. ‘The harvest will happen, don’t worry. We will make it.’ He attempts a smile back, sending my stomach spinning in somersaults. But he still seems on edge, looking around, up and down the road, as if expecting someone. And I know exactly who. Just as the townspeople leave, a motor home roars through the narrow cobbled streets and swings into the car park of Cortijo Ana. The threatening storm has finally arrived.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  ‘So . . . here we are.’ Esmeralda gives a sickly smile as she steps out of the motor home, followed by Felipe and another man. She is dressed in a turquoise dress with gold trim and big ruffled shoulders. Felipe is wearing a b
lack outfit with matching blue belt and trim on his shirt and trousers. He even has ruffles around his wrists.

  Antonio says nothing. I turn to look at the pickers, who are still working and singing. Bonita has fed them rolls filled with serrano ham and cheese, and provided water and strong coffee all day long, and of course her famous almond and cherry cake. Now the harvest is nearly finished. And not a moment too soon. The sky is as dark as night and matches Antonio’s expression.

  ‘This is Gonzalo.’ Antonio doesn’t move to shake his hand. ‘Gonzalo is a cherry farmer like you,’ Esmeralda continues. ‘He has many farms across these parts.’

  ‘And what business do you have here when there is harvesting to be done?’ Antonio lifts his chin towards his orchard. The crates are now being carried to the waiting trailer at the bottom of the field, where Miguel is coordinating getting them loaded.

  At first no one says anything; then, licking her red lips, Esmeralda speaks and Felipe grins.

  ‘Gonzalo wants to buy this place . . . when I win it from you this evening!’ She speaks as if she is attempting to stab Antonio through the heart. Gonzalo looks around at the trees and moves to inspect one.

  ‘And what would you do with it?’ Antonio says with half a laugh.

  ‘Keep it as a cherry farm, of course,’ Gonzalo replies, having given the trees nearby a cursory glance.

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. At least the town won’t suffer for my foolishness . . . if I were to lose,’ Antonio adds. ‘Which I won’t.’ He stands tall and proud and I feel myself do the same. He is much taller than the man in front of him, and broader too.

  ‘But change the cherry variety,’ Gonzalo continues with a disapproving downturned mouth.

  ‘What?’ Antonio loses his composure, and his poker face falls. Behind him the pickers are dusting off their hands, celebrating a good job done.

  ‘There is a variety I grow that harvests much earlier. Much bigger profits than these older varieties.’ Gonzalo tosses his head in the direction of the trees beside him.

  I can see that Antonio is trying to absorb this information, and I want to reach out and take his hand, let him know I’m here by his side. That he isn’t alone and I’m here to catch him if he falls. But I can’t. I’m only here for tonight, then I will be gone. I just hope this place won’t follow in my footsteps.

  ‘No!’ He raises his voice. ‘What about the syndicate, the town? They depend on my cherries to make up the quota we sell to the supermarket. Take away my contribution and they can’t meet it. Without me, without these cherries, they will have nothing!’

  Esmeralda shrugs nonchalantly, like a cat deciding a mouse’s fate, while Felipe smirks.

  ‘You will never get my cherry farm!’ Antonio roars.

  Inside, I feel cornered, just like when Olivia and her friends used to bully me as a child. But I’m not in the school playground any more. I’m not the girl I was back then. This time I’m going to fight my way out of it . . . or in this case, dance.

  Chapter Fifty

  Just as the last of the cherries are loaded on to the trailer to take to the packing house on the other side of town, there is a huge clap of thunder and the rain starts to fall in big heavy drops. The crowd all shriek with horror and delight. Miguel joins the tractor driver to see the cherries are delivered safely.

  ‘This way!’ I shout, waving my arms, pointing up the path to where Sophia is throwing open the doors to the barn next to my finca. ‘There’s cherry liqueur and sangria for everyone.’ I give a thumbs-up to Sophia, who smiles and returns the gesture. ‘There will be paella soon!’ I tell them as they all make their way quickly up the path, my mum and dad, Uncle Paul and Rita included, all laughing and holding their arms over their heads against the downpour.

  I stand in the rain for a moment, shutting my eyes and letting it soak through me.

  ‘So, they’re in. Safe and sound.’ I open my eyes, feeling Antonio beside me as the trailer bounces its way out of the yard and on to the road. The rain pounds the dry ground like it’s beating out the rhythm of my heart, as Antonio looks at me. I tuck a wet strand of hair behind my ear. I want more than anything to tell him what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling. That when I’m dancing with him, when I’m with him, I feel more alive than I’ve ever been.

  He grabs my hand and runs to the veranda, pulling me out of the rain. He turns to me, holding my arms, as if he’s about to say something too. My heart is hammering now.

  ‘You planned this, didn’t you? These people aren’t just here for the picking, are they?’ He nods towards the barn. The storm clouds are rolling in around me, and inside me too. ‘You did this! You knew it had to be a secret!’

  ‘I didn’t exactly plan it. In fact, you could say this is the least planned event I’ve ever been part of. I have no idea what’s going to happen, and I’m terrified.’

  ‘You are infuriating, Beti! I could lose my business if they realise what you’ve done here. No one will come to my restaurant.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But like Miguel told me, some things are worth overcoming your fear for. That boy is way wiser than you give him credit for.’

  I look over at the motor home where Esmeralda, Felipe and their guest are getting ready for the dance-off. There is an orange glow emanating from inside, and flamenco music is blaring from it. Antonio follows my gaze. Is this the home they plan to take Miguel away in? Is that going to be his life if I lose tonight?

  ‘Tell me exactly what’s going on, Beti,’ he demands quietly.

  I look around, but realise I have no choice.

  ‘The truth!’ he says, much louder.

  ‘I . . . Miguel had this idea, and I agreed it was the only way. He wanted to organise a peña. A secret dance night. To sell tickets. He wanted to . . .’ I pick my words carefully so as not to tell him about the money I gave Miguel for the dance competition. ‘He wanted to make up the money we lost on the party. Lots of people want to see you dance again and are willing to pay to do so. Look at how many have turned up.’

  ‘But they came to pick.’

  ‘We said it was a cherry harvest festival.’ I sigh, knowing there’s no way of hiding any of this. ‘We said they had to arrive at dawn and pick, and then there would be a peña tonight. Word got out and spread.’ I throw my arms open. ‘I thought it would help Olivia too, giving her a birthday party in Spain, a truly authentic one. I thought we would get away with the dance-off if we said it was still a party for my cousin, a one-off Spanish-themed party that I had organised.’

  He looks at me and my insides melt like an ice lolly in the sun. I wait for him to explode and tell me how much trouble I’ve caused him.

  ‘You’re a remarkable woman, Beti,’ he says softly, tucking the wet hair back behind my ear. What’s left of my insides explodes like a strip of firecrackers. ‘And what’s in it for you?’

  ‘Well, hopefully you’ll be able to pay me my wages and I’ll be able to put down the deposit on my bar.’ I swallow again. All I really want to do is reach up and take that kiss that I’m certain was promised to me in the cherry orchard. I want to feel it on my lips, to taste it. I wonder if it tastes as sweet as the cherry, its memory still lingering there.

  ‘And?’

  I want to tell him how I’m doing this for him and Miguel. How much they have both come to mean to me for different reasons. Miguel has become like a younger brother, someone to look out for and care for. And Antonio . . . well, he has become so much more than a boss, a dance teacher. He has become—

  ‘Beti!’ someone calls, shattering the moment. It’s Will, getting out of a battered Transit van. The rest of the band pour out of the van too, including Freya, scowling. ‘Beti!’ he calls again through the rain.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Antonio lets my arms go as if realising he’s handling stolen goods. ‘Your errant fiancé.’ He looks down and then back at me. ‘I remember. T
his is what’s in it for you. So . . . we have work to do,’ he says, suddenly my flamenco teacher again, and my head is spinning as if I’ve been riding the waltzer. ‘It is time to dance,’ he says. ‘It is time for us to get what we both want from this.’ He strides off the veranda into the pouring rain.

  ‘Beti!’ Will runs up the steps towards me, a broad grin plastered on his face.

  ‘You came?’ I manage a smile.

  ‘I got your message. We came.’ He gestures to the rest of the band and Freya, her arms folded. ‘Thought you might need a band!’ he says with that familiar twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Get yourselves to the barn. There’s drinks there, and Bonita will be serving food soon. Mum and Dad will be delighted to see you.’

  He’s still smiling as he and the rest of the band run through the rain up to the barn.

  I follow from a distance, returning to my finca to get changed. I turn to look back towards the apartment, where I know Antonio is now, but I can’t see him. I’m about to get everything I wanted. Will. The bar. Why then don’t I feel thrilled with excitement? Why instead am I sick with worry about how Antonio is feeling? Terrified that I’m going to let him down? Why does he fill my head so there’s no room for anything else?

  Back at the finca, as the party warms up next door, I can hear music playing and people chatting. Outside, the thunder rumbles and bangs and the sky lights up with jagged bolts of lightning. The lights flicker on and off. I shower for what may be the last time in my little shower room, and then pull out my dress and hold it to me. Slowly I slip it on and carefully apply my make-up. Finally I open the old wardrobe door to take out my shoes. Just like Dorothy, the shoes that are going to help me find my way home, back to Will and the Butterfly Bar. I bend down for them . . . but they’re not there! I search around the wardrobe and under the bed. I look everywhere, panic beginning to rise. I can’t dance without my shoes! They’re not there! They’ve gone!