Relatively Dangerous

by Roderic Jeffries

  There had been no electricity and the distribution of bottled gas had not yet become commonplace, so she had had to learn to cook on a charcoal stove and the lights had worked on poor quality paraffin. In the winter, which could be cold at that altitude, with snow lying for several days, they would have a log fire in the sitting-room and a brasero under the dining-room table to roast their legs while leaving their upper halves to chill.

  Very happy, he’d written a great deal of poetry. At first, he’d tried to get his work published, but his style was emotional, his themes simple and understandable, and his construction traditional, so that it was considered pedestrian and only the occasional short poem was accepted by a magazine which needed fillers. Soon, he’d ceased to bother to send out his work. After all, every single piece was a love poem addressed to Valerie and it was only her appreciation that mattered.

  They occasionally heard that the outside world was changing, but thought that this didn’t concern them. Perhaps the cost of some things was rising from time to time, but their needs were simple . . .

  The tourist industry expanded and prosperity flooded the island. Wages rose. Peasants who had eaten meat only during the winter when a pig was killed, now bought it at the butcher throughout the year; children grew up without ever discovering what it was like to be truly hungry; fincas increased in value from a 100,000 pesetas to 500,000, to a million, to five million; bicycles gave way to Mobylettes, Mobylettes to Seat 600s, Seat 600s to a bewildering choice of gleaming, luxurious cars; men left the land and worked in the bars, restaurants, hotels, discotheques, the women left their homes during the day and worked in the hotels and the homes of the thousands of foreigners . . .

  The Swinnertons discovered a bitter truth: as Canute had known, it was impossible to slow down or stop the tides. He had never bothered to have his investments managed, naively assuming that what had been good in the past would be good in the future, and some of his shares had become virtually valueless and others hadn’t appreciated as much as was necessary in times of inflation. As his income remained, at best, steady, prices and wages soared. Wine which had been ten pesetas a bottle rose to eighty. The gardeners demanded a hundred pesetas an hour, then a hundred and fifty; soon, it was two hundred . . . There came a time when the Swinnertons were finally forced to face the facts. If things continued in the same vein, before long they’d no longer be able to afford to live in their house. And when they couldn’t and had to sell—for a price which would not reflect inflation because no Mallorquin would now live in such isolation and all those foreigners with money lived by the sea—they would be faced with moving into a tiny, noisy, stifling flat or returning to the UK.

  At first, Valerie had thought it was the worry about their future which was making her husband look so drawn and had suddenly aged him, but initially she could not discuss the matter because he had tried to shield her from the facts and she did not want him to realize that she was just as aware of them as he. Then, with icy certainty, she had realized there must be something physically wrong with him. He’d tried to evade any medical examination, but in the end had been persuaded to see a specialist in Palma; the specialist diagnosed cancer.

  On the morning of the day he’d died, he had looked out of the window and up the terracing and had whispered the wish that he could be buried up there, among all the free beauty instead of the confines of a cemetery. She had told him he was being ridiculous to talk about burials, while silently swearing to honour his wish.

  The law on the island concerning burials was strict, as it had to be with the heat in summer, and it did not permit a burial away from an authorized cemetery. But he had died in his own bed and it was not the custom for a doctor to pursue a case if he was not specifically called in by the patient, so that the doctor who had been treating him would never on his own initiative call to find out how he was. In any case, she would have defied a thousand laws in order to carry out her unspoken deathbed promise. So somehow she had managed to carry his emaciated body up to the terrace with the twisted, tortured, centuries-old olive tree which he had nicknamed the Laocoon, and there had buried him.

  By then, there was only one gardener—the younger of the two—and he was simple-minded. He’d once asked how the señor was and had then forgotten the subject. And up on that terrace, David Swinnerton’s body remained undisturbed, amid the wild beauty he had so loved . . .

  ‘Señora.’

  The call cut across her sad, yet comforting thoughts. She looked around and watched the gardener approach with his shambling walk.

  He came to a stop. ‘Señora.’

  She waited patiently. Tomas Mesquida so often had trouble in expressing himself.

  ‘I need . . .’ He fiddled with his thick lips. ‘I need more money.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you any more.’ Her Spanish was fairly fluent, though her accent was poor.

  ‘My mother says I must have more or I stop.’

  The foreigners had taught the Mallorquins to be avaricious and now money had become their god. To point out to Mesquida’s mother that it would be very difficult for him to find another job and therefore it was surely better to continue to work here for a slightly lesser wage, would be a waste of words; she would never understand that something definite was better than the image of something more. Valerie turned, flinched at the stab of pain from her gouty foot, looked up at the twisted olive tree. If he left, the garden would quickly revert to a wilderness because she could no longer do the work.

  Mesquida waited, then, when she remained silent, went over to his rusty Renault 4. He stood by the car for quite a while, as if expecting to be called back, opened the door, settled behind the wheel, drove off.

  She turned and, limping slightly, went into the house. There was the sound of the old grandfather clock—one of the pieces they’d brought from Wales—striking the half hour. It reminded her that she was meeting the Attrays for coffee. Since her husband’s death, she’d seen quite a bit of the few English residents who lived in, or near, Estruig, rightly judging that for her own mental sake she needed human contacts. In any case, she’d never been the natural recluse that he had.

  She went upstairs to the bathroom to find there was no water. Slowly, and most of the time painfully, she returned downstairs and went out to the pump. It was becoming more and more of an effort to work it and normally each weekday Mesquida filled the tank on the roof. If he left her, she’d have to do it all herself. . . An electricity line had come within a kilometre of the house a couple of years before and the electricity company had asked them if they wanted to be connected. The estimate had come to two million pesetas . . .

  Twenty-five minutes later she left the house and went down to the small stone shed in which she garaged the ancient Seat 850 which was kept going by faith, hope, and the charity of the garage who so often didn’t fully charge her for the work they’d done.

  She drove down the often precipitous road to Estruig, which was built on and around a small hill that stood a kilometre away from the mountains. She parked in the main square, crossed to the cafe, and looked for the Attrays, but they were not there. She wasn’t surprised. They were very poor timekeepers. She sat at a table, newly vacated, and picked up a copy of El Dia which had been left on it. She could read Spanish quite well. On the fourth page, underneath a lurid description of a suicide, complete with photograph, there was a short article which said that the man who had died in the car crash near Fogufol had been identified as Steven Thompson, an Englishman. Her expression became bitter.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mike Taylor replaced the telephone on its stand, turned, rested his elbows on the bar. Whoever had said that life on the island consisted of one long crisis was dead right. Not very long ago, he’d been wondering how in hell they’d ever pay for the alterations in the kitchen which the bloody inspector had demanded be done before they received their licence to open the restaurant (there was little doubt, but no proof, that the inspector had been prompted by
one or more of the established restaurant owners), and no sooner had that problem been solved than he was presented with a fresh one. His work permit had just been refused. True, his lawyer said that they’d probably win the appeal, but there was bound to be delay. And unless they opened soon, they’d miss the main season which was when any tourist-based business had to make enough profit to last through the rest of the year. He looked through the nearest window at the bay. That view was worth a fortune. Diners with any souls would sit outside, in the shade of the palm trees, staring at so much beauty that they’d never notice whether the meat was tough—what meat in Mallorca wasn’t?—and would feel impelled to order another bottle of wine . . .

  ‘Well, is the maitre d’ satisfied?’

  He turned to face Helen as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen. ‘If you’re interested, I’m thinking of committing suicide.’

  ‘If you come to a decision, do it outside; so much easier to clean up the mess.’

  ‘I’d die much happier if I knew I’d died a bloody nuisance.’

  She left the doorway, went behind the bar, put her hands round the back of his neck and brought his head forward so that she could kiss him. ‘What total disaster has occurred this time?’

  ‘That call was from Ferrer. They’ve refused the work permit.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bloody yes.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose we shouldn’t have expected it to go through first time. Stop worrying. Pablo will sort it all out.’

  ‘Why are you always revoltingly optimistic?’

  ‘It makes life more fun.’

  ‘I suppose you do realize that if we don’t get a work permit . . .’

  ‘Relax. We will. I’ve complete faith in Pablo.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know how he feels about you?’

  ‘Someone told me that his nickname’s Don Juan.’

  ‘If he ever dares make a move in your direction, his nickname will become Dona Juana.’

  She chuckled as she unclasped her hands and stepped back. ‘I’ve nearly finished. When did the builders promise faithfully on the pain of excommunication to start work?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Then there’s just a chance, I suppose, they’ll turn up tomorrow . . . As soon as I have finished, let’s go for a swim?’

  ‘Slacking?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, happy to see that his black mood was beginning to lift.

  He watched her return into the kitchen, lit a cigarette. A year ago he’d been bumming around the world, weighed down by the chip on his shoulder. In the tiny fishing village of Amozgat, in the south-west corner of Turkey, he’d fallen ill with some kind of intestinal infection so severe that he’d become convinced he was dying; a conviction which the villagers had obviously shared and which equally obviously had not caused them any concern beyond the problems that his death might raise vis-a-vis the authorities. On the third day, when death would have been welcome, Helen had appeared in the squalid, stinking room and had nursed him with a devotion which was extraordinary since they were strangers, she was not a trained nurse, and the side effects of his illness were highly unpleasant. Later, he’d learned that her presence in the village had been pure chance. She’d been travelling a hundred miles to the north, had stopped at a cafe for coffee, and had heard one of the other customers mention the name Amozgat. For some reason, still completely inexplicable, she had been overwhelmed by the certainty that she must visit this place whose name she had only just heard . . . But for that, he might have died and she would in all probability have returned to the man from whom she’d fled two months before . . .

  All right, so fate moved in mysterious ways. But why in hell had it moved to turn down his work permit?

  She returned to the restaurant. ‘Let’s go.’

  They went out by the kitchen door, walked round the building, past the patio and the palm trees, across the road, and on to the sand. She took off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a bikini; he was wearing trunks.

  He was a much stronger swimmer than she and while she stayed within her depth—which, because the sea bed shelved so gradually was almost two hundred metres out— he continued on, enjoying the coolness of the water which had not yet warmed to tepid summer heat. Off the harbour, a large yacht was hoisting her spinnaker and as he watched the light wind began to balloon the multi-coloured sail. One day, when they were so successful that people came from as far away as Palma for a meal, he’d buy a yacht and name her Helen; she’d be the most beautiful craft afloat. He turned and, no longer employing a powerful crawl, swam slowly inshore. He thought how strange it was that now he should care so much for someone else when previously he’d been careful to care for nobody because experience had taught him that to care was to be rejected . . .

  He reached her and they returned to shore. They stretched out on towels, rapidly drying in the hot sun. When the restaurant was a success, they’d shut up in the winter and he’d take her to Hongkong, Bali, Tonga . . .

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘That when we’re rich, I’m going to take you to all the glamorous places in the world.’

  She reached out for his hand. ‘I don’t give a damn if it’s Clacton-on-Sea, provided you’re there.’

  She was looking vulnerable, he thought, and he knew a fierce desire to protect her. Her character was a strange mixture of toughness and tenderness; no one could have been tougher than she in that Turkish fishing village, yet sentimentally she was weak.

  They were silent for a while, then she said: ‘I saw your stepmother when I was in the port earlier on. I wonder what she was doing in this part of the island?’

  ‘Slumming. Did she deign to notice you?’

  ‘She was on the other side of the road and I doubt she even saw me. She was with that friend of hers—what’s his name?’

  ‘The Honourable Archibald Wheeldon.’

  ‘He’s very handsome.’

  ‘And wet.’

  ‘Her clothes were really lovely; they must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘She’s no idea that one can buy a dress for less than five hundred guineas.’

  ‘Mike, why do you two dislike each other so much?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, it’s traditional to dislike one’s stepmother.’

  ‘It’s more than that. And it’s such a pity.’

  Such a pity the bitch didn’t fall over the edge of her patio and break her neck. He could still remember, with bitter irony, the words his father had used when he’d first talked about his forthcoming second marriage. Beautiful, charming, generous, kind . . . His father had used words with such abandon and skill that people had accused him not merely of having kissed the Blarney Stone, but of having swallowed it whole. His father had got things very wrong with Muriel. She might be beautiful and charming—if she could be bothered—but she wasn’t generous or kind . . .

  He’d cleared out of her home just one step ahead of being told to clear out. That’s when he’d begun his drifting which had ended in the village of Amozgat. It was funny—funny incredible—that not long ago he had managed to talk himself into believing Muriel would help him and Helen to buy the restaurant. It showed to what lengths self-deception could go. After all, in her eyes people who ran restaurants were on the butt end of the social scale. Yet he’d taken Helen to see her and to ask for the loan—the loan, not the gift—of six million pesetas. She’d treated Helen with disdain and him with sardonic dislike; she’d said that she was very sorry, but she couldn’t afford to help, certain that he knew full well she could have given him twice that amount without the slightest problem. Her contemptuous refusal had so infuriated him that he’d cursed the whole idea into oblivion. It had been Helen who had talked him round, stoutly declaring that somehow, somewhere, they’d find the six million . . . And they had!

  ‘I suppose we ought to move,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I could easily become as indolent as most
of the foreigners out here.’

  ‘You’re far too intelligent.’

  Tor those few kind words, thank you. And next time you call me weak-minded for making a nonsense of my figures, I’ll remind you of them.’ She sat up. ‘Come on, back to work.’

  ‘They must have had a tyrant like you overseeing the building of the Pyramids.’

  They returned to the restaurant and just before she went into the kitchen, he looked at his watch. ‘I might find Carlos if I went along now.’

  ‘Why not? And persuade him that once we’re open, we want the vegetables picked much younger than they usually do.’

  ‘I’ll try, but you know what we’re up against—if you don’t grow it as big as it’ll go, you’re throwing away good money.’

  He left and went round to the shed in which they kept the Vespino which he used when there was no need for the Citroen van. The Vespino proved difficult to start and as he pushed down the pedal for the fifth time, to no avail, he decided that the moment the restaurant proved successful, he’d buy a Volvo. He grinned. If he were to honour all his recent pledges, they’d have to start up a whole chain of restaurants . . .

  Puerto Llueso lay to the east and it was appropriate that the first building he passed was a block of flats under construction, since for the past two years there had been an ever increasing rate of development. In one respect, this could be welcome. The more people, the more potential customers. But now the extent of building had reached the stage where it threatened to destroy the whole charm of the port, a charm largely based on sleepy smallness. Could not those responsible see that the development contained the seeds of destruction?