Marcio grinned, his blue eyes twinkling in appreciation. “A useful phrase for a woman in your condition. For your information, it’s in the last building on the right.”
“It’s okay for you to be so flippant, you’re bilingual. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by a wall of noise, trying desperately to make sense of it.”
“You’ve obviously not spent much time with toddlers!” He laughed and opened his car door. “My nephew Harry is eighteen months old and he knows what he’s trying to say but none of the rest of us do, so his babbling gets louder and his gestures more emphatic until he cries from the sheer frustration of it all.”
He walked round the car to Helen’s side and hooked his arm through hers. He was about to lead her into the garden where the party was already in full swing when he saw the look of horror on her face.
“Don’t worry; you’ll have grown an extra layer of skin before they’re that old. And being twins they’ll always speak a language to each other that you don’t understand.”
“If that was meant to be comforting, I think you need to work on your technique.” Helen threw him a disgruntled look and clung on to his arm.
Marcio led her round the side of the buildings into the garden at the back. There was no real demarcation between garden and vineyard, so the space was open and endless.
“Wow!” Helen gasped. “It’s gorgeous. You grew up here?”
“Well, no, actually we grew up in Surrey. We came to live here when I was twelve. But yes, most of my siblings had their best years here. I’m the eldest,” he added in clarification.
“Eldest of how many?”
“Seven.”
Helen turned to stare, not merely at the number but at the nonchalant way he said it, as if every person in the world had six brothers or sisters.
“Seven! There aren’t that many people in my entire family. Not still alive at any rate.”
“I said I came from a big family. I have five sisters and one brother – he’s one of the twins – I think they should all be here today. I’ll introduce you but, don’t worry, no one will expect you to remember names.”
“Do any of them speak English?” Helen’s voice was barely audible.
Marcio stopped and faced her. Placing his hands on her shoulders he waited until she made eye contact.
“You’re being silly. This is just a party; you’re not meeting the family, only mother even knows you’re coming. There are no expectations. My sisters will adore you because you’re pregnant and Fabian won’t really care because he’s nineteen, so I’m afraid, to him, you’re just old. And they all speak English to some degree. The elder girls were all over five when they left the UK so they’re bilingual and you won’t see much of the younger ones anyway, they’ll be in the pool.”
Helen stood passively while Marcio spoke and all she could think was how gorgeous his blue eyes were and how much she suddenly wished she were here to meet the family. She wondered if Mia knew what she was doing when she left this man standing at the altar.
Nodding her understanding, Helen looked over Marcio’s shoulder to see a group of girls with their heads together, obviously speculating who the pregnant woman with their brother was.
“Er I think it might be time to make some introductions, and quick explanations, if you don’t want your entire family to think you’ve been keeping secrets.”
It was Marcio’s turn to look disconcerted. “Good god, it didn’t occur to me they might think the babies are mine! It’s only been a few months since the wedding; if that rumour gets back to Mia she’ll think I was unfaithful.”
“I’m so sorry, you should never have invited me.”
“Nonsense. Let’s go nip any gossip in the bud and it’ll all be fine. I’m glad you’re here.”
Even though the words were said without any thought, Helen felt her heart surge. The warmth flooding through her blood told her she was rather glad to be here too.
Chapter Eight
An hour later, Helen’s head was reeling with too many names, too much standing up and definitely too much noise. Taking a few minutes to rest on a bench under a sprawling olive tree, Helen breathed in the fresh afternoon air and surveyed the scene in front of her.
A dozen children under five were chasing each other around tables and between legs, while Helen could count at least three tiny babies being passed from arm to arm like dozy rugby balls.
She’d been offered each of the bundles in turn and had initially declined. Eventually the smirk on Marcio’s face had forced her to succumb and the effect had been unexpected. For the first time in weeks the prowling fear subsided and a small hope peeped out its head. Her particular rugby ball was asleep and nuzzled under her chin without stirring. Helen had buried her nose in cotton-soft hair, breathing in the indefinable scent of baby.
For a blissful ten minutes she had stood swaying gently, her existence defined by providing nurture. Then the baby had made an appalling noise, like an exploding drain, and had emitted an equally indefinable but considerably less pleasant smell. Helen had stood helpless, unsure what to do next, when a grinning father took the child from her, leaving just a lingering odour and the regret that every delightful nappy would be her chore and hers alone. Turning, she had caught sight of Marcio’s expression, somewhere between amusement and tenderness, and all thoughts of soiled nappies had evaporated.
As she sat in the shade hoping to go unnoticed for a while, Helen decided that the party was proving a mixed blessing. On the one hand she could begin to appreciate the joy of belonging to a large family. Coming from the nuclear version herself, it was a new experience; the constant ebb and flow of banter and teasing, intermingled with snapshots of life quickly sketched out for those who hadn’t caught up in a while. Around her in this garden an entire society was flowing freely, from tiny squalling infants to distant octogenarian aunts. On the other hand, being here in this place was opening up a dark hole inside Helen’s chest. She felt as if her heart was being squeezed by a giant unforgiving fist. This dynamic, undulating ribbon of life that was being floated so temptingly in front of her was not hers for the taking. Her family unit would continue to be small, with not even a father of her children to add to the numbers.
Watching Marcio now, meandering amongst his family, his face lit with joy, his teeth shining in the sun as he laughed at some joke or other, Helen felt an ache of envy.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Marcio turned and caught Helen’s gaze. For a moment everything but the two of them ceased to exist. Helen became aware of a thudding in her ears and found she was struggling to breathe. The relative at Marcio’s side seemed to realise he was no longer being attended to and reached out to touch Marcio’s arm. The spell was broken and Marcio turned to resume the conversation.
Helen watched as only a few more words were uttered before Marcio turned and headed towards her hiding place under the olive tree. He caught her gaze again and his eyes never left hers as he approached.
“Hello there, hiding already? Are my family that scary?”
Helen smiled and patted the bench beside her, flushing at her forward behaviour. Trying to cover the moment she responded to his greeting without looking at him. Instead she looked out at the people gathered in groups in front of them.
“Not at all, your family are lovely. I was just in need of some shade. I’m afraid this,” she picked up a lock of hair, “means I’m not built for being out in the sun.”
“You do look a little pink. Do you want to go inside? I’m sure Mother has some sun cream or a hat.”
The warm tone of concern in his voice threatened to turn Helen’s face a deeper shade of pink. Reaching down to adjust her dress, Helen let her hair fall over her face for a moment until she felt the blush fade.
“I’m fine, thank you. I might go and get a cool drink.”
“Wait here, my lady, I will have it for you in but a moment.” Marcio jumped up and gave a deep bow, ending with a flourish of his outstretched hand.
True to his word he crossed the garden in two strides and soon returned with a tall glass of lemonade for Helen and a bottle of beer.
“Thank you.” Helen smiled and received the glass gratefully. “Shouldn’t you be mingling with your family? I don’t want to steal you away from them, particularly if you don’t see them that often.”
“It’s fine, they can spare me for a while. Besides, I know everything about them, whereas you I find you intriguing.”
The flush began to creep again and Helen cursed her fair skin. “Me?” She laughed, but it came out all wobbly. “What you see is what you get. Quite literally.” She gestured at her bump.
“Being pregnant doesn’t define you; it is merely the current state you are in. There was a Helen before there was a mummy-to-be.”
“A boring one, I assure you. Nothing as exotic as being half-Spanish or writing novels for a living.”
“Neither is half as interesting as you might think.” Marcio looked serious for a moment. “Being half Spanish just means you don’t fit in in either place.”
“What made your family move back to Barcelona when you were twelve?”
Marcio gave Helen an appreciative look. “You were paying attention.”
Helen caught his eye then looked away, her breathing uneven. She became acutely aware of Marcio’s body, inches from hers on the bench. Trying to recall his last words, she gave a brittle laugh and said, “I used to be a PA. We’re paid to remember details. So, why did you?”
It was Marcio’s turn to lose the thread of the conversation. His bewildered look made Helen long to reach out and stroke his cheek. Instead she prompted, “Why did you move back to Barcelona as a child?”
Shaking his head as if trying to clear away fog, Marcio tore his eyes away from Helen and turned to look at the vineyard.
“Mother’s father died and she inherited this place.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, lost in memories.
“Father didn’t want to come; his roots were firmly in England. He couldn’t abandon Mum to cope alone with seven children, none yet teenagers, but it was with considerable reluctance that he left his career behind. Considering how much he loved Mum, and I know he did, he wasn’t that enamoured with Barcelona.”
Distracted by his memories, Marcio seemed far away. Helen studied his profile and allowed his warm voice to pour over her like honey.
“Mum insisted though; she didn’t want the vineyard to pass out of the family, we’ve had it for generations apparently.”
As Marcio looked out across the hills at the marching rows of vines, Helen wondered if he felt the same attachment to the place as his mother obviously did.
“So, Dad stuck it out for a few years,” Marcio continued. “In the end though he yearned for suburbia, for the West End and English newspapers. They didn’t separate, in the true meaning of the word. In his head he just left on an extended business trip and never came back.”
Helen sensed Marcio’s shoulders stiffen, as if admitting his father’s failings was to admit his own fallibility. In a flash of insight she realised that Marcio had taken Mia’s defection harder because he had already been abandoned by his dad.
“How did your mother survive?” Helen thought of her fear at raising two children alone; she couldn’t imagine what it would mean to be left with seven.
“You know the saying; it takes a village to raise a child? Well in Spain they take that seriously. There were always plenty of aunts and cousins to help with the harvest or mind us kids. And of course I was soon of an age where I could help.”
“That must have been a huge responsibility for you when you should have been studying, playing, experiencing life.”
“I did all of that, don’t you worry!” Marcio’s lascivious grin informed Helen which part he had enjoyed most.
“Did you see much of your father after he left?”
“I moved in with him when I was nineteen.” He turned and laughed at the expression on Helen’s face. “Don’t look so shocked. I didn’t really blame him for leaving. I, more than anyone, understood the pull of the UK. You have to remember I spent the first decade and more of my existence immersed in English life.”
Unconsciously answering Helen’s unspoken question from earlier, Marcio looked around and sighed. “I love it here, but I do consider England as much my home. I went to university in London and Dad was living there at the time so it made sense to stay with him. I lived there on and off until the end, as it turned out.”
“The end?” Helen spoke without considering the new grey tinge paling Marcio’s complexion.
“He died. Cancer.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. Recently?”
“About two years ago now. That was when I decided I wanted to be a writer full-time. Until then I’d been working at Dad’s firm, but it didn’t really interest me the way it did for him. His passing taught me to follow my dream, corny as that sounds. It’s true what they say, that losing a loved one makes you want to live every moment as if it’s your last. Of course you forget that vow soon enough, but hopefully by then you’re on a path to somewhere more meaningful than you might otherwise have been.”
“What made you first know you wanted to be a writer?” Helen turned to face him, eager for his answer: it fascinated her when people were so clear about their vocation in life.
Marcio thought carefully before responding, gazing up at the olive tree for inspiration.
Turning to meet Helen’s eyes he eventually said, “Words kept presenting themselves ready-made in my head. I would verbalise experiences as if commentating on my own life. Mia used to think I was self-obsessed: always analysing my reactions to things, needing to explain everything in what she called clever words.”
He looked back out to the hills, purple-hued on the horizon, thinking about the question further. “Words fascinate me. I love learning new ones although I do get caught out sometimes, using them in the wrong way.” He chuckled, “I blame it on being Spanish!”
Helen’s laugh rang out, lighting a fire in Marcio’s eyes as her face came alive.
Focusing back on the conversation he continued thoughtfully, “It's not always good, though, having a constant internal monologue echoing round your brain, judging everything. It's hard to get lost in the moment without wanting to write it down, to record it for posterity.”
Helen felt herself nodding in recognition. “I'm like that with photos. I feel like I haven't truly experienced something unless I've seen it through a lens and captured it forever. Sometimes I have to leave my camera at home to have a hope of getting involved and connecting with what's happening.”
“Did you always want to be a photographer?”
Helen laughed, this time at herself, a much less joyous sound. “Not at all, nothing so noble I’m afraid. I started it as a hobby when Daniel insisted I leave my job. It was that or die of boredom.”
“He insisted you leave work? What century was he living in?”
“He wanted me to manage his social calendar, wine and dine his colleagues that kind of thing. I was actually employed by him, albeit part time. And many women in my position would have welcomed the opportunity to spend time at home, in the gym, shopping. They call them Ladies who Lunch.”
“But not you?”
“Oh no, I grew up on a farm in Devon, my idea of exercise is mucking out the pigs.”
“What a fascinating image.” Marcio grinned with a look that stopped Helen’s lungs from working properly. Wrestling back her train of thought, she continued. “So yes, I took up photography and found I had an eye for it. When Daniel made his infamous ultimatum it seemed that freelancing might be a way I could earn money around being a parent. That was before I knew I was expecting two of course!”
“Still, even with one baby, wouldn’t it be hard to make ends meet on a freelancer’s wage? I should know!”
“Yes, I’m existing on the kindness of parents just now. I’m not quite sure how it’s all going to pan out but if I think a
bout it too hard I start to hyperventilate.”
“Can’t you ask for support from your ex? These are his children you’re bringing into the world.”
“Not as far as he’s concerned they’re not. And not to me either. I’d rather move back in with my mum and dad than take money from him.”
“Is that an option?”
She hesitated. There was the question. Telling Marcio now she realised she knew the answer.
“Not for me, I rather love living in London too much.”
“You surprise me. I always thought that people who grew up in places like Devon had the countryside in them to the core, like writing in a stick of rock.”
Helen chuckled at the image. “I’m afraid this stick of rock says, ‘comfort, coffee shops, culture’.”
“How do your parents feel about that? Do they feel betrayed?”
“Betrayed, that’s an interesting choice of word.” Helen’s brow creased, “I’d never thought of it like that. They certainly never expected me or Simon to stay and run the farm. It hasn’t been in the family for generations, they bought it together themselves because they love the land. I think they just want us to be happy, however that manifests itself.”
“It’ll be harder though, with grandkids. I see it with Mum. Some of my sisters are moving further afield, some have left Spain all together, and she hates not seeing all the rugrats all the time.”
“So this isn’t a normal Sunday then?” Helen gestured at the children, who were now eating ice cream, getting as much on their faces and clothes as inside their tummies.
“No, today is a celebration for La Merce. It’s an excuse, like Christmas or Easter, for the family to get together. The Spanish love their festivals.”
Helen thought it was interesting that Marcio referred to the Spanish people as if he weren’t one of them. Obviously he was right about understanding the lure of an English life. She looked around, wondering if she would struggle to choose between here and London, as Marcio’s father had. It was harder than choosing between London and Devon – you always had mixed feelings to the place that raised you.
Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes Page 16