A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

  'Oh, Dad.'

  Since his retirement, he's become prone to grumbling over 'the dismal state of the world' as he calls it. The recent floods that inundated villages and towns in England alarmed him more than almost anyone we know. I share with my mother a wish that he would switch off sometimes and relax. So much negative passion can't be good for his blood pressure.

  I hoped my parents' move to Máguez would bring them both peace of mind; that the warm sunny climate and the invigorating ocean breeze would enliven their spirits.

  In the months after Brexit, Bill and Angela sold their Suffolk home and bought the old farmhouse, moving in time for Gloria's second birthday, my persuasive efforts of the previous two years at last paying off. It was the mild climate that swayed them. Plenty of opportunity to be outdoors. They were holidaying on the island one time and they had taken a walk around the village. A retired high school teacher, Bill began to see in Lanzarote the tranquil lifestyle he craved. Although I suspect the climate was just the catalyst, the deeper reason his attachment to his only granddaughter.

  I thought the new climate would help Angela move out from beneath the shadow of her depression that took hold when she was retrenched from her job as school secretary in her early sixties. The move has certainly lifted her spirits, but not in the way I anticipated. It is a fascination for gardening in a dry and windy climate that absorbs Angela. She marvels over the ease with which dracaenas and succulents grow and she's developed an avid affection for cacti.

  Much to my dismay, although not to my surprise, she hasn't developed a similar adoration of Gloria. For Angela is as indifferent as she was with me when I was young, consumed by guilt that she should be doing more, yet steadfastly not acting on that guilt.

  It is Bill who has taken to Gloria, and Gloria to Bill. Watching him help his granddaughter insert the last puzzle piece, watching him take her hand and lead her to the main room, I can't help feeling warm inside. The way he bends down and points at the long table filled with fare, the way Gloria responds with a look of awe, the lifting of her face to his as if for approval. The way his face lights up at her smile. Gloria has taken years off him. He is a large man, with a tendency to carry too much weight, his serious nature showing on his face in downward curving lines and in the furrows on his brow. Around Gloria, there's a bounce in his step and an enthusiasm for life's small adventures, for sharing with Gloria every single detail of the day, myriad little observances. Gloria mellows his heart. Although he will always rail against the injustices of the world. In that, he shares with his son-in-law, Celestino, something meaningful and important.

  Celestino.

  Who should be here.

  Even if he were, there is no denying Bill offers Gloria something Celestino can't: his complete attention. Not that Celestino doesn't care. Although I can't count the times I've told myself in the face of mounting dissatisfaction, that he has to work hard to produce and sell his art, especially since there are the three of us. Alone he may have survived adequately if frugally, but with a wife and a child the burden is great. That commission for the Swedish doctor; we'll have to live off those Euros for a month.

  In an effort to push away my cares, I grab a handful of toasted maize kernels and take in the room, recalling the relief I felt when my mother relinquished all notion of shipping to the island the vintage furniture, replete with a tatty Chesterfield lounge that never fitted in any room it was put. Between us, Bill and I managed to persuade Angela to part with all her old pieces, selling some and arranging homes for the rest. Here in Máguez, they have resorted to furnishing their home via Ikea, the effect—modern, clean lines, plain colours—in keeping with the roughly rendered walls of brilliant white, the polished timber floors, the overall simplicity of design.

  Hanging on the longest wall is one of Celestino's larger pieces, a sketchy rendition of the island's northern landscape, which they tried to buy but Celestino insisted they have. Along with the sight of it hanging there like a chimeric representation of the artist himself, annoyance at his absence gives way to concern. Perhaps the road out of Haría is truly impassable. Or the commission is taking far longer than he anticipated. My self-reassurances can't replace a nagging thought that something dreadful, even catastrophic has happened to my husband.

  I put on a brave face and suggest we play a game to keep Gloria amused.

  'What shall we play?' Angela says, directing her question to no one in particular.

  'Laloply!' Gloria cries.

  'Laloply?'

  'She means our Monopoly.'

  'Good plan,' Bill says and goes to fetch it.

  It is a game far too old for Gloria, but she loves it. I make space on the kitchen table. Angela brings in some party fare and pours everyone a soft drink.

  'Lemonade?' Bill says, entering the kitchen and eyeing his glass.

  'There's rather a lot of it.'

  He doesn't respond to the subtext as he lays out the board, making two piles of cards in its centre and lining up the players on 'Go'.

  There is no Old Kent Road or Mayfair to be seen. Instead, arranged in a logical sequence of rising wealth, are the various locations on the island, everywhere from budget holiday complexes to the luxury locales of Costa Teguise, Playa Blanca and Puerto Calero. Stations are replaced by tourist sites, all of them created by Manrique and up for sale like the rest of the board. Celestino has painted a little scene in each square. The result is a visual feast of marinas, beaches, palm trees and volcanoes, and many and varied streetscapes. Houses become holiday lets, and the hotels resorts. The players Celestino carved out of clay, little figurines of islanders in native dress, a dog, a pirate ship and a high-domed wide-brimmed hat. He customised the Chance cards to suit, with the exception of 'free parking', the 'go to jail' card and 'income tax'. In keeping with his own worldview, bank errors in the player's favour have become sweeteners and kickbacks.

  He created the game after he found the original Monopoly in my parents' sideboard when searching for placemats for a family dinner, and insisted on playing afterwards. Bill and Angela were just settling into their new home at the time. What began as a tentative introduction to the game became, thanks to a bottle of single malt whisky, rowdy and intense. Towards the end, when Angela was bankrupt and I struggled with half a dozen mortgaged properties, Celestino lost Mayfair and Park Lane to Bill and won a new friend, the two men forming a bond where previously existed common civility. That was the night Celestino introduced Bill to the story of the island's corruption. I recall the many hours Celestino spent in the following weeks designing the new board, with Gloria leaning over him engaged in every step; the day he brought it over to Máguez for a trial run, and everyone agreed it was much better than the original.

  Gloria climbs onto Bill's lap and chooses the ship. Angela takes the hat and I pick up the dog. The game is helped along by Bill's enthusiasm but it's strange to be playing it without Celestino. By the time we've all bought up the various streets, promenades and boulevards, Gloria's attention wanes.

  Outside, the wind and the rain are unrelenting. The afternoon rapidly gives way to dark. Conceding an early defeat after having to mortgage Famara Beach, Angela goes about putting the lights on.

  'Those shutters need closing,' she says to herself, emerging from the guest bedroom and heading to the front door.

  'I'll do it.'

  Angela promptly turns back.

  An angry wind roars up the valley, flinging the rain at everything in its path, slamming the unlatched shutters closed, narrowly missing pinching my fingers. There's nothing to see beyond the stretch of small, cultivated fields that fan down the hill to the village centre. Low cloud obscures the mountains. Run off from the roof gushes from a drainage outlet, eroding the soil beneath, creating several muddy rivulets which carve their way down towards the garden wall.

  I duck back inside, determined to steer my attention towards my daughter, although I soon find I have no need. Gloria has decided to entertain herself by running a
round the house in search of her grandparents' cat, Tibbles. Bill's doing.

  'Is he under your bed?' he says as she runs towards him.

  She about turns and runs off to the guest bedroom.

  'No, he's not there, Granddad,' comes a little voice.

  Then she reappears, breathless and beaming.

  'What about under Nanny's bed. Have you tried there?'

  And off she goes.

  After several more attempts she says, 'Granddad, where is he?'

  'I'm not telling.'

  'Please.'

  'You have to find him. He has to be somewhere.'

  Another unsuccessful attempt and Gloria drags Bill off to help the search. After a short while, as Gloria tires of the game, Bill leads her to kitchen, to the cupboard under the bench. Before long I hear, 'There he is!' and Gloria reappears with Bill cradling Tibbles in his arms.

  Reminiscing

  We wait another hour before helping Gloria open her presents.

  'Let's start with the smallest,' Bill says, lifting his granddaughter onto his lap.

  Angela passes the gaily-wrapped packages one by one. I stand back and watch. Amid squeals of delight and lots of frantic ripping, out pops the rag doll I bought at the local arts and crafts market, the play dough I found in a shop in Arrecife, replete with a small wooden rolling pin and some pastry cutters, and a selection of picture books that were on special in the supermarket. As the gift size increases so does the value, my parents indulging Gloria with an arts and crafts kit in its own special carry case, a memory game, a toy toolset with workbench, and finally, leaning against the wall beside the table, a heavy duty, plastic cubby house.

  'Thank you,' I breathe, moved by their generosity, if at once diminished by it. In such moments, when my nose is pressed up hard against my pecuniary circumstances, I face afresh the knowledge that if I returned to England, endured the travails of single parenthood in an existence without Celestino, I would be sure to provide my daughter with something more than a hand-to-mouth lifestyle. Not that material circumstances could outweigh having a father in day-to-day life. Besides, my parents are here. I smile and make all the right noises thinking Celestino should be here too, to watch his little girl delight in the unboxing, his mother-in-law gather up all the wrapping paper, his father-in-law set up the toy workbench.

  As the evening wears on and the storm shows no sign of abating, the waiting becomes intolerable, unease vying with irritation inside. Several times I catch my parents exchanging worried looks. Looks that suggest all manner of suspicions and speculations.

  Together, the three of us keep Gloria busy until her bedtime. The moment Gloria's eyes close and her breathing steadies, I hurry to the telephone. The line is still dead. My home-phone answerphone normally kicks in on seven rings. I picture it there on the kitchen bench making a shrill noise that no one can hear. In a wild moment, I think of dashing out to the call box in the village. Angela hovers. Taking in that strained face, I put down the handset and say in as convincing a voice as I can muster that he must be stuck in Haría. 'The storm will have worn itself out by morning,' Bill says by way of offering comfort. It isn't long before they retire to bed.

  Later, when the others are sleeping soundly, I open the front door and fix my gaze on the driveway barely visible in the rain. Lightning illumes the night in sharp bursts of grey, thunder roiling in the wake. The cool wet air chills me and too soon I'm forced to close the door, well aware that through the thick wall of all that dark grey Celestino won't appear.

  It's childish to blame, I know that, but standing in the dark of my parents' living room it feels as though Celestino's absence on Gloria's birthday is symbolic of all that frustrates me, precipitating a release of the pent-up emotion I've been feeling for years.

  It isn't Gloria's fault. How can it be? I have no desire to wish away my own child, but there's no escaping Gloria, more than Celestino, has trapped me on the island. Moving overseas to be with the man of your dreams is one thing, falling pregnant to him another.

  My thoughts take me down familiar tracks. If only I hadn't booked those two weeks on Lanzarote; if only I hadn't taken the coach trip north to Haría; if only I hadn't been lured by the novelty of an art exhibition held in a former underground water tank; if only I hadn't been enchanted by the artist himself; if I hadn't accepted his offer of dinner and then, finding myself with no way of getting back to my hotel, stayed the night. If I'd done none of those things I would never have fallen for Celestino.

  It's no use. Gloria is a fixture in my life and takes up all the space in it.

  I spy in the dim a toy cat on the floor beside the sofa and pick it up for a cuddle. Gloria consumes me in a way I couldn't have anticipated. I'm still a little stunned. The best that can be said is that she's the product of a brief period in my life when I rent myself open and let in a wild wand of change.

  No one would ever call me reckless, which made the move all the more unusual. Although, despite my specialism in tourism, back in Ipswich I was little more than a glorified receptionist and I'd begun to find my work uninspiring, the eager visitors pushing through the information centre doors even more so. I booked another holiday to Lanzarote to spend more time with my new love. When Celestino expressed a wish for me to be by his side, I resigned from my job and moved to Lanzarote, with hesitation, yes, but also with resolve.

  Then, just as I'm trying to adjust to things, I fall pregnant.

  I head through to the kitchen, recalling with anguish and a measure of embarrassment the desperate solitude I endured in the aftermath of the birth, absolute whenever Celestino was at work in his studio, which was more often than not. Those early months were dreadful. There were days I wondered what I was doing on the island. In my depressed state, I was slow to make friends. Kathy and Pilar, both close to Celestino and young mothers themselves, offered support, but it took me a great deal of courage to accept it. Looking back, I feel vindicated with Pilar in the light of the language barrier. She spoke little English and my Spanish was rudimentary. With Kathy, it was the opposite. I didn't want to mix with other expats. Besides, Kathy and Pilar were both still in their twenties, with all the attitudes and interests typical of that age, and motherhood came to them with astonishing ease. In my mid-thirties at the time, I couldn't help feeling an outsider in their company.

  The rain pelts down, the storm determined to unleash its tyranny. Untroubled, Tibbles rubs himself against my bare calf. I draw up a chair at the kitchen table, setting the toy cat on a place mat to stroke the real one on the floor. Finding him in an affectionate mood, I pick him up and nuzzle his fur.

  I mustn't judge myself too harshly. I made a valiant effort to learn Spanish. With language acquisition my confidence grew and it was very early on in Gloria's second year when I felt compelled to earn some kind of living. That was when I realised my job prospects on the island were little short of laughable. There was no chance of me resuming a career in tourist information. My language skills were far from adequate.

  They still are.

  Besides, to work in the tourism industry is to work for the enemy as far as Celestino is concerned, and that will be grounds for divorce. It's a hypocritical view since he sells his artworks to the very tourists he doesn't want on his island. Not that I ever broach the topic. I wouldn't threaten my marriage in that way, and I don't dispute Celestino's point of view; I share it. If I didn't, I wouldn't have married him, would I? But the sacrifices I find I have to make are enormous.

  I'll never forget the day I managed to gain work as a shop assistant for an Englishwoman trading in tourist bric-a-brac in Costa Teguise. Celestino's mouth fell open when I told him, then it clamped shut when he discovered to his annoyance that I wouldn't be dissuaded. Not long after, the woman fell ill and retired. I had a short spell filling in as hotel receptionist at a resort in the same town, a job I secured by chance when I went to collect my last pay. I can't believe the trouble I had convincing Celestino he had no right to tell me where I could
and couldn't work. He was much happier when I took the job of cleaner of a holiday let in Punta Mujeres. The job was closer to home but not at all to my liking. He doesn't seem to mind my current position either, waitressing at a restaurant in Haría on Friday nights. It's a job from which I take little satisfaction. The clientele, mostly Northern Europeans, are gauche, and I struggle to smile at their banter.

  Last night was especially bad; a drunken Frenchman's audacious pinch of my arm caused me to drop the plate of grilled fish I was carrying, the fish landing in the Frenchman's wife's lap. Unluckily for me, the proprietor of the restaurant, Eileen, whose warm heart usually calms her fiery temper, hadn't witnessed the scene, and berated me in the office out the back. It was as much as I could do not to walk out.

  The rain eases. I lift Tibbles off my lap and go to the fridge, hoping a glass of milk might make me sleepy. The lit interior is a little emporium of leftovers and small treats. I can't help comparing it to my own, a stark representation of the lifestyle of the wife of an artist.

  It occurs to me as I reach for a glass that I didn't know much about Celestino when I made the decision to be with him. I thought the mainstay of his creative life was the little paintings he sold at the local markets and the occasional exhibition. I found out much later that he was having a dry spell after losing his studio space to a property developer from Alicante, who bought the semi-derelict building to convert into holiday lets and turfed Celestino out. About that time, the local mayor offered up an artist-in-residence position for an indigenous painter. Celestino accepted: with qualms, with reticence, yet also with relief.

  Gloria was toddling by the time Celestino found another studio. A British civil servant went broke when barely into the renovations of a former gofio mill and was finding the building impossible to sell. Celestino got wind of the place, and after some negotiations, the estate agent persuaded the owner to let one of the downstairs rooms. At the time, it seemed a heaven-sent gift.