He seemed to loosen up a little after that and she noticed his features starting to relax, the lines on his forehead beginning to smooth out, as if someone had pressed it with a hot iron.
Knowing that he wouldn’t like personal questions, she decided to tell him more about herself instead. She mentioned her childhood, her mother, her schooling, her life at the university and the research projects she was doing. He was particularly interested in them. The only subject that she didn’t touch on was Alfonso.
‘A few years ago, I spent the whole summer in Paracho,’ she said, taking another forkful of omelette. ‘I was doing some research on rural schooling. I stayed with a local family; they were very kind but the house was pretty basic.’
Simon said that he’d visited the small town in Mexico’s western highlands, which was famous for its guitars.
‘I bought one for myself, actually, from a market stall.’
It was quite a coincidence, as few foreigners knew about the place, and Chabela was delighted. She asked if he could play anything, and when he said that he was teaching himself, she insisted that he fetch his purchase.
The instrument was handsome and cream in colour, with pearl and wood details around the sound hole and on the head.
‘Let me hear something!’ Chabela cried, clapping her hands in excitement, for it was a large bass guitarrón of the type favoured by the mariachi bands popular all over Mexico.
‘Really?’ He looked uncertain. ‘I’m not much good.’
But she was adamant and at last he sat down again, pushed back his chair, rested the guitar on one knee and began to strum.
He chose a rousing, patriotic ballad called ‘México Lindo y Querido’ (‘Lovely Beloved Mexico’), which she knew well and it took her right back to her childhood. He had a good voice and she closed her eyes, allowing her thoughts to drift away.
About halfway through, however, he struck a discordant note and the music stopped dead. Chabela, who had been in another world, jumped in surprise and her eyelids sprang open.
Without any explanation, he handed her the guitar, which she took without a murmur; she was far too dazed to ask why. Then he left the room again and when she looked around a few moments later, she let out a cry – ‘Oh!’ – and burst into laughter.
For there, standing in the doorway, was her host as she had never seen him before, with his shoulders thrown back, his head held high and a fake-haughty expression on his face. The most extraordinary thing, however, was what he had on his head: the most enormous, wide-brimmed sombrero that could barely even fit through the entrance.
He looked absurd, of course, especially with his tortoiseshell glasses on, and he twirled a pretend moustache, which made Chabela laugh again. So he did have a sense of humour after all!
This time, when he started to play, she joined in the chorus:
México lindo y querido
Si muero lejos de tí
Que digan que estoy dormido
Y que me traigan aquí
My beautiful and beloved Mexico
Should I die far from you
Let them say I’m asleep
And bring me back to you
On the very last word, she stood up and howled soulfully, like a dog baying to the moon. This made him laugh out loud, too, and he roared again when she plonked herself back in her seat, knocked back the last of her wine with a dramatic flourish and turned the finished bottle upside down in the empty salad bowl.
‘I’d better get some more,’ he said doubtfully, propping his guitar on the edge of the table. ‘Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘No! Wine!’ she cried, shaking her head and slapping her fist on the table. She was enjoying herself immensely and didn’t want the evening to end.
He duly topped them up before starting on his next song, another mariachi classic called ‘Volver Volver’ (‘Going Back, Going Back’). This was followed by a flamenco tune, which he messed up but it really didn’t matter.
‘Encore!’ she shouted, when he came to the end, but he shook his head, insisting that he couldn’t play another note.
‘That’s it! You’ve heard the full repertoire.’
He got up to prop the guitar in the corner and when he came back, he’d put his glasses down and was flapping his hands and blowing on his fingers.
‘They get sore after a while. It’s the metal strings. They’re quite hard and stingy.’
By now, they were about halfway through the second bottle of wine and Chabela, who wasn’t especially shy in the first place, seemed to have lost any of her remaining inhibitions.
‘Here! Let me do it,’ she said, leaning forwards, grabbing his hands and rubbing his fingertips, which were red and dented from the hard guitar strings.
She would have done the same for a friend or family member, even without the wine, but not for an acquaintance – and an uptight English one to boot.
He stood stiffly while she massaged but didn’t tell her to stop, and when she looked up to check that he was OK with what she was doing, he gave her a real, proper smile that lit up his whole face.
It was strange seeing him without his glasses and she was taken aback by the warmth and playfulness of his grin as well as the gentle candour in his eyes. Now that she could see them properly, she noticed a depth and steadiness behind the hazel irises. It was quite a revelation.
He looked like someone that she could trust and she glanced away quickly, afraid that she might reveal some of the hurt and despair that she carried around with her wherever she went. She didn’t want anyone, least of all him, to see that.
He must have noticed something, however, because the atmosphere seemed to change and he removed his hands and started to clear away the supper dishes.
‘It’s getting late,’ he said quietly, filling a washing up bowl with hot, soapy water and stacking the dirty dishes. ‘You can stay here tonight if you like? In the spare room,’ he added quickly. ‘The bed’s already made. You shouldn’t drive anywhere now; you’re almost certainly over the limit.’
It was after ten o’clock, she had indeed had a fair amount to drink and was grateful for the offer, but she didn’t want to put him out. Besides, her head was muzzy and as it had stopped raining, she decided that she could do with some fresh air.
‘Thanks, but no,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a taxi in the village and pick up my car in the morning.’
When he realised that her mind was made up, he fetched her clothes from the dryer and told her to change again in the cloakroom. Then he dug out an old jacket for her to borrow and insisted on bringing his torch and walking with her to the bottom of the steps. This time, she didn’t argue; she didn’t fancy trying to find a path across the cliffs in the dark on her own.
They went in silence most of the way, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Chabela was thinking that all the while she’d been at Kittiwake, she’d virtually forgotten about the hostile looks she’d received earlier in the day when she was dancing, and they seemed less important now, rather as if it was all a bad dream. She’d even temporarily forgotten about Alfonso.
She was quite sorry when they reached the bottom of the stairs that led down to the village and spotted the old-fashioned lamp that lit this section of the street with a warm, yellowish glow. She could see her way to the end of the road perfectly well now, and told Simon that she’d ring for a taxi when she reached Humble Hill; there really was no reason for him to linger.
She started to unzip the jacket that he’d lent her, but he urged her to give it back to him next time.
It was only when they said goodbye and he kissed her, lightly on the cheek this time, that she realised they hadn’t even mentioned James Penhallow or any of her other Cornish ancestors. Which was strange, considering they were the only reason she and Simon had met.
‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ she whispered, checking for the mobile in her bag. She was standing in a circle of lamplight, while he hovered a few feet away in the shadows.
‘N
o, thank you,’ he murmured back.
Chapter Fifteen
As she strolled along the dark, deserted street towards Humble Hill, Chabela replayed the evening in her head. The thing that stood out most of all, she realised, wasn’t the food and wine, the warm atmosphere, Simon’s surprising appearance in a sombrero or even his guitar playing.
No, what she couldn’t put out of her mind was that smile – the real, proper one when she’d taken his hands in hers. And the gentle, steady look in his eyes.
She was reminded of the way Alfonso used to look at her, and how it had changed during the course of their relationship. At first he’d seemed amused, almost mocking, because he could tell she was smitten and that he could twist her around his little finger.
Later, his gaze had become soulful, fiery and obsessive. When they were together, his eyes followed her constantly and he could hardly bear it when she left the room.
Towards the end, however, a strange cloudiness had crept in behind the irises. Sometimes, when she looked at him, it was almost as if he were wearing dark glasses, because she could no longer read his thoughts.
It troubled her, but she put it down to stress at work and issues with his eldest son, who was causing some anxiety. She tried to help by being extra loving and not making too many demands.
In her heart of hearts, though, she must have known that something was wrong. How she wished now that she’d listened to her gut! She could at least have saved herself a little heartache and slightly lessened the pain of her rejection.
It had all been so different a few years previously, when Alfonso’s passion and jealousy were at their peak. She was in her mid-thirties then, and beginning to come to terms with the fact that she might not have children.
She had always felt ambivalent about becoming a mother, perhaps because of the poor example set by her own, but it was unsettling to know that before too long, the choice would be taken out of her hands altogether.
Alfonso said he didn’t particularly want more kids, though he didn’t rule them out, but he wanted her and so she didn’t look around for anyone else. It wasn’t as if she was without other admirers, but most soon gave up when they realised that her heart lay elsewhere.
There was one, however, who stuck around for longer and who might possibly have been in with a chance, had not Alfonso sent him packing.
Juan Raoul was a postgraduate student at the university where Chabela taught. They got to know each other one summer, when Alfonso was out of the country with his family and Chabela remained in Mexico City on her own.
Most of the university was closed and the majority of staff and students were away, but Juan Raoul had stayed behind to complete his thesis. Meanwhile, Chabela was working on a book proposal and the pair kept seeing each other in the almost empty library, until finally he plucked up courage to come over to talk to her and they quickly became friends. To be honest, to start with Chabela was just lonely and grateful to have someone to go for coffee with.
Juan Raoul lived quite near her apartment and soon he took to dropping by with a bottle of wine in the evening when they’d both finished work. She began to look forward to his visits because he was clever and interesting and they talked a good deal about work, but had a laugh, too. They both enjoyed watching a silly, long-running, late-night TV soap and sometimes they’d play cards to unwind.
He was a little younger than her and at the time she assumed that he wasn’t interested in her romantically. Looking back, though, she was pretty sure that he had hopes of something more.
But it wasn’t to be. When Alfonso returned from holiday and found out about the friendship, he put a stop to it immediately. Like some old-fashioned Knight of the Round Table, he turned up unexpectedly at Chabela’s flat one evening when he suspected that the young man would be there, and virtually claimed her as his own.
She could still remember how he kept putting his arm around her, stroking her hand and hair and calling her ‘mi amor’ and ‘corazón’ (sweetheart). He’d never behaved like that in front of anyone before and she found it embarrassing.
She knew that his wife would be expecting him at home, but he hung around all the same, pretending to be interested in Juan Raoul’s academic work whilst subtly undermining him.
He was clearly in awe of the Great Professor and seemed to wither before Chabela’s very eyes. She felt sorry for him and tried to intervene, to no avail. Her lover was ruthless and in the end, Juan Raoul sloped off home, probably to rethink his entire thesis. He never visited her again. Alfonso could have that effect on people; he could destroy them with one swift blow. She recognised that now.
He stayed with her that night – what he told his wife, she had no idea – and she could still recall his words the morning after.
‘Don’t ever make me suffer like that again, Chabelita,’ he said, holding her face gently but firmly between his hands and pressing his forehead against hers. ‘I thought I was losing you. I’d be a wreck without you. You must never, ever leave me.’
Of course she assured him that she never would, safe in the knowledge, as she thought then, that it was only a matter of time before they’d be together for ever…
She’d arrived at the end of the street now, which was deserted, though she thought that she could still detect the presence of the crowds who had walked this way earlier in the day, en route for the playground festivities.
After calling for a taxi, she stood outside Liz’s darkened house, her arms clasped around her, waiting for the purr of an engine coming in her direction. There was a burst balloon lying in the gutter at her feet and as she picked it up and felt its rubbery softness through her fingers, she thought of Alfonso’s son Enrique’s surprise eighteenth birthday party last June, just over a year ago.
He was the youngest and, she guessed, favourite child, and Alfonso had talked a fair amount about the celebrations that his wife, Pilar, was planning for the big day.
She had reserved an entire restaurant for the evening and invited more than a hundred guests, including aunts and uncles, friends, godparents and neighbours.
The cab arrived surprisingly quickly and Chabela climbed into the passenger seat. She watched while the driver did a three-point turn before heading back the way that he’d come. The road was clear and by now she knew the way to Polgarry Manor so well that she didn’t need to keep checking whether they were on the right route. Her mind was thus free to return to the party.
There were to be speeches, dancing, a big cake, a steel band and a giant, brightly coloured, papier-mâché piñata, suspended from the ceiling and stuffed with sweets and gifts.
Chabela had her own reasons for looking forward to the event, even though she hadn’t been invited, for Alfonso had always said he’d leave his wife when Enrique turned eighteen. At last the time was almost here.
She kept hoping that her lover would raise the issue in the run-up to the party but he didn’t, so in the end she decided to take the initiative herself. It was a week or so before and he was in her apartment on one of their appointed afternoons together.
They’d just made love and she was lying in bed beside him, his arm around her waist while her fingers played lazily with the soft, curly hair on his chest. The window was ajar and a slight breeze rustled the open curtains, as the late-afternoon traffic rumbled by.
Now seemed as good a time as any to speak up.
‘Would you rather wait till September to tell Pilar?’ she asked. ‘It might be easier when Enrique’s away at university?’
She noticed her lover tense, but only for a second.
‘Sure,’ he said carefully. ‘It would be best to get him settled in first.’
‘How do you think she’ll take it?’ Chabela asked then, and Alfonso carefully removed his arm from around her middle and sat up against the pillows.
‘Badly.’
She noticed his frown and tried to cheer him up.
‘She mightn’t be as upset as you think. I mean, deep down she must know you
r marriage is dead and has been for years. She’ll probably be relieved. Once you go, she’ll be free to do whatever she wants – travel, meet someone new, buy as many clothes as she wants without having to hide them from you…’
It was only a joke, but Alfonso’s frown deepened. ‘You don’t know her. She likes security and stability. She’ll be lost, angry and frightened.’
Never before had he spoken with any real concern for his wife and his words played on Chabela’s mind. Even so, she didn’t believe that he was having second thoughts and just assumed he needed longer to prepare.
The party was a huge success, and then the whole family went on holiday as usual. It wasn’t until mid-September, when Enrique had begun his new course, that she broached the issue again.
‘It must be the right time now, surely? How about tonight, when you get home?’
They were side by side on the sofa in her living room, her head resting on his shoulder, a half-drunk bottle of wine on the coffee table in front.
‘I know it’s going to be painful, but you can’t keep putting it off for ever.’
Alfonso let out a sigh. ‘It’s impossible just now, mi amor. She’s not well.’
‘What’s wrong?’ It was the first that Chabela had heard of it.
His wife was suffering from insomnia, he said. ‘She’s got sleeping pills, but she doesn’t like taking them because they make her tired and forgetful. She’s afraid to drive in this state, so she’s stuck in the house all day.’
‘Can’t Bertha take care of her?’ Bertha was the maid. Chabela didn’t like the hardness that had crept into her voice, but felt confused and a little afraid.
‘It’d be too much responsibility. Pilar’s not herself at all. On top of everything else, I think she’s missing Enrique. A lot of women find it difficult when the last one goes, so I’m told. Empty nest syndrome, you know?’
They looked at each other and Alfonso slowly shook his head.
‘Of course you don’t. Why would you? You haven’t got children.’
His words stung and Chabela bit her lip. It was all she could do not to bite back.
The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall Page 20
