by Nesta Tuomey
It was only a short walk to the restaurant and they arrived just after eight-thirty. At the sight of them Antonio left the group of people he was with and came forward, his dark sorrowful eyes lit by a welcoming smile. Jane thought that his whole face changed when he smiled and became youthful, less melancholy. She smiled shakily back at him. She involuntarily dug her nails into the palm of her hand.
‘Señora.’ He took the maltreated hand and bent over it. ‘I am very glad you could come. I was afraid you might have to hurry back to your children. Fernando tells me that in your absence they are on their own.’ At the concern in his deep voice Jane quickened with pleasure. She looked up at him and felt herself drowning in his dark eyes. To break the spell she said:
‘My youngest is the only one I worry about but she’s in good hands. Sheena, my older girl, is well able to look after her.’ She studied his appearance and saw that his hair was shorter than it had been in the summer and consequently the grey not so evident. His skin was still fresh and, for a man of his age, he had very few lines. Then she realised with a start that he was still holding her hand. Jane had to ease her hand gently from Antonio’s grip, and to her dismay felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
‘My son speaks often of these young ladies,’ Antonio told her. ‘I can see they have made a big impression on him.’ He turned toward Terry. ‘This young man is another of your children?’
‘He is.’ She realised that her reply was brief almost to the point of gaucheness, but her mind felt like jelly. She was standing there like a teenager, blushing and staring at him. She became suddenly aware that one of Antonio’s party, a rather striking woman with beautiful dark hair coiled on the nape of her neck, had turned her eyes soulfully upon them as if willing him back to the group. His wife? Jane became suddenly self-conscious.
‘Come and join the rest of my party, Señora.’ Antonio placed his hand at her elbow and pressed her forward.
A waiter approached with menus. Jane took one and ran her eye down it as Antonio poured wine into their glasses. There was a ripple of laughter as someone told a joke. All of them, with the exception of Jane and Terry, were Spanish but, out of politeness, some English was being spoken at the table. Jane caught Terry’s eye and he gave her a slow wink. She could see he was entering into the spirit and attempting a conversation in halting Spanish with the lady on his left.
‘You are glad you have come back to Spain?’ Antonio suddenly asked her.
Jane nodded. And you, she wanted to say, are you glad? ‘I look forward to spending a lot of time here,’ she said. ‘You have such a wonderful climate.’
‘Ah, so it is only our climate you are enamoured with,’ a man accused with dolorous inflection. ‘Are you not at all interested in our architecture, Señora? The wonders of Seville or Granada?’ He flung up his hand. ‘Sun is all very well but art considerably more enriching.’
‘But surely one can enjoy both?’ Jane suggested, her droll look invoking sympathetic laughter from her audience. ‘I can only say that if you were forced to endure our wet Irish climate for twelve months of the year, you might not be so high-minded.’ She laughed to take any sting out of her words.
‘I have often thought of making a trip to Ireland,’ Antonio addressed the table thoughtfully, ‘but now I wonder would that be wise... With so much water,’ he gestured in mock dismay, ‘I might well be drowned.’
A burst of laughter greeted this observation.
As the conversation switched into other channels she sipped her muscatel and mused on the fact that she was seeing a side to Antonio she had never seen before. She raised her eyes and found him regarding her intently.
‘I never thought to see you again, Jane,’ he murmured suddenly. It was the first time he had called her by her name and his Spanish inflexion made it sound as Spanish as José or Juan, causing her a sudden sharp pang of recollection.
‘And now there is the miracle of your reappearance,’ Antonio went on in the same low intimate tones as if they were the only ones at the table, ‘and that golden world of which you were the sun, sleeping all this time with my memories, is fully awakened.’
His voice husky with feeling rose the hairs on Jane’s neck. She reached for her glass in defence, needing to occupy her shaking hands with something. She raised her eyes and met his over the rim of the glass. She saw the doubts and fears and the anguish of wanting that seethed behind those dark eyes and she waited with joyful resignation for what else he might say. But before he could speak the door of the restaurant swung open and Fernando entered, his eyes seeking those of his father’s across the width of the room. Antonio rose at once and went to him.
The two men manoeuvreda wheelchair between them through the doorway. Obviously some aunt or close friend, Jane thought as the frail elderly woman put up a hand to pat Fernando’s cheek, and Jane was impressed by his kindness in delaying his meal to bring her.
Jane smiled at the woman as Fernando lifted her on to a chair at the other side of Antonio. Menus were presented but the woman redirected the hovering waiter towards Fernando and accepted a glass of mineral water from Antonio.
‘Nada,’ Jane heard her say in a low voice. She sat hunched in the chair as though her back ached and she was missing the support of the wheelchair. The doctor in Jane felt curious as to her malady and was pondering this when Antonio turned to her and said quietly. ‘Señora, I would like you to meet my wife Elena.’
Jane automatically glanced towards the beautiful woman beside Terry, then seeing that Antonio was indicating the frail woman at his side, felt a flare of amazement. This was his wife! She had to take a deep breath to steady herself.
‘How do you do,’ Jane whispered, and forced herself to extend her hand. The other woman pressed it between thin, wasted fingers.
‘I am very happy to meet you, Dr McArdle. Fernan tells me that you are pleased with your new apartment.’ Elena’s voice was sweet and gentle and very slightly accented.
‘I am thrilled with it, Señora Gonzalez,’ Jane enthused, while inside she was torn by grief and dismay. Oh the poor, sick woman, she thought. Oh it’s not fair. Why does it have to be like this? She remembered how Fernando had hinted something about his mother’s health but none of it had prepared her for this.
Elena Gonzalez lifted a shaking hand to her lips and pressed it there as though troubled by a fleeting spasm of pain. Her eyes were huge and tragic in her sallow face and her body thin and wasted in the velvet dress. Antonio bent towards her and whispered something. Elena shook her head and fluttered her hand at him. When she turned away from him Antonio watched her with such a fond, sorrowing expression that Jane was overwhelmed by a terrible wasting pity. For Antonio’s wife and for herself. She knew she had no choice but to put aside all thoughts of him and to keep well away, lest she be betrayed into an action for which she would never forgive herself.
Thoughts of Eddie and Hugh had somehow returned to haunt Claire since coming to sleep in the McArdle’s house. She seemed to feel them all around her and, at every turn of the stairs, it was as if they had either gone up or down before her and were always just out of sight.
Claire was not upset, merely grieved by these shades from the past. She found herself wondering if, in the weeks following the tragedy, Terry had ever been similarly affected, then rejected the notion. Although not insensitive, Terry did not have a lot of imagination in the way that Ruthie and Hugh had. Perhaps it was why Terry had such an iron nerve when it came to flying. Claire remembered on the two occasions she had gone on board an aeroplane her imagination had run riot, so perhaps there was something to be said for the lack of one.
She was preparing for bed and crossed to the window in her blouse and tights to look out of the window. What was Terry doing right now? she wondered. Somehow staring into the dark, starry heavens made her feel closer to him. The moon hung full and low in the sky and she wished she could use it like a satellite to carry back images of him.
‘What are you doing, Claire?’ Ruthi
e asked, coming into the room.
Claire turned from the window with a start and laughed a little self-consciously. ‘Just looking at the moon. It’s beautiful tonight, isn’t it? So luminous and full.’
Ruthie came to stand beside her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘like a huge blob of yoghurt. Do you look at it every night?’
‘You can’t always see it,’ Claire said. ‘But yes,’ she admitted, ‘Certainly, I look for it every night.’
They stood in companionable silence staring out. Of all the McArdles Ruthie was perhaps the most imaginative. Claire had thought Jane was being fussy when she had lined up Liz to sit with the little girl in the hour or two before she and Sheena got in from college but she saw the wisdom of it now. Ruthie was exhibiting signs of stress since Jane’s departure and was nervy and disinclined to sleep on her own.
Claire indulged her, although she did not sleep half so soundly as on her own. But then she had not expected to sleep well. Not here in this house which held such forbidden memories. Across the landing where more than once.... She glanced away, refusing to release that particular dragon.
Ruthie jumped into bed and pulled the duvet snugly around her. Claire finished undressing and went down to the bathroom. On her way back she saw through her open door that Sheena had left on the powerful light over her drawing board. Claire bent to look at the exquisitely detailed sketch. Sheena was really talented, she thought wistfully. She only wished she had been endowed with such a satisfying, tangible gift. She switched off the lamp and returned to her room.
Ruthie was asleep. Claire got into bed, careful not to waken her. She lay listening to the shifting night sounds, the gurgling of pipes, then closed her eyes and allowed herself the luxury of dwelling on Terry, doing so with a mixture of more pain than pleasure and finding it not quite the antidote she had hoped for.
Jane and Terry spent a very leisurely Sunday and were ready to go sight-seeing on their last day. Jane hired a car and rather adventurously decided to make the 170 kilometres trip to Almeira, for the sole reason that she had gone there years before with Antonio. She saw this trip in the nature of a farewell to certain impossible hopes and dreams she had been unconsciously entertaining and which, after meeting Elena, she realised could never be. There had been mention over dinner the previous night of Frigiliana, which was approximately an hour’s drive inland and another example of Moorish village architecture, but Jane was moved by nostalgia to make the longer trip. ‘You’ve been there before Mum?’ Terry asked, looking curiously across at her. He had the road map open on his knee and was plotting their course with moving finger.
‘Yes, I had a romance going with a rather attractive Spaniard and he brought me.’ Jane flashed him a quick smiling glance. ‘Oh, years ago. Long before I met your father.’ Actually, she could recall very little about the place, but as soon as she saw the huge fortress, with turreted ramparts looming high above the city, it all came back to her.
Jane planned to stay in the city just long enough to eat, buy a few souvenirs for the girls, and to visit the Alcazaba. They had the long journey back, and she had already picked out the part of the coast where they would stop and swim.
She went into the cathedral for a quick visit but it was the fortress which exercised the strongest pull on her. She climbed the steep hillside a few yards behind Terry, and reached the top, breathing hard. Looking back down the way they had come she was visited by a flash of memory. Antonio and herself pausing on the hillside to kiss and then later, arms entwined, gazing out over the city and the sea. She remembered him telling her that the Alcazaba was the haunt of thieves and not a safe place for people to come to on their own, especially at night. She shivered and looked about for Terry, her mood suddenly changing. She saw him clamber energetically on top of a ruined wall and balance there, looking downwards, a hand shading his eyes.
‘Let’s go,’ she called, suddenly wanting to be gone from this place, ‘I think we should be moving.’
Jane was glad of his supporting arm as they descended over the sloping, rough ground but, even with it, she stepped incautiously and wrenched her ankle. Her face contorted in pain.
‘No! I’m all right,’ she cut him short when he tried to insist that she sit down and rest. ‘Don’t fuss! I’m not an octogenarian.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Terry said, throwing up his hands. He had been enjoying the protective feeling of helping her. ‘Poor Mum,’ he told himself. ‘After all she’s over forty. This kind of thing is all very well at my age but too much for her.’
They went on down the hill in silence. Jane was annoyed with herself for her irritation and even more for not watching her steps. She had been thinking of the look in Antonio’s eyes when he’d said, ‘That golden world of which you were the sun.’ Oh my God, she thought tiredly. Poetry and romance at my age. What a fool!
She drove fast on the road back to Nerja, taking risks in her determination to cover the distance. In record time she pulled up a few miles short of Motril and parked in sight of the Calahonda beach. With more than half the journey behind them she felt she had earned her swim.
An hour later, feeling much restored, she sat on the beach and combed her damp hair back from her face. Terry patted himself dry and stretched out beside her, letting the sun dry his swimming trunks. They spoke little, content to relax and enjoy the tingling aftermath of their swim. It had been fun, if exhausting, pitting themselves against the high waves.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Terry said suddenly. ‘I mean for bringing me with you on this trip. I was really low after what happened to Con. God, it was awful. I mean, right in front of our eyes.’ His voice shook and he rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Jane watched him sympathetically. As she gave him time to recover his composure she thought how good it was to hear him expressing gratitude for the holiday.
‘I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it,’ she told him now. ‘Having you along makes it a lot more fun for me.’
Terry grinned. ‘Thanks, Mum, you can hardly say anything else.’ But he was pleased. He genuinely wanted to make his mother happy and sometimes wished fiercely there was something he could do to make up for the difficult time she had endured in the years since his father’s death. She had been given a rough deal yet she had managed to survive and make a good living for them all. They had never wanted for anything and now there was this terrific apartment in Spain. He was really proud of her.
He felt sudden shame at what she must have endured as a result of his fling with Grainne and his smile faded at the thought of what might await him on their return.
‘Mum,’ he began tentatively, feeling reluctant to broach the subject but desperately needing to air his fears. ‘About Grainne. Look, I know I was wrong - ‘
‘Terry!’ Jane put a gentle hand on his arm. ‘I have a confession to make. I intended telling you when we got back but now seems as good a time.’
He listened and overwhelming relief showed on his face. ‘I hardly dared to hope,’ he blurted. ‘In fact I was sure there was no way out of it. Oh, Mum, it seems almost too good to be true.’
He is so touchingly young, Jane thought, and he has a conscience and sensitivity. She let him run on before raising her hand and saying seriously.
‘This time it worked out, Terry. But what if it hadn’t or if you had got some teenage girl pregnant and her family insisted you stand by her? You are far too young at nineteen to take on such responsibilities. Apart from anything else you don’t have the money to support a family,’ Jane pointed out. ‘When the time is right let it be with someone you really love and want to spend your life with. Promiscuity does not lead to happiness.’
Terry nodded his head, prepared to believe her.
‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Jane said lightly, but with a tired smile. She squeezed his arm affectionately. ‘Let’s get back on the road while I’m still awake.
‘Mum, why don’t you let me drive,’ Terry suggested. ‘I’m a good driver. You’ve always said so, and you look tired.’
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‘But you’re not used to driving on the right hand side of the road and you haven’t got your licence with you,’ Jane said. ‘I mean, what if we are stopped by police? They have a name for being very strict here, you know.’
‘We won’t,’ Terry said firmly. ‘C’mon, Mum, let me. You know you want to.’
Jane was tempted. Perhaps I’m fussing too much, she thought. ‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘But mind you take it easy. No tailgating or overtaking. We’re not in a rush, so just concentrate on keeping on the right hand side of the road.’
‘Sure thing, Mum.’
They walked over the hot sand and climbed the steps to the road. Jane threw their towels in the boot of the car and handed Terry the key. He took it and sat jauntily behind the wheel.
‘Blast off!’ Terry said, and gunned the car down the road.
‘Don’t forget what I said,’ Jane murmured. She opened her mouth and let a yawn take her. It was good to lean against the seat and feel her aching muscles relax.
They were on the narrow winding switchback which followed the shoreline into the thriving port city of Motril. Terry slowed behind a convoy of lorries laden down with the day’s harvest of sugar cane. Beside him, Jane blinked, giving only a fraction of her attention to his chatter about some marvellous girl.
‘She doesn’t know about Grainne of course,’ Terry said.
Who was she? Jane wondered sleepily. He seemed very keen on her. Youth, she thought in resignation. Barely rescued from the perils of one dubious alliance before leaping headlong into another.
