Bay of Secrets

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘Of losing what I’ve worked so hard for, of my life changing, of not being in charge of things any more.’ Mel paused.

  ‘And now?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘I talked to Stuart and I realised I didn’t have to be scared,’ Mel said. ‘And that I don’t have to lose anything. The shop, being in charge of my own life, I can keep all that.’

  ‘You only have to gain,’ Ruby said softly.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Our life … And Ruby knew that Mel had Stuart and that whatever happened, whatever the two of them decided, she would be fine.

  But did she have that with Andrés? She really wasn’t sure.

  Meanwhile, the breeze was getting stronger. This must be a moving landscape, shifted and formed by the wind. Even the corralitos were banked up with drifts of sand that looked more like snow; it seemed that one day a rock pile would exist – the next day it would have disappeared and become part of a dune. And so – things changed and you could never be sure of what you might find.

  At last she stopped, the beach house right in front of her. As she had thought when she first saw it, bizarrely, it was built on the sand, near the track that led to el faro. And it was an unusual building in other ways too. It was a simple, almost childish design and it was made of cream and orange painted stone, with a Moorish tilt to it in the contours of the windows, the pear-shaped conical chimney, the sloping orange roof. Around it was a low stone wall loosely constructed from stacked black volcanic rocks. Ruby took a few deep breaths. Steadied herself. This was it. This was the place.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone around as she approached. Should she go straight up and knock on the door? Ruby’s heart was thudding in her chest. She thought of Vivien. I understand why … But Laura hadn’t brought Ruby up, nor had she cared for her – apart from in those early weeks. Was Ruby wrong even to be searching for her? Shouldn’t she simply just let things be?

  But it was irresistible. Ruby had lived here too – if only for a few short weeks. And Laura had lived here for a lot longer. Maybe the place was also in her blood? She pulled out the photos and examined the landscape, working out where each one must have been taken. There was the orange wall of the beach house which Laura had been leaning against when this photograph had been taken; there was the corralito – a natural corralito with deep curved sides – where she had been sitting, playing the guitar, empty now, save for a shaving of golden sand on the black pitted lava floor. This was the place where the psychedelic VW camper van had been parked; the track from the road was long and rough and it was hard to believe the van had even made it – but it must have done because the evidence was right here in the photo. The red and white stripes of the lighthouse were easily visible now. And there was the sea, clear and enticing. This was, without any doubt, the place.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Ruby spun around. Laura … ? But no. She saw at once that the woman – evidently English – who had come out of the little beach house, although around Laura’s age, was too tall and too dark to be her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know if you can. I’m, er, looking for someone.’

  ‘Oh?’ Although the woman seemed curious, she also looked friendly, and so Ruby came closer.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said, for this spot was so quiet, so tranquil. ‘But do you live here?’ For the first time she noticed the image of a clock engraved into the stone chimney and a smiling face tucked into one corner of the wall. What a strange house. Not as childlike as she had thought before. More quirky and surreal; like a Dali house.

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m Trish.’ The woman held out a hand and Ruby took it.

  ‘Ruby,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Ruby.’ She eyed her appraisingly. ‘Who was it you were looking for?’ She glanced around them with a smile and Ruby followed her gaze.

  She saw the joke. As far as she could see, they were entirely alone. ‘Someone called Laura,’ she said. ‘Laura Woods. Do you know her?’

  ‘Laura?’ The woman called Trish peered more closely at her. She was wearing a faded T-shirt and a simple wraparound skirt and flip-flops. Her hair was loose and shoulder length and she wore not a scrap of make-up.

  Ruby felt ridiculously overdressed in her tailored shorts and red flowery top. She nodded.

  ‘Are you a friend of Laura’s?’ the woman asked, instead of answering the question.

  But of course she had answered the question. So … She knew her. Maybe Laura even lived here. ‘Sort of,’ Ruby said.

  ‘A relative? You look a bit, well, familiar.’

  ‘Um … ’ Ruby was still holding the photograph. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through the whole story again. ‘Does she live here?’ she asked again.

  ‘She did.’

  Ruby’s heart sank. She did. She had gone then. ‘When did she leave?’ she asked bleakly. ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘Almost a year ago. And I have no idea where she went, I’m afraid.’ Trish was eying the photograph in Ruby’s hand. ‘May I see?’ she asked gently.

  What difference did it make, if Laura wasn’t even here? With a sigh, Ruby handed it over. ‘I’m the baby,’ she said.

  ‘And Laura’s the mother.’ Trish’s expression softened. She looked from the photograph back to Ruby and then back again. ‘Oh, my dear, I didn’t know. But now I can see the resemblance, of course. Come in. Please.’ And she led Ruby into the Dali beach house.

  The door opened straight into a sitting room. There were bright red tiles on the floor and rugs woven in vibrant patterns, though the colours had faded with time. The furniture was simple – a small wooden table covered with an embroidered cloth, a chest of drawers and a few wicker chairs. Cushions were strewn around the room too – large and colourful – and above them some sheets of fabric – maybe silk – billowed softly in the breeze from the open front door.

  ‘Sit down, please.’ Trish waved Ruby into one of the chairs and disappeared to get drinks. She returned with two glasses of fresh orange juice, one of which she passed to Ruby. She sat down on the wicker chair opposite her and regarded her appraisingly. ‘I never knew Laura had a daughter,’ she said. ‘She never told me.’ She seemed surprised; as if trying to make sense of it all.

  Ruby shrugged. ‘Perhaps she was trying to forget.’

  Trish frowned.

  ‘I never knew her,’ Ruby explained. ‘She gave me away when I was a baby.’ It sounded stark. But she supposed that it was.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Trish shook her head. ‘Or at least, no, I don’t see. But—’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Ruby was trying to put a brave face on it. It was disappointing though. She had come here to find, if not Laura herself, then some answers about her natural parents. She wished Laura had confided in this woman. At least then she might find out who her father was, how Laura had felt about giving her up and maybe even why she’d done it. Did she need to know, she wondered, that it hadn’t been easy for Laura, that she had always regretted it, perhaps, that if only she could turn back time … ? Rejection, she brooded. It wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,’ Trish said, sympathy in her eyes.

  Ruby sipped at the orange juice Trish had given her. But perhaps she could? She must after all know Laura better than anyone else Ruby had spoken to so far. So Ruby could at least find out more about her. She looked around the room. ‘This is such a cool place,’ she said. Trish had left the door open and they were being serenaded by the hiss and rumble of the wind and the ocean. How lovely to fall asleep listening to this. To be soothed into dreams every night; for it to be the first thing you heard every morning when you woke up.

  Trish nodded. ‘Laura loved it too,’ she said. ‘She rented it from the German guy who built it – sometime in the seventies, I believe. He had a bit of a crazy dream, you know?’ She laughed, but Ruby knew exactly what she meant.

  It was just the sort of thing people must have done back then. Let
’s go and live on the beach. Get away from it all. And in a house that was not conventional; which was weird and quirky and symbolic perhaps of how differently its occupants wanted to be regarded from the rest of the world outside. And the late seventies was when Ruby was born – 1978, to be precise.

  ‘Did she live here with Julio when you first knew her?’ Ruby thought of Laura’s boyfriend, the casual arm slung around her shoulders in the photo. He might not have wanted the responsibility of someone else’s baby. But how many boys would at that age? Like Ruby’s natural father – maybe he too had simply been one of the drifters who was just passing through.

  ‘She was on her own when I met her. But people here come and go.’ Trish waved towards the beach outside and Ruby remembered what she’d been thinking about moving landscapes, shifting sand. And drifters. Like Laura. Like Trish. People that came and went with the wind, with the tide, as the fancy took them.

  ‘What happened to him?’ she asked. ‘The German guy who built the place?’

  Trish shrugged. ‘I think he went off and built some more conventional houses in the village,’ she laughed. ‘He had a bit of a thing for Laura. But then most men did. She’d get involved with someone, he’d try and pin her down and that was usually the beginning of the end.’

  Was her father one of those men? Ruby wondered. Had her natural father also tried to pin Laura down and then lost her – not even knowing that she was already carrying his child?

  ‘Did she pay him rent?’ Ruby asked, not really sure where she was going with this.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Trish seemed vague. ‘Then he just kind of disappeared. Maybe he went back to Germany. I don’t know.’

  Like Laura had disappeared, Ruby thought. So Laura, she supposed, had assumed ownership of the house. Because it should be looked after, because she needed it and because it was there. God. Ruby froze. Exactly like Vivien had assumed ownership of the child Laura had left behind. She supposed it was different when a child was involved. But even so, she could see how easy it would be when the house or the child seemed like the answer to all your prayers. And what about that German builder? What if he had let Laura keep the house because of Ruby? What if Laura had even been part of his crazy dream in the first place? What if … ?

  ‘Rather conveniently,’ Trish added.

  She could say that again. ‘How long have you been here?’ Ruby asked her. She seemed pretty established and at home.

  ‘Twenty years.’ Trish pulled a face. ‘I came over here with my boyfriend originally. We were trying to escape.’ She leaned confidentially towards Ruby. ‘Most people here want to escape from something.’

  Ruby could imagine. What had Laura been trying to escape from? Her parents splitting up, perhaps? The loss of her mother? Her baby? She stared out at the ocean. And what happened when you no longer needed an escape route? Or when you got tired of the sun and the waves and the wind? It probably didn’t happen – for some people.

  ‘And you met Laura?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Trish nodded. ‘I’d just been dumped and I was getting very low on cash. I was walking on the beach one day and I heard someone playing the guitar. The music seemed to weave its way through the wind and the waves. It was magical.’ She smiled.

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She sipped her drink. ‘We got talking and I told her what had happened. She said I could move into the beach house. “People do,” she said, “it’s no big deal.”’ She sat back. ‘It was a kind of open house. Anyone was welcome so long as they didn’t abuse the hospitality.’ She gave Ruby a long look. ‘But it was a big deal to me, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ And it gave Ruby a good feeling – like the one she’d got when she’d talked to Sister Julia about Laura. It was nice to know that your birth mother – even though she’d given you away, some small voice whispered – had actually been a decent person.

  ‘She helped a lot of people.’ Trish became thoughtful. ‘She did little things. She let people be. At first she let me share her food and her house, and then later I got another job waitressing in the tapas bar by the Old Harbour and I was able to give her something back – a bit of money for rent.’

  ‘And you never left?’

  ‘I never left.’

  Ruby could see why. Even now, sitting here in this wicker chair, listening to the wind and the ocean, she could feel herself relaxing, unwinding and letting go, as if all the stress of the past months since her parents’ death were gradually leaking out of her. To be replaced by … What? Just a sense of being, she supposed. If that didn’t sound too cheesy.

  ‘What was she like?’ she asked Trish. She guessed that Laura had experienced that too – the sense of just being. It seemed to go with everything she’d heard about her so far.

  ‘Non-judgemental. Calm. Kind. A bit kooky.’ She smiled. ‘She used to play and sing in the Beach Bar back in Los Lagos.’

  Ruby nodded. She had passed by the place earlier.

  ‘And in a bar in the village. In return for her meals and a bit of cash, that was all. But she created an atmosphere. A warmth.’ She smiled at Ruby. ‘People liked her. She did some cleaning too, in the holiday rentals.’

  Ruby had seen them as well – a couple of complexes built on the beach on the outskirts of the village.

  ‘She lived simply,’ Trish said. ‘When I got a small inheritance through from my parents … ’ Her eyes dimmed – as if she too was remembering whatever it was that she had been escaping from – ‘I took over the responsibility of this place, and I try to keep the ethos going.’

  ‘Anyone welcome?’

  ‘More or less.’ Trish shrugged. ‘I tried to give Laura some money but she just wasn’t interested. It’s not about that, she used to say. I knew what she meant. But we can’t all be as strong as Laura.’

  Ruby thought of the young girl who had gone to England and given her baby to Vivien and Tom Rae to bring up while she scooted back to Fuerteventura to live with her Spanish boyfriend, making a living from having her portrait painted by Enrique Marin, from playing and singing in bars, from cleaning in holiday rentals. Had she been strong? Was that why she had been able to give Ruby up to what she might have seen as a better life? Because she was strong? Had Ruby been coming at this from an entirely mistaken perspective? She frowned. She’d felt compassion for the girl who had lost her mother, who must have been at her wits’ end and who had wanted to be free of her own baby because she simply couldn’t cope. And she knew that Vivien had felt that compassion too. But now Ruby realised that it might not be so simple. Laura had different values, a different belief system – perhaps she always had. And she had denied herself her own child because not only might Ruby not have fitted into the lifestyle Laura loved, but also because Laura was strong enough not to need to keep her. It was weird. But it made perfect sense.

  ‘Why did she leave?’ she asked Trish.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Trish spread her hands. ‘I got up one day and her bag was gone. Laura too. She’d just … moved on.’

  ‘For good, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know why … ’ Trish hesitated. ‘And I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But ever since Laura left I’ve had a really strong feeling.’

  ‘What sort of a feeling?’ Ruby asked. What shouldn’t she tell her?

  ‘That she might come back one day.’

  CHAPTER 44

  There was something different in his father’s manner, Andrés realised. Yes, he was still a miserable old bastard, probably more so than ever, since he was ill. But … Was it the cancer? Had the old man lost his fire? And what could he possibly have to tell him? That he was sorry? That he took back everything he’d ever done to belittle him or make him feel unloved? Some hope.

  But his father didn’t enlarge on whatever it was he had to say. He just walked over to the opposite window and stared out towards the mountains. God alone knew how they were going to help him.

  ‘What about your subjects?’ Andrés asked Enrique,
hoping to lead the way into the questions he wanted to ask. ‘Are you still painting the same stuff?’

  ‘You can see for yourself.’ Enrique flung out an arm to encompass the contents of the light and airy studio.

  And yes, Andrés had already spotted some of his father’s favourite images on canvases in the studio: biblical scenes of fire and flood, dramatic and dripping colours of flame and blood; the colourful pantomime of the festa procession in the village, an ancient forest being razed to the ground, a volcano pouring a river of hot, molten lava on to the brown earth …

  But more to the point: ‘Are you still painting the women?’

  ‘Ah, the women.’ Enrique sat forward in his chair, looking pensive. ‘They are always too beautiful, don’t you think? The women? Too tempting?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Andrés strode off to the far end of the studio, ashamed, as he had often been in the past, of his own father. What was the point of being a great and talented artist if you misused your craft in that way? His mother had once said that every great artist must have his dark side, but Andrés couldn’t believe that. It was just a cop-out, wasn’t it, a way of excusing bad and inappropriate behaviour? Would he never change? He was a man in his seventies with lung cancer but he was still a lecherous old bastard – in his mind at least.

  ‘I confess that I went further than I should have.’

  Andrés twisted around. Had he heard right? Was his father admitting that he had done wrong?

  Enrique had raised his hand. But now he let it drop, looked rueful. ‘You are right. You were right – back then – to try and stop me.’

  Andrés was speechless. In that case, what had all these years of exclusion been about? Why the hell hadn’t his father got in contact, told him that he would now be welcomed back home?

  ‘And that side of things finished a long time ago, I assure you.’ He nodded, though Andrés thought he could see a note of wistfulness in his expression. Well, a man like Enrique Marin could not have changed that much.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Andrés was pleased for his mother, at least. No doubt Enrique found other ways to humiliate her. But the women … That had been the worst.