Bloody Mary

by Ricki Thomas

  Harry and I, towing our suitcases behind us, had strolled towards the shopping area the taxi had passed an hour before, a good mile’s walk, too far to be taken comfortably in the progressing heat, and settled ourselves beside a shaded table outside a café, somewhere we could refresh ourselves with a drink and some much needed food. Harry was distraught. “She’s right, you know, we’re never going to find her. I mean, if we knew she lived in Puerto de Pollença, we’d stand a better chance, but if she’s moved to a different area, we’ve no hope.”

  I sipped my strong coffee. “Now, now, Harry, that’s not like you, you’re the optimist in this relationship, aren’t you!” The description of their companionship as a relationship, never having been stated before, went unnoticed in his unhappiness. “She does live here, don’t you remember the photos of the area she sent, all of them had Puerto de Pollença written on the back. All we have to do is find the apartment block she sent us the pictures of, and we’re ninety percent there.” Considering my words, I added. “Did you bring the photos?”

  He shook his head, tapas untouched, coffee cup full, stirring the liquid lamely for no reason other than something to focus on.

  I dipped some unbuttered bread into the steaming sauce of the carne mechada in the centre of the table, savouring the deliciousness of the flavouring. “It doesn’t matter, I’ve got a good memory, and I can see the picture in my head as clear as if it were laid on the table before us. We’ll find her, we’ve got a week, remember. Come on, Harry, have something to eat, you need it. We’ll check into a hotel, that way we won’t be towing the bags around with us, and we can start exploring.”

  It was early afternoon on the third day of our holiday, and we’d been desperately searching for our daughter, so far, to no avail. Harry, usually upbeat about life whatever was thrown at him, had a despondency and negativity that, not only had I never seen before, was beginning to wear me at the edges. Several days of trying to boost his spirits, and receiving nothing in return but pessimism, was tiresome, and my patience was at its limits.

  Having reached the outskirts of the urbanisation we were currently scouring, we decided to stop for one of the regular coffees we needed to keep from getting dehydrated. The café was tiny, with just two tables outside, and was in an idyllic setting: the base of a valley, the mountains towering over us, abundant with colourful fauna, littered with luscious green bushes. Underneath the oceanic skies, the startling sun, the scenery appeared crisp and clear. It was a sight from the heavens. I, having been a keen scholar in my younger years, and pretty good with the spoken word and the fluency of languages, had found it easy to pick up enough broken Spanish to get by in the restaurants and cafes. This one was no different.

  As the bronzed waitress, black hair tied back in a neat ponytail, dark, soulful eyes betraying her as Spanish born and bred, came through the doors with her order pad in hand, I waved. “Holà, seňora, por favor. Uno café con leche, y uno café san leche. Y…”

  “It’s alright, love, you don’t have to struggle, I’m English.” The girl laughed, tinkling and cheerful.

  I was surprised and a little embarrassed, and I chuckled with her. “Oh, and I thought I was doing so well, too! Look, just something light to eat, maybe some Russian salad with tuna, something like that. Oh, and I presume you serve bread with the tapas?”

  “Yeah, love, it comes with everything.” She was still scribbling in her pad.

  Without being able to raise a smile from the sullen Harry, I fancied being devilish, and tittered. “Y mantequilla con los pan, por favor.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bring some butter!” The girl giggled.

  As the pretty youngster headed back to the door to drop the order at the bar, I had an idea out of the blue, and I called her back. “I’m sorry to be a pain, but we’re a bit lost, you see, we’re looking for our daughter who came out to live here five months ago, but we stupidly forgot to bring her address, age gets to you like that. She lives in an apartment block, quite tall, painted a peachy colour.”

  The girl laughed again. “You could be talking about a hundred places round here, love. Have you got anything more than that to go on?”

  I scanned the image of the photo in my memory, trying to find something more substantial to describe the block with. After a moment I’d recalled a quirky thought. “Well, the reason we were searching this urbanisation was because of the backdrop,” she motioned the mountains with her hand, “the balcony overlooks scenery very similar to this. And in another of the pictures she sent us, she was by a heart-shaped pool, with what I presume to be a tot’s paddling pool beside it.”

  “Ah, love, that’s more like it. Sounds like the Montaňa Vista Apartments, that’s the only heart-shaped pool I know of in the area. I live there, and my flat backs onto these hills. I might know her, come to think of it. What’s she look like?”

  Harry’s pessimism was waning, his ears hanging to every word of the friendly exchange, and I was beaming. “Well, she was dyed blonde last time we saw her, she’s pretty, very dark brown eyes, about five foot two…”

  “And she’ll be heavily pregnant by now.” Harry, eager now, joined the conversation.

  Vicki’s tanned face paled as she realised they were describing her lover’s wife. Knowing he was married, her curiosity had overwhelmed her enough to find out what this Sophie character looked like, so she’d spied on Darren’s apartment on several occasions before accepting that she was the more attractive of the two women, especially with Sophie’s big, fat belly, and she realised her jealousy had no foundation. Working the situation to her advantage, she considered that if Sophie’s parents visited the miserable wife, they might persuade her to go back to England, then the coast would be clear for her and Darren.

  “I think I know who she is. Is her name Sophie Delaney?” Expecting the response to be the ‘yes’ that followed, partnered with glowing, hopeful eyes, she smiled widely. “Look, I’ll take this order in, I’m due to finish my shift soon, they close the café for siesta, so after you’ve eaten, I’ll walk you there, show you where she lives.”

  I couldn’t help myself, I jumped up and hugged the waitress, grateful that the arduous search was over. “Thank you, I can’t tell you how wonderful this is.”

  Scheming, her mind whirring, Vicki knew what she wanted. “Oh, just one thing. Sophie’s not been happy, she’s been telling everybody who’ll listen, and I know she’s having problems with her husband. It might be an idea to suggest she goes back to the UK with you.”

  Sophie had decided to ignore the intercom when it rang through the apartment, but the persistence of the caller was becoming irritating. Throwing her book down, she answered the machine. Reeling from shock on hearing her father’s voice, heart speeding, a light tremble on her hands, she pressed the button to give him access. Opening the door Sophie threw herself at him, hugging as tightly as possible with the thirty-seven week pregnancy hindering the closeness. He held her face in his hands, gazing into her deep brown eyes, taking in the familiar face, tanned, a healthy glow, hair glistening, the golden curls just at the ends now she’d ceased colouring her hair.

  Turning to the companion she’d expected to be her mother, Sophie gasped when she saw the woman Darren had told her had died. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Regardless of her latest shock she could see her visitors were tired, and she invited them in, the question still hanging, hastily closing the door to protect her valued privacy, gossip being rife in the urbanisation.

  I began to explain, but Sophie’s hand, raised to show her disinterest in anything I had to say, thwarted her, and Harry took over. “I understand you were told it was Mary who died. Sweetheart, it wasn’t. It was your mother.” He paused as Sophie staggered back, almost falling onto the seat at the breakfast bar. “We buried her six weeks ago. I thought you’d not come because of that silly rift you’d both had, but now I can see it wasn’t your fault.”

  The tears were coursing down her cheeks, dripping onto the
hand that clasped her heart. Harry gently led her to the living area, and we all sat, him placing a protective arm over her shoulders as her body shook with grief: grief for the mother she’d lost, and the dawning realisation of just how cruel her husband and his family really were. As the violent sobbing subsided to calmness, tears still uncontrollable, but without the heaving shoulders, she needed some answers. “How? How did she die?”

  Harry hated the idea of hurting her too much, a shock like this might be detrimental to her condition, and too much detail too early on could overload her. “She felt no pain, sweetheart. She had a fall, it was quick, and there was nothing anybody could do, she died on impact.”

  Shaking her head, weary with the tears. “I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t come to the funeral if I’d known. You don’t know me at all, do you?”

  He knew the familiar anger that came with death, he’d been through it himself, and he kept himself calm, his voice tender. “I thought it wasn’t like you, we all did, and I wish there had been another way of finding you. The address we had was for Darren’s parents, and they’ve been throwing the letters I’ve written to you away.”

  That was too much. It was all too much. Sophie dawdled into the kitchen, any impetus for life having left her. She took the carton of red wine, dropping it back before grasping Darren’s brandy, and pouring a hefty measure. As an afterthought, without consultation, she grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge to satiate her guests. “I know I shouldn’t be drinking, but right now, I need this, so no comments or lectures.”

  For five minutes, ten minutes, we sat in silence, each of us cradling our drinks, sipping occasionally. Eventually Sophie, her distress diminishing as the alcohol relaxed her, remembered that I was here, but this time she was less aggressive, her tone flattened. “You never told me why she’s here.”

  Harry braced himself. “Mary and I, and your twin brother Alan, in fact Beryl too, while she was alive, we all got to know each other, it seemed the best thing to do considering we were all concerned about you.”

  “Alan Taylor?” She recalled the handsome policeman who had appeared to have designs on her, and then made some ludicrous claims she’d forced herself not to hear.

  “Yes.”

  Sophie refilled her glass, having brought the brandy to the table, omitting to ask the couple if they wanted another drink. “So he was telling the truth when he came to see me. I screamed at him to get out. Now I feel bad.”

  Harry shook his head. “Alan’s a lovely man, Sophie, a real credit to his adoptive parents, and he understands that it was all too much for you to take in at the time.”

  She returned to the unanswered question. “So, why is Mary Miller here, though. I mean, I can understand the birth mother and the adoptive parents wanting to meet up and be friendly, but don’t you think going on holiday together is a little bit much?” Apparently she couldn’t help the sarcasm, still wary in my presence.

  Harry reached across and took my hand, stunning both of us. “When Beryl died, Mary moved into the house as a companion, to look after me and the housework. Over the past few months we’ve become closer, and I do believe I’ve fallen in love with her again.” I could feel my eyes glowing with the words, he’d never said as much to me, but it was what I wanted to hear.

  Sophie, however, was having trouble with the scenario, a sickening sensation in her stomach. “You said ‘again’.”

  “Yes, again. In fact I wonder if I ever really stopped loving her in the first place.”

  “Whoah, whoah! I think I may have missed something here. What do you mean ‘ever stopped loving her’?”

  I understood now, and it was my turn to fill in the gaps. “Harry was married, happily, I hasten to add, to Beryl. I was a precocious teenager, and, I’m sorry to admit, a predator to Harry. We had a brief affair, totally instigated by me, and the result was an underage pregnancy leading to the birth of you and Alan.”

  Harry continued, their joint sentences demonstrating their new closeness. “Beryl was unable to have any more children after she’d had Steve, but was desperate for a daughter. It caused her a great deal of emotional stress at the time. Of course, I had to admit to her that I’d been unfaithful, and when she heard about Mary’s pregnancy she begged me to adopt the baby if it was a girl.”

  “Nobody told me I was having twins, they didn’t have scans in those days.”

  “So you’re my real father? Not adoptive?” Sophie had calmed down now, keenly interested, albeit disgusted.

  “Yes. The law required me to adopt you, but you are my child.”

  Sophie stood, refilling her glass, gloomily witnessed by the concerned grandparents-to-be. “This is a lot to take in. I’m going to take a nap, it’s hot enough carrying the baby without the heat too. Make yourselves at home, I’ll have a sleep and we’ll talk more later. Do you mind?” She took the brandy back to the kitchen and replaced it where Darren had left it.

  Harry waved his hand. “Of course not.” We were both grateful that sleep was replacing the drinking.

  I decided the best thing I could do now we had finally found Sophie, the conversation over for now, would be to prepare the evening meal. I opened and closed each cupboard in the attractive kitchen, white walls, colourful tiles, and a rich blue worktop, assessing where the food and equipment was kept. Harry picked up a free local newspaper, scanning the pages to see what was happening in and around our daughter’s life. “Do you think I should make enough for Darren as well?” I hated the thought, but it was his apartment too, I reasoned begrudgingly to myself.

  Harry thought for a moment. “I suppose you’d better.”

  I found some chicken breasts in the fridge, some dirty mushrooms which I rinsed off, an onion, and a pot of cream, then took a pot of sage from the herb rack, enough ingredients to rustle up a healthy dinner. I’d serve it with either pasta or rice, whatever came to hand first.

  The afternoon passed slowly and leisurely, lulled by Sophie’s gentle purring as she slept. It was just before five when Darren let himself in through the front door. He first saw me in the kitchen, and did a quick double take, eyes wide in disbelief. “What the fuck!”

  “Darren.” I delivered my greeting curtly, without a smile.

  “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead.” He slammed the bottle of whisky he’d just bought on the kitchen side, took a glass from the draining board, and picked up the brandy, emptying the remains into the tumbler. “Or was that an evil ruse to get Sophie to talk to you. Where’s Beryl?”

  “It was Beryl who passed away, I don’t know where you got the idea it was me from.” I stirred the creamy sauce, and turned the heat on underneath the pan of rice, ready, even bristling, for an argument.

  Darren took a second to digest my words, before firing again. “What the fuck, no matter. She’s an old dragon, you’re a crazy bitch, doesn’t matter which one of you it was!” He slugged his drink down, pouring a second immediately. “How did you find the apartment?”

  “We’re not daft, Darren.”

  He took the glass, bristling with aggravation, to the living area, seating himself on the other sofa, away from Harry. “How did you find us?”

  Harry crossed his arms, he wasn’t the type of man to argue, but seeing Sophie had brought back all the memories of how badly she was treated before the move, and circumstances didn’t seem to have changed now. “As Mary said, we’re not daft. She’s kindly cooking you some dinner, by the way.”

  Darren sneered, although he had to admit to himself that the aroma in the flat was tempting. “I wouldn’t eat any shit she prepared, stupid old cow! You two had better find yourselves a hotel, you’re not welcome in my home.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Darren. We’ve been invited by our daughter, and it’s her home too. We’re here for the next four nights whether you like it or not.”

  Yawning, Sophie stepped out of the bedroom, scanned the room and instantly felt trepidation, her father was no match for Darren i
f things got out of hand. He saw her and marched over, angry. “So you’ve been contacting them behind my back, have you? I told you not to have anything to do with them.”

  Finding out her mother was dead, and she’d missed the funeral, her last chance to say goodbye, because letters addressed to her had been withheld. Finding out her father was already dating his ex-mistress, when her mother was still fresh in the grave. Knowing her husband was screwing some tart most nights of the week. It was enough, and her temper grew. “Darren, you see your bloody parents every single day of the week. I rarely see mine…”

  He was taunting her. “Oh, she’s your parent now, is she? Quick enough to replace the old dragon wasn’t she, bloody money-grabber!”

  Sophie was preparing to shout a response, heartbeat rising with adrenaline, but the baby kicked, her hand went to her belly, and she shook her head, strolling uncomfortably, hand on the small of her back, sitting on the sofa beside her father. “I’ll tell you what, Darren. You do your normal thing. Just have a shower, smarten yourself up, and go and have the night with your girlfriend. I just can’t be bothered with this any more, the baby’s all that matters to me now.”

  He wasn’t going to let the argument drop. “Oh, of course it is! So important you had near on half a bottle of brandy earlier, I’m not blind. You’re a piss-head and you know it!”

  Harry noticed the guilt run across Sophie’s face, and he stepped in again, the peacemaker. “I’m sure you’d need a stiff drink if you found out your mother had died, a small detail you decided wasn’t worth letting her know, and quite apart from anything, Sophie was never a drinker before she met you.”