Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

‘I’ll have to bring home more leftovers,’ I tell the cat the next morning, dishing out the last of the chicken as she winds her way around my legs, purring. I wonder if there will be leftovers again, or whether last night was just an unusually quiet one. At least the food – however questionable – helps me out now I have to watch the pennies. I put the saucer on the veranda, grab my cheery striped beach bag and pull the wooden door closed behind me. I wonder if the cat will be there to greet me after my lunchtime shift at the burger bar. I hope so, I find myself thinking, and smile at her as she greedily eats the chicken.

  I look at the wonky barbecue, and the charred remnants of my wedding file. But I don’t allow myself time to dwell on it. Today is a new day. The birds are singing all around me: blue tits, goldfinches and blackbirds. The air is so fresh and clean. The sky is blue over the mountains on the other side of the valley and the sun is starting to hit it, like it’s throwing out handfuls of rays to cover a canvas. I can hear the horses stirring, and a cockerel in the distance is only just making its wake-up call. The buds on the trees look like they’ve fattened overnight with the dew. It’s a clear, sunny morning but with a crisp chill in the air.

  As I step down towards the path, I hear the hiss and jump back just in time. The sprinklers cough and splutter into life like my nan’s old neighbour clearing his chest in the morning, living on forty fags a day in his terraced cottage. I jump sideways, working out how to pass without my feet getting a soaking.

  I take the bus to the harbour and work the mid-morning and lunchtime shift at Buster’s. Afterwards, I pop into the Butterfly Bar, where Brenda makes me a toasted sandwich and a coffee and tells me I need to keep my strength up. I don’t tell her about the huge amount of leftovers I took home last night. She shows me the property app on her phone and the houses they’re looking at back home. I use the Wi-Fi at the bar to catch up with friends and family, and can’t stop myself from looking at Will’s Facebook page. Where is he? What’s he doing? Why did he leave?

  ‘Urgh!’ I catch my breath. There’s a picture he’s been tagged in. In a bar, in another Spanish town, drinking beer and playing guitar with the band by the looks of it. He’s standing back to back with Freya, who’s playing bass guitar, and he’s smiling, laughing even. I study that familiar grin. I don’t think I really believed he’d gone. I thought he’d come back and tell me it was all a silly mistake. But now, seeing this, I know it’s real. I feel like my chest has been ripped open and he’s reached in, grabbed my heart and stamped all over it. It hurts so much. How could he? My eyes burn with anger and desolation. How can he be smiling and enjoying himself, not giving me a second thought? How could he have moved on and started a whole new life when I’m still here, standing next to the empty black hole that he used to fill?

  While I wait for my thundering heart and my shallow breathing to calm down and my stinging eyes to focus more clearly, I check my own timeline. There’s a photo of someone I was at school with celebrating her fifth wedding anniversary; apparently it’s ‘wood’, so her husband has taken her to a wooden cabin on stilts in some exotic beachside location. There are a few pictures of small children posing self-consciously in school uniforms and in oversized Easter bonnets with their proud parents – more people I was at school with. There’s an album posted by my cousin Olivia of the Reykjavik hen party. There they are in bikinis in the Blue Lagoon, with the steam rising around them and the snow falling; standing by a huge gushing waterfall; posing in front of shooting geysers; astride snowmobiles. It’s a long way from flipping burgers, I think to myself. She’d be laughing at me if she could see me now! There are also pictures of her and her boyfriend Gavin, who’s made his fortune in car valeting. He and Olivia obviously went to matching teeth technicians.

  Olivia’s album has had 137 likes, including her dad, my uncle Paul. You couldn’t find two people more different than Dad and his brother, and I’ve never understood why Uncle Paul, Auntie Rita and Olivia spend so much time in our tiny house, especially when they have a huge great modern place of their own. Uncle Paul seems to think he’s really funny, teasing me and my dad and putting us down while continually bragging about his daughter. I just wish I could give Dad something to show off about. Uncle Paul will be boasting about Olivia’s trip, recounting every detail – the snow, the hotel, the food – as if he were there himself. My parents will listen, and Mum will ask all the right questions.

  Uncle Paul has put up a post too, showing off his new golf driver. He’s also commented on my post saying that I’m off to Spain to start a new life. ‘Let’s hope this one finally happens!’ I don’t know why he gets to me so much. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake! I think about my poor mum and dad, having to put up with him. Forever having to tell the family that my life has taken another downturn. Well, not this time.

  It’s with a shock that I realise my mum has taken to Facebook too. The world’s gone mad! She’s posted pictures of the cup of tea my dad brought her in bed and of my dad dozing in the garden, his pride and joy. It’s only small, but he’s always out there, weeding away. I smile and feel a pang of homesickness, then send her a quick message to tell her I’m fine and that my feet ache from working all day and night, which is true. Just not in my own bar . . . yet! I can’t wait for the day when I can finally invite them out to see it.

  Craig joins me and I shove my phone away with the same kind of force I’d like to use to snap Will’s guitar neck.

  ‘No word?’ he asks after kissing me lightly on both cheeks. I shake my head. I love that we have become such good friends so quickly. It feels like I’ve known him for ever. And let’s be honest, he knows more about my personal life than anyone back home. He tuts crossly. ‘Sun and sangria . . . I’ve seen it happen so often,’ like the seasoned expat that he is. But I haven’t, I think. We weren’t some passing affair; we were Beti and Will. We’d been together for five years. Everyone thought we were the forever couple.

  I drink the dregs of my coffee as Craig orders his first white wine with ice of the day. I think of the picture of Will on Facebook again. At least I know now for sure. He’s moved on, just like I have to. But no one at home needs to know he’s gone, not until I have the money for this place. And then when I am running a bar of my own, I will shout it from the rooftops for the whole world to hear.

  Chapter Seven

  I finish the sandwich and thank Harold and Brenda, who won’t take any money, telling me to put it towards my rent fund. I kiss them goodbye on both cheeks, turn down Craig’s offer of spending the afternoon at the beach bar down the road – ‘to take your mind off things’ – and run to the bus stop.

  As the bus weaves out of Lado del Puerto and bends its way up the hillside, I gaze out at the scenery. More and more wild flowers seem to be appearing in amongst the cracks of the cream-coloured rocks on the roadside, and their floral perfume in the air is getting stronger. Up here, as we head towards Colina de Flor, the fields are full of the uniform lines of trees that I’m becoming accustomed to. Every spare bit of land is covered with them, as if lining the route into the town.

  Getting off the bus, I walk up the narrow cobbled street, between the whitewashed houses with their cleanly swept tiled steps, brightly coloured mosaics and pots filled with fire-red geraniums. The town is quiet; there’s no one around. The scarves from the souvenir shop flutter in the breeze, and the baker’s sign swings to and fro. The café in the main square is all but empty, bar one table of walkers with rucksacks and sturdy boots and another of locals gathering to drink coffee and exchange family news, talking over each other insistently and incessantly, waving hands by way of explanation. They watch me as I pass, and I nod and raise a hand to them. They nod, wave and smile back.

  At the farm, I turn up the dusty drive and walk through the line of trees. A squadron of sparrows flies through their branches, narrowly missing me. The buds on the trees look like marshmallows wrapped in green and pink tissue paper – like bridesmaid’s head
dresses, I think before quickly checking myself.

  The restaurant is shuttered and silent. They don’t open at lunchtimes. Valentina seems set on attracting the evening trade: high-end tourists who spend a lot. Unlike the bar on the square, she’s not interested in serving an eight-euro all-inclusive three-course menu.

  It’s a shame. It’s glorious out here. It may only be April, but the sky is a wonderful bright blue. The sun is warm on my face and I can feel its rays lifting my spirits. I walk up the path behind the restaurant towards my finca, and my spirits lift even further when the little grey cat comes out to meet me, meowing loudly.

  I breathe in the fresh air and let it fill my lungs. Then I pull out my wages and count them. I find an old coffee jar in the cupboard, wash it out and put all my notes and coins in it. Once I’ve paid my rent and bus fares, there’s not a lot left. I know I’m going to have to find a way to make some more money if I’m going to save.

  I shut my eyes. My mind is too busy to let me have a nap before tonight’s shift. I’d go for a coffee in the tavern in town but I don’t want to waste my money. I decide to go for a walk instead. The little grey cat follows me, indignant that I’ve left the veranda. I stroll through the trees, running my hands over their thick trunks, picking at leaves, wondering about the sort of fruit they’ll bear. I walk slowly along the terraces through the long tufts of grass and the stony shallow walls, taking in the amazing view of the port below and the glistening sea beyond. I head down towards the horses’ enclosure, where a large black horse with a long wavy mane and tail snorts and shies away from me as I try to pat him over the fence. He trots to the other side of the paddock and stands in the shade of the trees.

  I can’t help but feel very alone. Am I mad thinking I can do this? Working for peanuts and trying to save for the bar? As I think, leaning on the fence, my elbow is knocked and I’m jolted out of my thoughts. I look up in surprise to see a grey horse there. She nudges my arm again. Right behind her is another horse, the bay. Could it be her foal, I wonder? I stroke her nose, and when it looks as if she likes it, I rub her forehead. The young horse stays back. As I stroke the grey’s neck, I look at the buds on the trees all around us and decide to pick a few branches to brighten the cottage and cheer me up. The buds might even open up in water.

  I pull a branch towards me and try to breathe in its fragrance but there is none. I snap it off, and another one next to it, then move on to the next tree and break off another one. These will really liven up the bare little room. I can see why people go for a spring wedding, I think, and check myself once again. No more thinking about weddings! I’m just about to take a fourth branch from a tree further down when a car door slams and there’s a shout, making me startle and drop the branches.

  A dusty truck has pulled up under the trees, a young man with a rucksack standing next to it. An angry-looking older man with wild dark hair, pushed back off his face but falling in all directions, is gesticulating and marching towards me. ‘Hey! Qué estás haciendo? What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Oh God! That’s all I need!

  ‘You can’t go around stealing branches. English, are you, eh? On holiday? Thought you’d take a souvenir?’

  ‘Lo siento,’ I say. And then, flustered, I revert to English. ‘Sorry. Look, it was just a few branches . . . I didn’t mean any harm, I just—’

  ‘They might be just a few branches to you. But these blossoms will turn into cherries. This is a cherry farm. My cherry farm! If everyone stole the blossom, I would have no cherries when the harvest comes!’ he continues, red-faced and furious.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, my shoulders slumping.

  As I turn to go, I realise that there’s something about him I recognise. Then it clicks. I look at the dirty truck parked on the drive. It’s the one that nearly ran me down on the day I was due to leave! Suddenly all the fury I’m feeling about the position I’m in, left high and dry by Will, my money gone and my dreams smashed, comes bubbling up.

  ‘Well I just hope your cherries aren’t as sour as you!’ I blurt out without even thinking. I wish instantly I hadn’t.

  We stare at each other, his dark eyes taking me in. He must be late thirties, even forty maybe. He has broad shoulders, but slim hips. His chin is dark with stubble and his thick eyebrows are drawn together in a scowl. The big, empty hole in my chest, where my heart used to be before Will ripped it out, is banging like a drum. I give him a final narrowing of my eyes and then turn to leave.

  The young man with the rucksack – dark, slim, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, has walked round the back of the restaurant to an outside staircase there. He stops on the bottom step. His shoulders are slumped, but he lifts the corner of his mouth and gives me a nod, as if to tell me that whatever it was I said met with his approval. Somehow, just for a split second, we connect, and I give him a half-smile and a slight shrug. Let’s be honest, this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me over the past couple of weeks. It’s just the tin hat on possibly the most disastrous couple of weeks of my life.

  There’s a shout from the door at the top of the stairs over the restaurant.

  ‘Antonio!’

  It’s Valentina. She is waving and calling to the man, and it dawns on me with a cold shock, as though I’ve stepped in the direct line of the sprinkler, that this must be her partner Which means that he’s also my landlord, and my boss too. Brilliant. Just brilliant. I really know how to put my foot in it.

  I drop my head, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and turn and trudge my way back to the finca through the plumes of fawn dust my feet are kicking up, feeling really alone and really, really foolish. The fact that I’ve just insulted my boss and landlord makes everything else seem fairly insignificant at the moment. He’s bound to tell Valentina, and I could get the sack and lose my home. This is all because of bloody Will. I feel angry all over again. How could I have got it so wrong! Why do my instincts always let me down so badly?

  Chapter Eight

  Antonio stood and watched the woman, confused. Instead of heading out of the cherry orchard and back into the village square as he’d expected, she turned and started walking up the path through the orchard. Then the cold realisation hit him.

  ‘Oh mierda!’ Today couldn’t get any worse. If it wasn’t bad enough that he’d spent a night sleeping in his truck, in one of the dodgiest parts of Malaga, waiting for a boy he barely knew to show up, now this. She wasn’t just a lost tourist, wandering in from the main square, assuming his farm was some kind of open parkland. Lots of them did, venturing away from the developments down on the coast and up into the mountain, wanting to discover the ‘real’ Spain, especially at this time of year when they’d heard about the annual natural phenomenon of the cherry blossom.

  But he should have known. He looked at the trees, studying the branches. That time of year was probably still a week off. Outside of the ten days or so when the cherry blossom was out, hardly any tourists came here all. And that suited him just fine. He wasn’t after the tourist trade. His restaurant here in the old farmhouse catered for local people; it always had done, despite Valentina’s best intentions. It was the cherries that mattered here.

  He glanced around with the sense of pride he always got looking at the trees on his cherry farm, the biggest in the village’s cooperative. God, it was good to be home. He liked things the way they were. The restaurant ticked over, just. The cherry trees seemed to be doing fine at the moment. But anything could happen. He didn’t want to take his eye off the ball – not like before. He needed to focus on the harvest. Unlike Valentina, he didn’t want the restaurant to change, bring in more tourists. He didn’t need any more headaches. And boy, did he have one! He looked at the woman walking up the path, the one he’d just caught breaking branches off his cherry trees. Not only was she by the looks of it renting the finca, the old cottage, but that must mean she was also the new employee Val
entina had taken on. He shook his head and rubbed his temples.

  ‘Antonio, Antonio!’ Valentina was still leaning out over the concrete balustrade outside the apartment door, calling to him. He’d known bringing Miguel back here was going to cause problems. He knew he should’ve phoned Valentina, warned her. But it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. It had been a tough couple of days.

  His ex, Esmeralda, his son’s mother, had been on the phone to him constantly, at the end of her tether. He barely ever heard from her other than when she wanted money. Not that he wasn’t happy to pay for Miguel, of course. But this time it had been different. Miguel had been in trouble. In a fight. He was seventeen now. This wasn’t just school-yard stuff any more. He was getting up to no good, on the street and with the authorities. He’d disappear with God knows who, and this fight and a night in the cells had brought it home to all of them.

  ‘Something has to be done!’ Esmeralda had wept when Miguel had finally arrived home from the police station with Antonio early that morning. Miguel had said nothing. Esmeralda’s partner, Felipe, had snapped, lunging at the sullen and silent boy. Antonio had had enough. Miguel was coming home with him, he insisted. It had been a terrible scene. The gossips in the neighbouring flats would be talking about it for days to come. Felipe had thrown Miguel’s clothes out of the door, followed by the rest of his belongings, and the boy was left picking them up from the street. Antonio couldn’t watch the humiliation being dished out and helped his son to scoop up the clothes, hoping to save some of his dignity.

  Antonio hadn’t seen Miguel in years. He barely knew the boy. Miguel had never taken up his offer to come and stay at the farm. Esmeralda had always told him he didn’t want to come and Antonio hadn’t been able to leave his cherry trees or his horses. Years had slipped by. But at that moment when he was first faced with Miguel, it was like looking in a mirror, at a younger version of himself. He recognised the anger that was raging in the boy – he knew it all too well from when he’d been a young man himself, about to become a father. A rage he’d tried to hide away since then.