Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  I dress quickly and walk through the orchard, enjoying every inch of the blossom and the bouquet from the vivid yellow broom plant growing up the hillsides. I suddenly feel properly alive and . . . well, happy. Happy to be here. Happy to have got this chance. I let the morning sun warm my face and drink in the heady perfume, lifting my spirits higher and higher. I think how much I would have loved to have told Nan about this, brought her here even. She loved flowers. Particularly daffodils. Her little back garden was full of them. Always enough for a vase on the kitchen table in springtime. She would have thought this was heaven. There are honey bees the size of bomber planes at work, flying from flower to flower, the noise like a swarm of drones. Over the pergola at the front of the restaurant the wisteria has burst into life, purple flowers opening up. And there are birds everywhere, singing, even shouting their love for each other and challenging rival suitors: goldfinches, blue tits, sparrows and blackbirds.

  Eventually I return to the finca, where I feed Ana and grab my bag. It’s time to get the bus to the harbour. I make my way down the path around the orchard, still enjoying the sight of the blossom, a spring in my step as I pass the horses in the paddock.

  ‘Buenos días,’ I say to the mare and her foal.

  ‘Buenos días,’ a deep voice replies, making me jump. Then I see Antonio, saddling up the big black stallion. I take a deep breath, keeping my distance from the beautiful but impatient animal. Antonio stands back and looks straight at me, making me feel as jumpy as the horse.

  ‘The blossom is beautiful,’ I manage to say, nodding towards it.

  He pats the horse’s hindquarters and then looks at the orchard.

  ‘It is, yes, magnífico,’ he says, taking time to look and enjoy it, as if reminding himself of its full glory. At least the black cloud that has been following him around seems to have lifted.

  Our conversation starts and ends here. Not that I’m expecting any more. He clearly doesn’t want to waste his breath on small talk with the washer-upper – not one who insulted him, at least! I nod to him and smile, then start to walk off in the direction of the road.

  ‘It will only last about ten days,’ Antonio calls after me, stopping me in my tracks. ‘Make the most of it,’ he adds, but without his previous gruffness. It strikes me that this may be his attempt at polite conversation.

  ‘I will,’ I say, as he puts a foot in the stirrup and swings himself up into the saddle.

  ‘Hola, Beti.’ I spin round and see Miguel coming out of one of the barns carrying piles of green netting, hood up despite the early-morning sunshine.

  ‘Hola, Miguel!’ I break into a smile and feel Antonio looking at us. My cheeks suddenly flush. He can’t think I’m flirting! I’m practically old enough to be the boy’s mother, for goodness’ sake!

  ‘Antonio has me sorting out and repairing netting.’ Miguel rolls his eyes at the tediousness of the task, but looks pleased to feel useful.

  ‘Work hard!’ I smile warmly, feeling strangely glad that he’s ventured out of his bedroom, and not just to get phone signal, then turn towards the bus stop with a definite spring in my step. Like the day itself, life is certainly looking brighter.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re letting me go?’ I ask, horrified, having arrived at the burger bar after my bus journey into the port.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Victoria. ‘End of the school holidays in the UK. I’m going back to do some job hunting. Got a couple of interviews lined up. It’s just as a runner, but that’s how they all start! Sorry, there just aren’t enough customers at this time of year to keep us all on. It’ll pick up again in July, when the summer holidays start. Dad should be back on his feet and running the place if you’re still looking for work then.’

  ‘But the cherry trees have only just come into blossom!’ I protest, thinking about the farm back up the mountain.

  She shrugs and shakes her head, looking around the precinct at the Irish pub, the nightclub, Craig’s breakfast bar.

  ‘No one here is here for the cherry blossom.’ She smiles a little patronisingly at me, as if I know absolutely nothing about Spanish life and holidaymakers.

  I hand over my hat, apron and name badge, and take my envelope of notes. Brenda is beckoning to me. I sigh and stuff the envelope in my big shoulder bag, then wander over to her. Craig is drinking white wine on ice. Brenda pours me a glass. I go to say no, but she waves away both my protests and my offer of money.

  ‘You can buy me one when we come back and visit you,’ she says cheerfully. Her smile drops. ‘What’s up? You look like you’ve lost ten euros and found a pound!’

  I can’t help but smile at how she has one foot in Spain and one back in the UK. But in fact that’s exactly how I feel. I’ve lost my lunchtime job but I still have the warm sun on my face.

  ‘Victoria’s just laid me off. Says there isn’t enough work for me until the summer holidays start.’

  Brenda shakes her head sympathetically. ‘We’re the same. It goes very quiet in between holidays. I’d give you some shifts here if we had the customers, but it’s dead. I mean, there’s still the expats, and the themed evenings are quite good. The Pilates night, and the book club, oh, and film night on the big screen.’ She points to the rolled-up projector on the far wall. ‘Is there anything you could do? Start a class here in the evenings, maybe?’

  I rack my brains trying to think of something, but draw a blank. All I’ve ever done is serve drinks and burgers. I went to some craft evening classes once, but that was to help with making wedding invites. I’m definitely not good enough to teach it. Not like Will; at least he had his guitar and could gig. I desperately need to get some extra income . . . I just have to work out how.

  At that moment Valentina walks past the bar in high heels, slim jeans and a fitted shirt. Her hair is swinging and she’s obviously on her way somewhere, tapping away on her phone as she goes. I have an idea.

  ‘Valentina!’ I call after her. She stops and looks around, at first not recognising me. I leave the bar and quickly walk over to her. ‘Valentina!’ This time she does recognise me, though she doesn’t smile.

  ‘It’s you,’ she says, looking down her nose at me.

  ‘Hi! I was just thinking . . . about the restaurant. Well, I was wondering. I’ve got a bit of experience working in the food industry . . .’ She looks at the burger bar behind me. ‘And I was just wondering if you’d thought about opening at lunchtimes. I could help out, waitressing, washing up, whatever you needed. Maybe do a set menu like the tavern on the square.’ I start to warm to my theme.

  ‘Pah!’ She stops me in my tracks. ‘That restaurant will never work until he updates it. It needs a complete overhaul. Bring it kicking and screaming into the modern world, like these places.’ She looks around at the brightly lit bars in the precinct, offering happy hours and deals on jugs of sangria. ‘This is what the tourists want, not his grandmother’s kitchen!’ She looks as if she’s chewing on a wasp.

  I think about how glorious the farm looked this morning, and suddenly I feel a glimmer of hope. ‘The blossom is out,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful. Why don’t you come back and see it?’

  She stares at me and I think she might be about to agree. Then, ‘Is the boy still there?’

  ‘Miguel?’ I ask.

  ‘Antonio’s son. The one he just turned up with, with no discussion beforehand. The one I barely know anything about but who I will no doubt be expected to look after and love,’ she adds with a grimace.

  ‘Yes! He’s doing great.’ I think about him helping with the nets this morning, getting them ready to spread over the trees to keep the birds at bay. ‘He’s giving Antonio a hand in the cherry orchard actually. And he seems to be settling in.’

  ‘Then I will not be coming back to see the blossom,’ she sneers. ‘Whilst he is there, I will stay away. When he goes back to where he belongs, I will come back.’

 
‘What? But Antonio . . . he just . . .’

  ‘That man takes me for granted. How can he expect me to love another woman’s child when I have none of my own yet? Not even a ring on my finger! And now he has someone new in his life, he will have even less time for me.’

  I can’t believe she’s sulking because of Miguel’s arrival. But what do I know? Maybe if I’d been a bit firmer about what I wanted in life with Will, instead of trying to get him to notice me with haircuts and underwear, I wouldn’t be thirty-two, single and washing up for a living!

  Valentina looks back down at her phone and walks away without another word. I’ll have to try and find Antonio and see if he can give me any more work.

  The amazing white blossom of the cherry trees hits me as soon as I step off the bus. They’re everywhere: covering the side of the valley like a bride’s veil, in small patches at the back of houses, in fields separated by low walls. Even here in the square, the trees are heavy with the snow-white blossom. I have never seen anything like it. I must take a picture and send it to Mum, I think, then remember my phone is in the drawer.

  I walk up the lane and stop at the white gates to Cortijo Ana. There are trees on both sides of the drive, reaching out and creating an archway. It’s just beautiful. Ana the cat appears, meowing crossly at me. I bend to stroke her head, then look at the tree-lined corridor again. I can’t help myself. I take one step, then another, advancing down the scented floral aisle, imagining the person I love is at the end of it. But there’s no one there. No one at all. Just the vibrant bougainvillea that has burst passionately into life around the archways of the veranda.

  I open the door leading into the restaurant.

  ‘Hola! Hello? Antonio?’

  A gust of wind blows up and whispers through the leaves and blossom. Suddenly Ana shoots in through the door, her tail high, disappearing into the dark restaurant and the kitchen beyond.

  ‘Damn it!’ I say. Bonita will not be happy if she finds out I’ve brought a cat into the kitchen. ‘Ana, here.’ I purse my lips and make kissing sounds, trying to call her. Then it strikes me that she probably doesn’t understand English, and I rack my brains to think of something more suitable in Spanish. ‘Ven!’ I try, with no effect.

  Suddenly she darts out from behind the broom and scoots through the bar into the small room we used the other night for the birthday party. The old terracotta jugs I put on the shelves are still there. Maybe I should take them down now the sun is out and move the tables back outside. It’s a shame, I think; this room is lovely now. I’d love to eat here, with someone special looking at me over a candle and a rose. Not that I intend to have a romantic meal out with anyone again, I remind myself, and concentrate on the job in hand.

  ‘Ana!’ I make the kissing noise again, but she lifts her tail and runs into the next room, the old storeroom. I catch a glimpse of her disappearing through a cupboard door that has been left ajar.

  ‘Got you!’ I reach in and scoop her up, much to her chagrin.

  Still holding her under one arm, I go to shut the cupboard door, but notice there are more terracotta plates and bowls in there, all just stacked up. Nothing like the square purple and white plates that are used in the restaurant and won’t fit in the flipping dishwasher! I pick one up and study its deep terracotta glaze. There are candle holders in the cupboard too, with shapes cut out of them that would create beautiful shadows on these walls. Ana wriggles free from my grasp and I put her down, but this time she doesn’t go anywhere; just snakes around my ankles. I’ll let her out in a moment, I think, and bend down to look at the candle holders, taking one out and putting it on the table. Ana jumps up on to a chair and starts washing her paws.

  ‘Table for one, madam?’ I smile at her but she haughtily ignores me.

  In the kitchen, I find a box of matches and a drawer full of candles. I light one and put it in the holder on the table. The shapes immediately throw light out on to the white walls. It looks amazing. I can’t understand why all this stuff has been shoved away in here and replaced with a range of funky Swedish homeware.

  Curiosity gets the better of me and I take another look in the cupboard. There are some pictures in here too, in frames. I pull them out. Old black-and-white photographs of a couple dancing flamenco, by the looks of it. He is dressed in trousers that come up above his waist, and a short jacket, a hat covering his face as it is turned into the crook of his partner’s neck. She has dark hair, tied back, and is wearing a long black dress. One arm is around the man’s neck, the other held in the air, her head high and proud. It’s breathtaking. There is another picture here too. Similar but maybe not as old, like they were taken in the same place but years apart.

  I go to prop them up on the shelf in between the jugs I’ve put there. This place could be amazing. I’m sure people would come up from the resorts if they thought they were getting something different, something authentic. My mind is whirring with possibilities. I think about all the classes in the port – there must be something I could do here to generate some income. I hold the picture against the wall with both hands and study it. What about . . . I’ve got it! I suddenly think with a huge grin.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  My breath catches in my throat and I jump at the sight of Antonio’s dark, angry expression. The picture falls to the ground with a crack, and Ana flits out of the room, leaving me to face Antonio on my own.

  Chapter Twelve

  We both look at the framed picture with the crack through the middle of the glass.

  ‘Oh God! I’m so sorry.’ I pick it up and inspect the damage. ‘I’ll get it repaired,’ I tell him quickly, and wonder what kind of a dent that will make in my final wages from the burger bar.

  ‘Just put it back,’ he says. ‘Both of them.’ He scowls around the room, at the table where the candle is lit, but says nothing.

  I put the pictures back in the cupboard, on the bottom shelf where I found them.

  ‘I was just . . . I was looking for Ana,’ I tell him.

  ‘Ana?’ He frowns deeply.

  ‘Yes, I thought she was in here. Well, she was . . .’

  ‘You were looking for my grandmother?’ he asks in amazement.

  ‘What?’ I look back in similar shock. His grandmother? What, did he think I was trying to talk to ghosts? ‘No, no,’ I explain hastily. ‘The cat that keeps me company at the finca. I called her Ana, after this place.’

  Oh God, now he thinks I’m a mad cat woman . . . which quite possibly I am. Great! How is it every time I’m near this man, I end up making a complete idiot of myself?

  ‘I didn’t mean to interfere. I was just trying to think of some ways to generate some new customers, bring in tourists.’

  He doesn’t say anything, just looks around, so I keep going, taking my opportunity to try and prove that I could be useful here. I don’t want to get in Valentina’s way, but perhaps another eye on things might help.

  ‘Look, I was thinking, this place is pretty quiet, especially with the school holidays back in the UK over. But it’s so beautiful.’ I nod to the blossom outside. ‘And well, frankly, I could do with earning some more money right now.’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I was talking with one of the bar owners down at the port. The way she keeps going when the tourists thin out is by holding specialist nights for the expats. Book club, tapas cookery class, Spanish lessons . . .’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m sorry, I have a farm to run. I have many trees to see to and a watering system that seems to have a mind of its own. If you’ll excuse me,’ he holds up a roll of tape, ‘there are hosepipes to mend. You’ll have to speak to Valentina about your ideas.’

  ‘But I thought, what with the cherry blossom being out, well, we could do something to bring people up here whilst it looks like this. You said it would only last about ten days and to make the most of it. What if V
alentina isn’t back by . . .’ I change tack quickly, seeing his face darken again. ‘I’ve thought of a way to make money. Might even help towards new hosepiping.’ I nod and smile at the roll of tape in his hand.

  There’s now a hint of interest in his chocolate-brown eyes.

  ‘Go on . . .’ he says.

  This could be it! A sudden surge of excitement rushes through me.

  ‘Well, I was thinking, everyone should see the cherry blossom – it’s gorgeous. We could move some of the tables off the terrace and put them into these little rooms, give people a taste of living in a real Spanish cortijo, of how things used to be.’ I point to the table with the candle on it. ‘We make it a more intimate feeling inside and create more space outside.’

  ‘More space? Why would we need more space outside?’

  I pause – not intentionally, but it seems to have the required effect. I can’t believe they haven’t thought of this before.

  ‘Well?’ he prompts me, waving a hand impatiently.

  ‘We could hold flamenco classes on the terrace!’ I announce. ‘It was the picture that gave me the idea. The one I, er . . . dropped.’ I get back into my stride. ‘We find a teacher – I hear there’s one in the port who runs classes at the gym. Or maybe you know someone a bit more local. We do an intensive week’s course in the daytime whilst the blossom is out to pull them in, and then weekly sessions after that, say on a Monday. Even offer food, some traditional Spanish stuff like Bonita used to cook. It’ll bring the expats up here, away from the port, and in turn the tourists too, exactly as Valentina wants. Wine and tapas and flamenco!’

  He looks at me as if I’m talking a foreign language, which of course to him I am. Maybe I went too fast.

  ‘Shall I explain it more slowly?’