Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Wouldn’t want you cramping my style,’ he replies. I flick the hose in his direction again and a last bit of water arcs out of it. He laughs.

  ‘Better check with your . . . with Antonio,’ I tell him. ‘There’ll be a bus soon.’

  Having cleared it with Antonio, we travel in companionable silence to the harbour, lost in our own thoughts. After introducing Miguel to Harold, Brenda, Craig and Maxine, I arrange to meet him back at the Butterfly Bar, wondering if this is what it would be like to have a younger brother. As I sit back in the warm spring sunshine outside the bar with Craig and Maxine and catch up on the tales of the crazy holidaymakers, I can’t help but smile. This place is starting to feel a lot like home.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It’s been ten days since we started watering the cherry trees by hand. It’s now the middle of April and I have been at Cortijo Ana for just over two weeks, though it feels like so much longer. I’ve started going down to the harbour regularly with Miguel and shopping for Bonita, who is now cooking one traditional rustic Spanish dish every night. They have been selling out as visitors come to see the blossom before it disappears. And more locals have come to try them too, calling out from the souvenir shop or the bakery and even the taverna to ask what Bonita’s daily special is.

  Harold and Brenda introduced me to the fisherman who comes to the bar. I’ve also met some other producers in the market, cheese makers and local veg suppliers. My bargaining skills from organising all those weddings have come in handy on a number of occasions. So far Bonita has cooked pollo al ajillo, garlic chicken; pisto, a rich ratatouille bursting with onions, garlic, tomatoes, courgettes and peppers slow fried in olive oil, served with fried eggs and pan rustico; big fluffy Spanish omelettes with green salad; and paella like I’ve never tasted before, with rabbit, saffron, runner beans and fat, sweet prawns. Word has been spreading, locals alternating between the taverna and Cortijo Ana in the evenings.

  I’ve seen Valentina again in the market, and she asked what I was doing.

  ‘Just getting a few bits for the kitchen.’ I tried to smile, but it was met with frostiness. Then she asked after ‘the boy’, and once again I told her he was doing just fine and settling in well. She lifted her head, and walked off on her high spiky heels. Still feeling taken for granted by the looks of it, and making sure Antonio knows it.

  ‘Miguel! Miguel,’ I call. It’s evening, time to water the trees, but he’s nowhere to be seen . . . again! He’s done this a couple of times in the last week. Vanishing when it’s watering time. I stand over the bowser, filling it from the tap by the horses’ paddock. There is a gust of wind and the white blossom swirls around me, making me feel like I’m in a snow globe, then flutters to the ground. It’s started: the blossom snow, when the petals fall from the trees. I stand in the gently swirling blossom and let myself enjoy the moment, as if I was a child again, feeling the fluttering of snowflakes on my skin and face.

  ‘Have you found him?’ Antonio’s deep voice makes me jump.

  ‘Er, no, he’s just nipped to the bathroom, I think.’ I find myself covering for Miguel.

  ‘He . . . I just . . .’ He trails off, then starts again. ‘He’s been off down the harbour a lot this week. He doesn’t know the place or his way around. I just . . .’

  I realise that Antonio is worried about him.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s just been finding his feet. Exploring the place,’ I try to reassure him. And he has. He goes off for a couple of hours while I join the others at the Butterfly Bar or shop in the market for Bonita. And then we meet up and travel back on the bus together.

  ‘He’s unhappy. I think he hates it here,’ Antonio says bluntly, taking me by surprise. ‘But from what I saw, I’m pretty sure he hates where he came from too. I saw it in his eyes. He doesn’t know where he belongs right now. He barely speaks to me. The last thing I want is for him to run away. But it has been over two weeks now and he hasn’t even unpacked his bag properly yet. I’m worried he’ll just go. And, well, I’ll have let him down . . . again.’ He doesn’t seem to realise that he’s talking out loud. ‘I haven’t seen him all afternoon. He wasn’t there before siesta and he’s still not back.’ I can see he doesn’t believe that Miguel has gone to the bathroom. ‘He doesn’t stay with you when you go to the harbour; you let him go off on his own?’

  ‘Of course. He’s not a child, Antonio. He’s making friends . . .’ I trail off. Antonio’s eyebrows lower and his face darkens. I can see how concerned he is. Suddenly I start to feel worried too. What if Miguel has decided to leave, move on somewhere to get away from here? What if he wasn’t joking about finding a new gang to hook up with? What if, while I’ve been shopping and having coffee at the Butterfly Bar, he’s been making plans to flee? He might be out there now, on his own. What if something happens to him? My heart starts racing. This is my fault! I was the one who suggested going to the harbour! Oh God!

  ‘I’ll check the square,’ Antonio says. ‘See if he’s waiting for a bus.’

  ‘I’ll go to the top field. He might be looking for signal on his phone.’ I point up the slope towards my finca.

  ‘Miguel!’ I call, and break into a run up the zigzag path.

  I’m halfway up when I stop suddenly, listen and look around. I’m sure I can hear something. A sort of banging noise; a thumping or beating.

  ‘Miguel?’ I call again more urgently, looking this way and that. I head in the direction of my finca, the blossom flying in front of my face as I run. Then I turn and look back down the orchard, taking in the full vista of the valley below. I’m bound to spot him from here. I scan the fields of white cherry trees as they fall away from the finca towards the restaurant on the right, the barns and paddock on the left and the town square beyond that. I can see Antonio, out on the road heading for the square. I hear the thumping noise again. But where’s it coming from? There’s nothing up here! My heart starts racing. What if he’s in another fight, getting beaten up?

  ‘MIGUEL?’ I shout as loudly as I can, with my hands around my mouth, panic rising in me, fingers of fear wrapping themselves around my throat. The thumping sound has stopped. Now it’s just the birds twittering their excitement and the wind in the branches of the cherry trees.

  ‘Hey, Beti!’

  I spin round to the top corner of the cherry orchard. Relief floods over me as I see Miguel running towards me from the direction of the old barn adjoining my little finca.

  ‘Miguel? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why? What is it? I heard you shouting.’

  ‘Your dad . . . Antonio was worried about you. We couldn’t find you. He thought you might have left. I was worried too!’ I manage to return his smile. He doesn’t look like he’s been beaten up. A bit out of breath, maybe, but happy enough. In fact, happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. ‘You keep vanishing into thin air. Where do you disappear off to?’

  ‘Tell him I snuck out for a cigarette.’ He breaks into a laugh.

  ‘Did you?’ I feel like his older sister again.

  ‘No, no.’ He shakes his head and laughs some more.

  ‘Have you been meeting someone?’

  ‘No, of course not! I don’t know anyone! I was just getting a signal on my phone.’ He waggles it at me. But he can get a signal in the apartment. And I can’t help but wonder who he’s phoning, if he’s cut off all links with his friends and family. I have a feeling that he’s hiding something.

  ‘Come on, Beti, let’s water some cherry trees,’ he says, slinging his arm lazily around my shoulders and guiding me quickly back down the hill towards the restaurant.

  And I have to admit, I’m relieved.

  ‘And find your . . .’ I trail off. He still looks uncomfortable at the word dad. ‘Go and find Antonio,’ I correct myself, ‘and tell him you’re OK.’

  ‘OK, as long as you don’t make me call
him Dad!’ he grins cheekily. I smile with relief. He’s all right, I reassure myself. He hasn’t got into anything dodgy. I allow my shoulders to relax, letting the sun work its magic on my face, drinking in the beauty and tranquillity of this spot.

  Suddenly there’s a bang behind me, making me jump. I turn round. The barn door next to my finca is swinging open. I narrow my eyes and peer up the hill, but there’s no one there. Or was there? Did I catch something, a shadow disappearing into the trees? Or is my imagination running away with me, with all this talk of trouble?

  ‘Just the wind,’ Miguel tells me, and smiles widely. ‘I’ll go and shut it.’ He turns and jogs away back up the path.

  But as I look into the dark shadows of the woods beyond the finca, I can’t help but feel there’s more to this than just the wind.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  We walk back down the hill, both in thoughtful contemplation, towards the restaurant and the waiting bowser. My arms ache just thinking about the work they’re going to do. What do I tell Antonio? Should I let him know I have a sneaking suspicion something’s going on in the barn, or should I say nothing? After all, Miguel is fine.

  ‘You can pull this time if you like, and I’ll spray!’ Miguel tries to make light of the work we’re about to do. We round the corner by the horses’ paddock and see Antonio standing in the middle of the empty car park.

  ‘Hey! Antonio! It’s OK, I’ve found him!’ I call over to him. ‘He was just skiving off!’ I add in a lower voice, so that only Miguel can hear me. He nudges me jokingly, knocking me slightly off balance, like a playful pup.

  Antonio looks up at us as we near the barns, and an expression of relief spreads across his face. At the same time, a small red car pulls into the car park at speed, spraying dust, making him step back and wave a hand in front of his face.

  The car door opens and Valentina slides out, then steps forward, reaching up and wrapping her arms around Antonio’s neck and kissing him full on the lips.

  I feel Miguel’s shoulders sag, as do mine. I have a feeling things are going to be a bit different around here from now on. Miguel goes quiet, as if he’s retreated back into his shell, and he slips his hood up, despite the warm sunshine.

  Antonio is holding Valentina by the upper arms, clearly making his apologies. She looks suitably placated and smiles at him, pushing her body up against his and talking in low tones, looking sultry. Obviously the air has been cleared and promises have been made. Then they both turn to look at us, Valentina’s arm possessively around Antonio, stroking the back of his neck. Antonio looks relieved. Valentina looks ready for battle, clearly seeing Miguel as a rival for Antonio’s affections.

  ‘She hates me being here,’ Miguel says in a low voice. I reach out and rub his arm, not knowing what else to do. ‘I’ll get the bowser up to the top field,’ he says, obviously deciding to postpone the meeting, and I’m not sure I blame him. The Miguel I have got to know over the last two weeks seems to have disappeared, like the blossom falling from the trees.

  I take a deep breath and pull down the hem of my long T-shirt so it nearly touches the edge of my denim shorts. Valentina nods at me, then turns to Antonio, telling him she’s going to the restaurant. She lifts her head, shakes out her hair, then marches on her high heels over the rough ground to the terrace, her large handbag hooked over her arm.

  ‘I rang her,’ Antonio tells me. ‘Asked her to come. I told her I’d taken her for granted, not telling her I was bringing Miguel to live here – but then I didn’t even know myself. I have agreed to make it up to her.’ I detect a reluctance in him, but he’s doing what he feels he needs to do to keep things together. ‘Miguel needs a friend,’ he continues. ‘I’ve seen how you get on with him. Maybe he will respond better to a woman, someone younger than me.’

  ‘And Valentina?’ I dare to ask.

  He looks over at her as she strides towards the restaurant.

  ‘Valentina needs commitment from me. A plan for our future. She needs to be listened to,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’m just not sure how I can give her that . . .’ He trails off, deep in thought.

  I turn towards the restaurant, bracing myself to explain to Valentina about the rearranged tables and Bonita’s specials.

  ‘Oh, and Beti.’ Antonio stops me in my tracks. For a brief moment I wonder if he’s going to tell me that Miguel will be taking over the washing-up and I’m no longer needed. ‘Thank you for finding him,’ he says, taking me by surprise. ‘I’m sure I was worrying about nothing.’ And there and then, I decide to say nothing about the barn door. ‘I’m sure things will be easier now that Valentina has agreed to come back and help out,’ he adds, and even though I don’t agree, I try and smile anyway.

  I slip in through the back door of the kitchen, by the sink. Bonita is standing by the stove, simmering like the contents of the big pot she’s stirring.

  Valentina is looking in the fridge, shaking her head, pulling out ingredients. ‘No, no, no!’ she says. ‘No specials! We must stick to the menu!’

  Bonita puts down her big wooden spoon and comes to get a large metal frying pan from beside the sink. She looks as if she might use it as a weapon if provoked any more.

  ‘She says no to the specials,’ she growls to me out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘But your specials are selling really well!’ I whisper.

  She shrugs, her neck disappearing into her shoulders, making her look like a human ball.

  Valentina slams the fridge door shut and stalks into the bar.

  ‘She wants to keep the menu how it was,’ Bonita tells me. ‘We are a modern world-food restaurant that the discerning tourists will want to visit, apparently.’

  ‘But they’re coming for the blossom and your home-cooked food!’

  Suddenly there is a shout from inside the cortijo; more like a shriek really, as if a mouse has run out, or worse.

  I hurry through the bar and then round to the rooms on the other side.

  ‘Who has done this?’ Valentina is looking at the storeroom and the old kitchen I decorated for the dinner.

  ‘That was me.’ I try to sound apologetic, but at the same time I’m feeling quite proud. ‘It was raining, you see, so we thought . . . I thought . . .’

  Valentina’s face darkens and I feel like I’ve come face to face with a raging, barely contained bull. She starts pulling at the fairy lights that I draped around the fireplace and the shelves.

  ‘No, no, no! No fairy lights! And definitely no old pots!’ She sweeps up all the jugs I arranged along the whitewashed shelf and with her arms full of them marches to the cupboard and drops them in with a clatter. I think about arguing that the customers loved the decor, but decide against it. I still need to work here. It’s not my place. I’m just the washer-upper.

  ‘No fairy lights, no terracotta pots and no rustic specials! We stick to the menu.’ She picks one up and waves it at me.

  ‘But . . .’ I suddenly feel a rush of loyalty towards Bonita, and for Antonio, who is trying to run his farm and his horses and could clearly do with the money if the ancient water system is anything to go by. ‘People round here don’t want this sort of food. It’s too . . . confused,’ I finish before I can stop myself.

  ‘It’s classy, that’s what it is!’ She stalks out to the terrace, where Antonio is waiting, one arm folded across his chest, the other hand pulling at his little goatee beard. ‘We are becoming known for being a boutique restaurant. Not some rural rustic finca! Isn’t that right, Antonio?’ She looks to him for backup, but he shrugs and holds out a hand, as if to say he neither knows nor really cares and has other worries on his mind. He looks over at the redundant pump.

  ‘Have the trees been watered?’ he asks, unable to stop himself making his priorities totally clear. I get the impression the restaurant is more of an irritation in Antonio’s life than a business he cares about.

 
‘Just about to,’ I tell him, seizing the moment.

  This could work for all of us. It could be just what Valentina wants to hear. If she doesn’t like it, if she decides my time is up, so be it. I have no other option. This is my final chance at pulling this party off. The party that is the ticket to a place of my own.

  ‘Look, Valentina,’ I say. ‘I have a friend . . .’ I can’t bear to admit that Olivia is actually my cousin.

  ‘A friend?’ She raises a highly plucked eyebrow.

  ‘She wants to book a big party for her thirtieth. She’d be bringing lots of people over from the UK. They’d want a meal, a bar, maybe some entertainment and dancing later.’

  ‘For a birthday party?’ She looks bemused. ‘Sounds more like a wedding.’

  ‘The thing is, she wants it here, at Cortijo Ana. She has a big budget. And if she’s happy, she will have a lot of friends, wealthy ones, who might want to have similar events in the future.’

  Valentina says nothing, but is thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘How many guests?’ she snaps eventually, lifting her chin in my direction and putting a long painted nail under it.

  ‘Probably fifty, maybe more.’

  ‘And they want a big party. Classy?’ she checks.

  ‘Oh yes, classy, definitely.’ I nod a lot, and think I may be getting somewhere.

  ‘When?’ she says, looking at her phone.

  ‘June. It could make a good profit for the restaurant if you planned caref—’

  ‘I will look at the diary,’ she announces, and turns to go.

  ‘No. Not June. No way. It’s the harvest!’ Antonio cuts in.

  Valentina waves her hands in the air. ‘Why must you always make things hard? You said you wanted me back. You promised, gave me your word – a show of your commitment, you said – that I could continue to run the restaurant with no interference.’

  ‘Sí.’ He nods slowly, apologetically.