by Jo Thomas
‘What have you been up to then?’ Brenda rejoins me.
‘Working,’ I smile. ‘Getting my rent money together,’ and I nod towards the little bar behind me. ‘Antonio’s watering system has broken down. Lots of the hose has rotted and the pump has packed up. So I’ve been watering the trees by hand. Lots of them.’ I show her my rough red hands.
‘Oh my word.’ She inspects them closely. ‘You’re a braver woman than me.’
‘I’ve also been organising Olivia’s birthday party, the one I told you about. I’m holding it in Antonio’s barn. I’ve been clearing that out and getting it ready. And then of course there’s the washing-up in the restaurant in the evening. There aren’t many customers at the moment, but still, it needs doing. Gives me time to practise my . . .’
I stop myself, realising what I’m about to say. No one must know about the dance-off! ‘Spanish,’ I finish, and Brenda doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation.
‘My goodness, you have been busy. Watering cherry trees? Who knew?’ She smiles, pulling out a vape machine from her pocket and lifting it to her lips with one conker-brown arm. She inhales and blows the smoke in the other direction to me. ‘I’m giving up the fags.’ She inhales again, and the air fills with a sickly-sweet strawberry smell. ‘Not good around the grandkiddies,’ she tells me.
‘Actually, I’m glad you’ve come in today. I wanted to see you. Ask a favour, so to speak. But it may not be possible now you’ve got so much on.’
‘Well, you know what they say,’ I reply, actually feeling delighted that I might be able to help with something and can start to repay some of the kindness this pair have shown me. ‘If you want something doing . . .’
‘Ask a busy woman!’ Brenda finishes, disappearing in a cloud of vaporised smoke.
Harold is behind the bar, quietly cleaning the pumps, listening to Tom Jones singing about the green, green grass of home and, if I’m not mistaken, getting a little watery-eyed.
‘Is Harold OK?’ I ask Brenda.
‘Yes, well, no . . . This is his favourite. He’s a bit homesick, see.’
‘Homesick?’ I say, surprised.
‘It’s this time of year. He misses the seasons changing back home. Here it just gets warmer and then really hot. Don’t get me wrong, he loves it here, but he just gets a bit mournful at certain times. And what with Brexit and all that . . . Well, I think he really wants to get back now. It’s like he thinks we don’t belong here any more. He misses the mountains and the countryside.’
I look at the concrete buildings all around me and think about the hills and fields only a short drive away at Antonio’s farm. It’s a completely different world from life down here in the harbour.
‘Oh, poor Harold!’
‘So that’s the thing, dear, I thought we’d take a trip home, see our daughter. The baby won’t be long coming and we could see the other grandchildren too. Catch up on what they’re up to. Just for a week. And we could go and have a look at the flats we’ve seen on PrimeLocation and Rightmove. Put down a deposit on somewhere to rent for the time being, near the grandkids. Get things in place for the move back.’
‘Well, that sounds like a great idea,’ I say, sipping the thick layer of froth on my coffee. ‘Once you’ve put down a deposit, it’ll all seem very real.’ I feel a skip of excitement for them. ‘So are you going to close up for a bit?’ I suddenly realise I’ll miss them not being here on my trips to the harbour. They’ve become like a second family to me.
‘No, well not if I can help it. It won’t do you any good if we close up and you lose regular customers who go elsewhere.’
‘No.’ I realise she’s right. Once I take over the bar, I’ll need the regulars to keep my money coming in.
‘That’s why I was wondering if you could come and run the place whilst we’re away. Just for a week. Get a feel for the place. Then anything you don’t understand we can help you out with when we get back.’
‘Oh that would be great.’ I could almost be touching my future. It would be real. ‘But I can’t let Antonio down with the trees.’ I chew my bottom lip. And of course there’s the practising, and the party planning, and the barn to sort out. It would be impossible. There’s no way I can get away really. ‘Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you,’ I say, wishing there was something – anything – I could do to make it happen.
When I get back to the farm later in the afternoon, after swapping emails with my mum, reassuring her that I’m happy and working hard, Antonio and Miguel are standing in the yard outside the barns. Antonio is practically jubilant. I’ve never seen him like it. Maybe Esmeralda has called off the bet. Then I realise that they’re gazing at the pump as it chugs noisily away, looking for all the world like proud parents.
‘It’s working!’ I say as I walk up the drive to join them, and I can’t help smiling too.
‘Sí!’ Antonio spreads his arms, as if thanking God, and beams at me. ‘I swapped some winter wood for these parts. Everyone wants cherry to burn. It smells so good. He was happy to do the exchange.’ I notice the wood pile is practically all gone, and hope he’s left enough for himself. ‘The parts are a bit old, but they’ve done the job for now,’ he adds.
‘So does that mean no more watering?’
‘For you and Miguel? Sí, no more watering! For Miguel it means helping take down some old trees and chopping more firewood!’ He laughs and slaps Miguel affectionately on the back, and Miguel rolls his eyes and smiles, recoiling playfully from the slap as if in pain. It’s lovely to see these two starting to get along, and I feel warm and fuzzy at this rare show of warmth between them.
‘Now.’ Antonio slaps his hands together and turns his attention away from the water pump and on to me. ‘We practise, sí? You are feeling better?’
I nod, but my arms and legs cry out in pain at just the thought of it.
‘Let’s get the pump to the orchard first, and then we will start.’
We carry the pump to its place behind the restaurant and Antonio shows Miguel how to connect it. Then we switch it on and wait with bated breath for the water to work its way through the snaking pipes and start to drizzle from the watering holes.
‘Yay!’ we all cheer when it does. I know I’m going to lose paid work, but I’m so grateful not to be watering this evening. I think I can hear my shoulder muscles cheering too.
‘OK, we will practise now,’ Antonio says when he is confident the watering system is working.
Miguel makes his excuses and I know he’s nipping off to meet with Sophia. Antonio doesn’t ask, too caught up in the excitement of the resuscitated water pump. He lifts his head, shuts his eyes and breathes in deeply, obviously feeling rejuvenated just by being here in his cherry orchard. I can see that his face has relaxed, his shoulders have dropped, the twitch has gone from his jawline. A far cry from when I left him this morning. He lifts his chest and rolls his shoulders, then opens his eyes again.
‘Sometimes you need to feel something rather than see it. Like you with flamenco. You are so keen to learn the moves, commit them to your memory. You count the right beat, but you cannot feel it yet. Watch me.’ He bends and takes off his boots and socks, and then stands in the long grass and starts to beat with his heels, lifting his elbows. ‘A man never twists his fingers like the woman; he keeps them straight. Although these days I believe things are changing. A sign of our times! Everything is changing.’
He claps and then begins to sing, his eyes shut, a song from deep within, his voice deep and husky, and I am rooted to the spot, watching him in utter amazement. I sense something in his song and his dance, a longing and love that I had no idea existed within him.
‘Now you try,’ he says when he has finished. And before I know it, I have slipped off my shoes. The long grass in between the cherry trees tickles my toes, and my soles feel the soft, newly watered dampness beneath them. A fresh smell rises up with every st
amp of the heel. I want to feel a little of what Antonio did. I want to feel alive.
‘Now, we count and clap. Close your eyes, feel the earth beneath your feet.’ He claps and sings again, and I shut my eyes and begin the steps of the sevillana. At first I’m counting, my lips barely moving, but as I listen to his singing, I feel the urge to dance. He is standing behind me, curved around me so that we are like the layers of an onion. I can feel his breath on my neck as we beat out the steps and he claps and sings. I step and step, feeling the solid earth beneath the soles of my feet, drawing up the moisture, its earthy energy, as if feeling the rhythm that keeps the world turning. We dance around each other. I hold the front of my baggy T-shirt as if it were my skirt ruched around my belly, and feel the breeze on my skin travelling up and over my breasts, making them tighten and tingle.
‘You need to feel the dance, let yourself go. Forget about holding back,’ he says, and he reaches for my hair and pulls at the end of the baling twine holding it back, letting it fly free in the wind. ‘Everything has a natural rhythm; you just have to learn to feel it.’
I open my eyes and see his face, up close, feel his breath on mine, his chest lifting up and down with mine as we dance faster, clap harder, stamp harder until I think I can’t dance any more. It is as though every bit of heartbreak and betrayal I felt when Will left me is pouring from me in an emotional release. Every bit of hurt, anger and grief. And then there’s the worry over what other people think of me; my shame, disappointment, failure. Every taunt and put-down I have ever endured fires my moves, charging me up. I lift my chest higher, my chin and face, drawing me towards Antonio until we are practically touching. And in that moment, with my nerve endings standing to attention, I want more than anything for him to reach down and put his lips on mine, press his body against me.
I feel more alive than ever before. Exhilarated and strangely free from everything that has weighed me down. I want to live in this moment for ever. I feel my hips move towards his and look straight into his chocolate-brown eyes, as if we are locked there and cannot move apart. Our lips are drawing closer together. It’s like a magnetic force and I can’t stop it happening. I feel as though I’m waiting for an explosion in my head, in my stomach, like the fireworks going off on New Year’s Eve. I’m waiting to be blinded by their brilliant colours, deafened by their explosions. My head feels like it’s about to burst with excitement. And then suddenly . . .
‘Ow!’ Something hits me in the face and I reel away from him, coming to my senses like someone’s poured a bucket of cold water over me. What was I about to do? I feel like someone has just turned a pressure release valve. The blood begins to flow around my body again, shaking me to my senses. ‘Ow!’ It happens again. I look around, expecting to see Valentina glaring at me and throwing stones. OMG! What about Valentina? What was I thinking? This is her partner!
Antonio has the same look on his face, mirroring what I’m feeling, as if to say, ‘Whoa! What was that about?’ Then he looks around and suddenly his expression changes and he breaks into a huge grin.
‘The big drop!’ His eyes are alive with excitement. ‘It has started! Now we will see what kind of a harvest we are in for!’
It wasn’t Valentina throwing stones at all; it was a cherry bud. Thank God! She didn’t see what nearly happened. I feel my cheeks flush with shame and reel backwards, bumping into a tree and leaning against it. The grass is still damp under my feet, but this time, instead of filling me with new life, it’s bringing me back to earth. I look around for signs that anyone might have been watching us. As I do, I see Valentina’s little red car pulling into the car park. My heart is thundering – bang, bang! – like a round of firecrackers going off.
I try and calm my breathing, snatching a look at Antonio. I have no idea what happened there. But I know it can absolutely never, ever happen again! I feel like my heart just hijacked my head and my body, like I was invaded by this feeling of passion and lust for life. It was the flamenco making me feel this way! A feeling that I should very much keep shut away, I realise. Hastily I pull on my shoes, vowing never to take them off and dance barefoot in a cherry orchard again. The earth and its flipping rhythm indeed! What was I thinking? Getting carried away like that. He must think I’m such a fool.
Chapter Thirty-eight
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. The timing was all wrong. The woman was all wrong! It wasn’t as though they even really liked each other. That was why he should never have let flamenco back into his life. It only ever ended in trouble. Antonio fumed at himself, feeling hot and bothered and angry that he had let himself give in to the feelings that had been growing by the day.
She wouldn’t even be here after this ridiculous party for her cousin. She’d be gone and he’d be left with . . . probably nothing if Esmeralda had her way. His farm, his restaurant, his horses – his son, who he had only just started to get to know: it would all be gone. He needed to think of a way of finding a home for the horses. That was what he needed to focus on. He must forget any feelings of falling in love. Love was for fools! It certainly made fools.
Whatever had just happened there, he couldn’t let it happen again. He couldn’t fall in love with this British woman! But my God, he mused, she certainly had the heart for this. The energy and instinct. The chemistry was undeniable. If only she’d let herself go more. She had the duende, he could feel it. She felt the soul of the song, and so did he. But it could go no further than this dance. Just this one dance. He was with Valentina. He wasn’t free to fall in love, he thought, guilt pushing down on his chest like a heavy weight.
Still, she was certainly ready for the third and final part of the sevillana. The bit where the couple finally fell in love, where the passion lay. He bit his lip hard. He must not let that happen. They just needed to win the competition. Maybe, just maybe she had what it took. Dare he let himself think it, that they could save his home and livelihood? And then maybe Miguel wouldn’t leave after all.
Chapter Thirty-nine
‘Wait! I have something for you,’ Antonio says, pointing at me but walking off up the cherry orchard. ‘Something I think will help you.’ All around him little buds are dropping from the trees. Even the birds seem to have stopped dancing around each other to see what is happening to the cherries.
‘Help me?’ Help me to do what? I think desperately, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Something to help gag me so I don’t try and kiss him again, probably!
‘Up here. Come.’ He beckons me up the orchard.
My heart is still racing for all it’s worth, like one of his horses galloping through the canopy of cherry trees. But I follow him in the direction of the top field and my finca. What’s he going to do, demand I get in a cold shower to cool down? He marches on, moving as if his feet are on fire, and I’m practically running to keep up with him. Suerte sees him from the paddock below, recognises him and whinnies, and I can’t help but be amazed at the relationship he has with his animals.
I can hear the watering system hissing, gently watering the trees, feeding the cherries left hanging on. Helping them thrive and become the best they can be. Once again I’m glad it’s not me having to do the watering tonight. With that taken care of, I decide that now might be a good time to tell him about Harold and Brenda. ‘Actually, Antonio . . . friends of mine in the port are going away for a week. They want me to look after their bar, the one I’m trying to take over. I know it’s not great timing, but if I promise to keep practising . . . You could come to me. I mean, now that the watering system is up and running. And it would give me a chance to finalise arrangements with suppliers for the party—’
‘Ssh!’ He stops suddenly and I practically run into him. I jump back. I can hear the beat of my own heart, still banging after the dance. I feel like all my nerve endings are standing on end, electrically charged.
‘Sorry, it’s just . . . I’m suppose I’m excited. It’s such a great c
hance to get my hands on the bar before I take over—’
‘Ssh!’ he says again, more forcefully. God, how can this man be singing songs that nearly bring me to tears one minute and infuriate me with his abruptness the next? He really doesn’t need to be so rude.
‘Look, I realise the timing’s not great . . .’ I start, and then I hear it too. I stop, and all the fire in my belly fizzles out. My body turns to ice, like someone has turned on the deep freeze.
Antonio starts marching towards the barn, not bothering with the path. Leaping over and climbing up the small stone terraces where the trees sit in lines.
‘No, wait . . . Antonio,’ I call to try and stop him, but the clapping and stamping is clear to hear as its rhythmic sound rides on the wind, blowing down the orchard to meet us. It is unmistakable.
He turns back to me from the terrace above as I attempt to follow him, stones tumbling from beneath my feet as I scrabble along behind. His eyes are flashing, but he doesn’t waste any time asking me what I know. He turns back to the barn and marches even faster towards it, if that were possible. Through the damp soft grass, ducking and pushing the branches of his beloved trees out of the way as he goes. The smell of the newly watered earth, combined with the May sunshine working its magic, is like a heady cocktail, filling my nostrils as I follow him as quickly as I can, trying to find the words I’m going to need and put them in the right order in my head.
As we reach the barn, the sound is all too clear: the clapping, the stamping and even the sound of a guitar. Antonio gives me one final glare before reaching out to the barn door and throwing it open.
Miguel and Sophia freeze, their arms poised in the air, wrapped around each other but not touching, their faces lifted high but now turned towards Antonio. In the corner of the room is a guitarist, the one I saw with Miguel and Sophia at the club. He stops playing but he doesn’t have the same look about him as the two young people: a look of being caught out. They stand, poised and wide-eyed, and no one moves or speaks as we all take in the barn, looking more and more like the rustic, rural Spanish flamenco club that it used to be. Antonio is staring at it all as if he has come face to face with his past, like it’s come back to haunt him. He looks at Miguel and Sophia and then slowly round at me.
