Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘You knew about this,’ he says in a low, gravelly voice. Miguel drops his arms, as does Sophia, who looks terrified. Only the guitarist doesn’t move or seem unduly concerned. He sits on his low chair, his guitar resting on his knee and across his body.

  ‘I . . .’ I’m speechless for a moment, and then suddenly a fireball swells inside me. I’m absolutely furious. What on earth was I doing behaving like that in the orchard with him? He’s the last person I’d ever want to lose my inhibitions with!

  ‘No, now wait! It’s not Beti’s fault.’ Miguel steps forward, putting out a hand.

  ‘This cannot happen!’ Antonio suddenly raises his voice. The peace that once reigned over this corner of Spanish countryside is shattered, the chattering song of birds silenced. I, on the other hand, finally find the words and can’t stay quiet.

  ‘What do you mean, it cannot happen? That’s ridiculous! They’re just dancing, for goodness’ sake. It’s not like they’re injecting drugs into their eyeballs up here! You should be pleased. And anyway, you’re doing it, dancing in secret.’

  ‘That’s different. I am only doing it to save my farm, our home. Of course I am not pleased. If any of this gets out, the locals will shun me, my business will close.’ He holds his face in his hands.

  ‘They’re just two young people having fun, that’s all. They’re not doing any harm. You should be pleased that Miguel and Sophia have become friends, that he’s found a hobby.’

  ‘A hobby?’ Antonio pulls his hands from his face and stares at me. ‘Flamenco is not a hobby!’ He’s gone red in the face and there is a prominent vein running down his neck that is now pulsating. Miguel puts his arm protectively around Sophia’s shoulders and pulls her to him, whilst taking the tiniest of steps back.

  ‘We do not let the young people dance flamenco. You have to have experienced life to understand it; its pain. Miguel is too immature to learn flamenco.’

  ‘Oh, you think I don’t know about pain,’ Miguel says quietly, and turns away. When he turns back, his voice rises with every word. ‘You know nothing! You weren’t even there when I was growing up!’ He swipes at a chair in anger and it crashes to the floor. Sophia jumps back.

  ‘Miguel, don’t.’ I shake my head, trying to quieten him. He is stock still, shaking. Sophia looks unsure of what to do. I nod to her, and she runs to him and throws her arms around him, hugging him hard.

  The guitarist stands up. Antonio glares at him.

  ‘I cannot believe it of you, Pedro, allowing them to do this! Here! Of all places!’

  ‘I have been around flamenco all my life, and I have known you all your life, Antonio. I know passion and pain when I see it.’ He looks straight at Antonio. ‘I also know talent.’ He glances at Miguel.

  ‘No! He cannot dance flamenco. It ruined my life. I will not let it ruin his too! I forbid it. I forbid you from seeing each other.’ Antonio gestures to the two of them and then turns away, his head down.

  Sophia looks at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. She takes her arms from around Miguel, who is holding his face in his hands, and runs straight past us, out of the barn door and over the fields towards the whitewashed village nestled into the hill on the other side of the valley.

  Antonio, breathing more slowly now, his head still low, speaks.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miguel. But I must forbid it. For all our sakes. I cannot take any more risks than we are already. Flamenco is still banned around here.’

  Miguel takes his hands from his face and straightens up, facing away from Antonio, in the direction in which Sophia has run. He drops his shoulders and lifts his head, but doesn’t look at Antonio.

  ‘We will lose everything if we let flamenco back into our lives. I knew this dance-off was a stupid idea! You know nothing about flamenco, or the way things work around here,’ he throws at me.

  I am furious for Miguel and for Sophia. The anger, the injustice of it all rages away inside me. I may not be a mother myself, or ever likely to have a family of my own, but the fire in my belly is roaring and won’t be ignored.

  ‘And you clearly know nothing about being a parent!’ I shout, raising my voice like I’ve never done before. It’s out before I can stop to think. My cheeks flushing and my eyes flashing. I look at Antonio and I know he’s wounded. That was a dreadful thing to say. It’s nothing to do with me. I’m not this boy’s mother. I’m just passing through here. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s none of my business. I’m truly sorry,’ I gabble.

  ‘That friend of yours,’ Antonio says slowly, ‘who wants you to look after their bar. I think it would be best if you went now. Don’t you? Miguel can cover your washing-up shifts. It will keep him out of trouble.’

  I don’t need telling twice. I run to the finca to gather some clothes and say goodbye to Ana the cat, hiding my hot, angry tears in her fur.

  ‘And you’re sure you remember the alarm code? And don’t forget, if the fridge door gets stuck, talk to it in Spanish. It responds better.’

  ‘No worries.’ I smile and wave as Harold tries to edge the car forward while Brenda has the window wound down, still double- and triple-checking everything. ‘Now go! Have fun! I’ll be fine. Enjoy your family and being at home.’

  Eventually they leave, and I turn back into the bar and stand and drink it all in. Cortijo Ana seems a very long way away. A world away from this place. The Butterfly Bar is probably only the size of my mum and dad’s front room, but it’s all mine! Well, for this week anyway, and then in three weeks from now, after Olivia’s party, it will be mine properly.

  I hold my money jar in both hands and look at it. It’s fairly full now, and any extra tips will help. Nearly there. I put it down beside the till, then start setting out the chairs around the outside tables and doing a little adjusting, just to make the space work a bit better so that there’s more room to move around. I’m sure Brenda won’t mind. I can always put it back before they return.

  Then I run through everything behind the bar – the coffee machine, the lager and sangria pumps, the spirit optics – and I’m ready for business.

  ‘Ah, my first customer!’ I say as Craig walks in and looks at me in surprise, kissing me good morning as I fill him in about Brenda and Harold going home.

  ‘So you’re here. How does it feel?’

  ‘Fantastic!’ I say. ‘Now, don’t tell me. White wine, lots of ice!’

  ‘That’s my girl. It’s like you own the place already.’ He pulls his zip-up wallet from his man bag. ‘Have one yourself,’ he says, and I smile.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll stick to coffee.’

  As the coffee machine gurgles into life, I take down a large glass for Craig’s wine. And all the time I’m serving the drinks, I find myself counting in my head, counting the beat of the sevillana . . . Un, dos, tres . . .

  When everyone has finally left for the evening, off out for dinner, home to their apartments, or on to clubs for the younger customers, I stack the chairs, pull down the shutters and lock the doors. Then I pour myself a large glass of wine and make my way upstairs to the little apartment. It’s full to bursting with ornaments, but the front window looks out to sea, a stunning view I’ll never tire of soaking in. My thoughts turn back to Cortijo Ana, wondering how Miguel is, and Sophia too. Is Valentina even more furious now I’m not there, now the divorce isn’t imminent? Is she taking her frustration out on Miguel?

  I get a pang of guilt thinking about leaving Miguel, and then another as I think about the near kiss in the cherry orchard. Valentina may not be my friend, but she certainly doesn’t deserve me trying to make a move on her boyfriend. I know exactly how that feels, after Olivia did the dirty on me with Tom. I think about Antonio, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, about to lose the farm and his horses. I think about Ana the cat and wonder if she’s cross that I’m not there. And then, despite being exhausted and wanting nothing more than to
collapse into bed, I hold my head high, open my chest and begin to practise. I can’t help myself. I have no idea if I’m ever going to dance this dance now, but I can’t resist the urge, needing the release and the energy it brings me.

  The next few days slip into a simple routine, much like my days at the farm did, and once again I’m grateful for it. It stops me thinking about everything that happened. I get up, sort out the bar and open up; and then in the evening, when the early drinkers have gone off for dinner, I check and double-check suppliers for the party and reply to Olivia’s stream of emails asking about the photographer and the colour of the napkins. Being here in the harbour, I can speak to everyone face to face. Everything is in place.

  After that, I practise. I have worked out that the floor in the bar is particularly good for stamping on, and the physical and mental effort required for the dance stops me lying awake at night, turning things over in my mind, wondering what’s going to happen at the end of this week. Am I going to go back to the farm? Is the dance-off still on? Will I ever see any of them again?

  That evening, just as I’m thinking about closing up for the evening, the lager barrel runs out. I’ll have to change it. There’s no point in leaving it until the morning, when I’ve got customers waiting. I go to the cellar and try and remember how to do it. It’s hard and heavy work and I’m exhausted, but I think I’ve managed to swap over the pumps. I grab a crate of tonic waters and carry them back up to the bar, putting them down near the shelves. Looks like my muscles have improved. Must be from watering the trees, I think. Or was it the flamenco? I push it out of my mind and go to the pump to pull the beer through as Harold showed me. It spits and splutters and soaks me in the process.

  ‘Aargh!’ I am shattered, and now I’m dripping in lager. This is all I need. Maybe I could give myself the night off practising flamenco. Just have a shower after I close up and flop in front of the telly. Give myself a break.

  But as I go to take the chairs in from outside, a loud, slightly scruffy group, all ripped jeans, faded T-shirts and leather jackets, is walking towards the bar. They’re about my age, maybe younger. I can’t close up now, I think, with my business head on. I want Brenda and Harold to realise I can run this place on my own, no problem. And that means them coming back to see a healthy, full till.

  I wash my hands and arms, tie my hair up with a twist into a pleat, which I can do now that it’s longer, and try and ignore the lager stain down my front. It’s hot this evening; close. The days and nights are really starting to warm up, and my skin is glistening from my exertions.

  The group pull out chairs around a table, laughing and joking loudly. I sneak a glance. There’s a woman with them I recognise. Tall, blonde, in frayed denim shorts. I pull out a tray ready for their order and fill a bowl with peanuts. How do I know that woman? Long tanned legs with ankle braids . . . who is it? Maybe I’ll figure it out when I take their order. I hold my head high, lift my chin and roll my shoulders back as I walk to where the blonde woman is sitting, but she’s not in a chair; she’s sitting on someone’s lap. He’s tall, wearing faded jeans with holes in, and is turned away talking to his neighbour, almost obscured by the blonde girl’s hair.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I ask.

  In that instant, two things happen. One, I recognise the blonde woman. And two, the man whose knee she is perched on turns around, and my whole world swoops and dips. Alarm bells go off in my head, telling me this is not a drill. This is it! The real deal! The moment I’ve been hoping, wishing, praying for all these weeks.

  ‘Beti?’ he says in surprise. ‘I thought you were . . . somewhere else.’

  ‘Hello, Will,’ I say through what feels like a mouth full of sawdust.

  Chapter Forty

  He stands up quickly, almost upending the blonde woman from his knee, much to her chagrin.

  ‘I thought you’d gone . . .’ He looks around. Clearly he wasn’t expecting to see me here, in the bar we were due to take over together. ‘Wow, so . . . you, er, you did it?’ he babbles, sounding shocked. ‘I didn’t think you’d . . . y’know, go ahead. On your own, like . . .’ He peters out.

  I don’t reply. I’m too busy taking in the fact that Will is standing here, right in front of me. He looks just the same, if a bit more tanned. Although momentarily thrown, he is still fun-loving, easy-going, charming Will, wearing a worn Rolling Stones T-shirt and braided bracelets, even more attractive out of his stuffy work suits. The man I imagined I would one day be married to, even planning a family with, running this place together. Changing barrels, clearing tables, cashing up the till and enjoying a nightcap looking out to sea after a hard day. Not standing here like total strangers whilst his new girlfriend fumes quietly nearby.

  We stare at each other in awkward silence, as do the rest of the group.

  ‘This is Freya,’ he says eventually, trying to make it sound like the most natural thing in the world, but also with a look of such discomfort, as if someone has filled his pants with cold custard. Good, I think to myself. But I have no idea what to do now. Do I run into the bar, slam down the shutters and tell the group we’re closed, or do I just stand here feeling like a fool? Antonio’s voice suddenly fills my head – ‘Be proud!’ – and the counting starts in the background. I hear him roaring the words at me over the sound of his clapping hands, and I lift my head just a little. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong.

  ‘Hi.’ Freya holds out a hand and smiles with a smugness that makes me lift my chin higher still, despite my knees wobbling like Brenda’s bingo wings. A few weeks ago, I realise, I would probably have run off and collapsed into a blubbering heap. But now I seem to be standing taller, firmer, feeling like I’m somewhere I belong. I say nothing. I roll back my shoulders as surreptitiously as I can and open up my chest, then steady myself by putting a hand on my hip, and suddenly, I’m feeling it. I’m feeling proud. Despite a tiny voice in my head telling me to get over myself; that I look ridiculous, Antonio’s voice is louder.

  ‘This is the band.’ Will waves a hand awkwardly around the group. ‘The band I’ve been . . .’ He trails off and pulls his jeans up at the back, as though trying to get rid of the cold custard. ‘I thought you’d gone somewhere else . . . a restaurant. I saw the pictures Olivia put online. Looks great! Thought you’d gone there after . . .’

  ‘After you emptied my bank account and ran off with someone else?’ I look at Freya, who seems to have her own serving of cold custard to contend with. I can’t believe I actually said that! I have no idea where it came from, but it feels good.

  ‘Wait! I can explain . . .’ He starts towards me, as if wanting to move me out of earshot of his friends.

  ‘Let me get your drinks first.’ I take control again, giving myself breathing space. My heart is banging and my knees are still wobbling, but on the outside I’m acting as cool as anything. ‘Be proud!’ Antonio’s voice keeps saying in my head, and this time I can hear the approval in it.

  I move round the group taking drink orders and writing them down. I can’t rely on remembering them what with the car crash that is going on in my head, ‘Will is back!’ clattering around and clashing against Antonio’s bark.

  I’m grateful that my legs actually work as I walk back inside, leaving the band members to lean towards each other and whisper. Will follows me and stands on the other side of the bar. My heart is banging so loudly in my chest I think he must be able to hear it. It’s all so odd. That’s not where I imagined he would be, standing on one side of the counter, with me on the other. I pick up a glass and start to pour lager from the pump.

  ‘God, Beti, if I’d known you were here, we wouldn’t have come. I mean, look . . . Oh Christ.’ He rakes his hand through his dark hair, giving him the bed head I remember. ‘I just feel so . . . I really wouldn’t have rubbed your nose in it if I’d known you were here. I never meant for any of this to happen. I feel such a prat.’

 
I let myself breathe. At least he feels bad.

  ‘You look, erm, well, really good,’ he says. ‘But then you don’t need to hear that from me.’ He rakes his hair again, one hand in his back pocket, and looks around uncomfortably.

  Will is here and he says I’m looking good. He noticed me. My traitorous heart does a little skip but I say nothing. I can’t. My tongue is tied in knots.

  ‘So . . .’ he begins tentatively, ‘are you here with anyone?’

  I was supposed to be here with you! I want to scream. You stole my money and my dreams! Instead I say, ‘No, just me.’ I don’t owe him any explanation, after all.

  He nods, a bit too hard. My hands shake and the froth on the beer bubbles up and overflows down the side of the glass. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy looking around the bar, clearly gathering his thoughts.

  ‘Look, Beti.’ He turns back to me. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I totally messed up, I know. I just . . . I just panicked. I’d stuffed up, I’d let you down. You’re the last person who deserves to be treated like that. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I got cold feet – about everything. I took the money, lost it and ran. I know we always talked about settling down and starting a new life together, but when it came down to it, I freaked out. God! I never even made an honest woman of you. I was such a fool. I had everything and I let it slip through my fingers . . .’

  He looks at me, those familiar eyes, that familiar face. My Will. But my words have left me. How can I tell him that even after all he’s done, I want more than anything for things to go back to how they were?

  ‘I will get the money back to you, Beti. I will try my hardest. Look . . .’ He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and takes out thirty euros, holding the notes out to me. I look at them. Thirty euros! The cheek. I don’t take it. I can’t. I have one hand on the pump and the other holding a glass.