Sunset over the Cherry Orchard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Has he now.’ I find myself bristling. What I had planned was going to be far classier. I realise with a pang how much I have loved organising this party, despite the fact that I didn’t want to do it to start with. I’d jump at the chance to do it again. Maybe I’ll go into events planning. I’m going to have to think of something, after all, given that I won’t be able to take over the Butterfly Bar now. I’m gutted, exhausted, battle weary.

  ‘When exactly did all this happen, Olivia?’ I sigh.

  ‘Just before we left for the airport. He changed his flight to travel with friends. I didn’t know what to do, so I just got on the plane and came anyway. I’m going to be a laughing stock.’

  Not as much as I’ll be on Saturday if I dance as badly as I did in front of Valentina, I think. It won’t only be the watering system that I lose. It will be this place. Miguel and Antonio’s home. I know he’s down there now, with the horses, working out what’s going to happen to them if we don’t win. Where will they go? Will he be able to keep the mare and colt together? My heart twists. I may have lost the Butterfly Bar, but he has so much more to lose. He has people and animals who rely on him for their home and security.

  ‘I haven’t even got anywhere to stay,’ Olivia sniffs. ‘Gav’s in the apartment. I got a taxi here. My case is down in the car park.’

  I sigh heavily again. ‘Go and get your stuff. Grab a shower. It won’t be what you’re used to, but it’ll freshen you up. I’ll ask Harold and Brenda if they know of a B and B for a few nights, until you can get your flight back home.’

  She stands up and goes to make her way down the steps to the zigzag path. ‘Will it have Wi-Fi?’ she asks, and I roll my eyes.

  ‘Perhaps staying off social media for a bit would be the best thing you can do,’ I say, wondering why I ever found Olivia intimidating.

  Once she has gone, Miguel and I turn to look at each other. He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Beti. Your deposit money . . . I spent it and now you have nothing!’ He puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out the envelope with his winnings in it. ‘Here, take this. I insist!’ he says with tears in his eyes. ‘What are you going to do? You need to pay for your bar on Saturday.’

  ‘Keep it, Miguel. It’s not enough to help me out. It’s fine. I’d need a miracle to get me out of this one.’ I think about Harold and Brenda. All their hopes and dreams resting on me. I feel sick thinking about the people I’m letting down.

  Miguel looks out over the cherry orchard again, leaning against the hand-made railings. Neither of us speaks, lost in our own thoughts. Finally he turns to me.

  ‘I do have an idea . . .’ and his eyes sparkle, looking just like his father’s did when we ended our dance, when anything seemed possible; and my insides do a little clap and an ‘Olé!’, making me shiver with excitement.

  ‘We can’t!’

  ‘We can!’ His eyes widen as the idea grows. ‘It’s the only answer. Pedro will help get the word out, and once he does, I’m sure everyone will want to come.’

  ‘But it’s against the law!’

  ‘It’s not against the law. It was just banned, by an old priest who isn’t even alive any more.’ Miguel stands up and waves his arms in the direction of the sleepy square. ‘A bit like this town!’

  He’s right. In my heart, I know he’s right. I look at him. He is so much older than his seventeen years, and yet still a boy too, albeit one who has thrived since being here.

  ‘Will people really want to come?’ I ask him.

  ‘Look!’ he says, leading me back into the barn. ‘Look at these posters on the walls. My father was a well-known flamenco dancer. People came to see him from all over the country. They will come if they hear he is dancing again. Pedro has told me of his reputation, his career. He was greatly admired. He was known as the Horse Whisperer, El Susurrador de Caballo. Or just Horse.’

  ‘The horse whisperer. That’s what I called him when I first saw him working with the colt.’

  ‘He is known for his work with horses as much as his dancing. Look!’ Miguel points at the posters, and I see Antonio’s faded face, under a wide-brimmed hat. I’d recognise that determined chin and knitted brow anywhere.

  ‘We will tell everyone it is the return of the Horse Whisperer, and they will pay!’

  Even I am feeling excited about the return of the Horse Whisperer. And really, what choice do we have?

  ‘So let me get this right, you’re suggesting we sell tickets, make it a proper . . . what’s the word?’

  ‘Peña,’ he tells me. ‘Just like they used to hold here. Not for tourists, but for the real lovers of flamenco. We bring the barn back to life. Sell tickets on the door.’

  I look around. It would be wonderful to see this place being used.

  ‘What? Put up posters in the harbour and spread the word?’ I’m beginning to think this might actually be a good idea. It’s growing like the swell of music and footsteps as a dance gathers pace.

  ‘Yes! And this.’ He waves his phone. ‘We put it on social media.’

  ‘But what about Antonio? He will go mad!’

  ‘He won’t know. Not until it’s too late.’ If we tell him, he’ll say no. But it’s that or lose the lot! You lose your bar. We lose our home.’

  ‘And Harold and Brenda’s dream of moving home will be over. They’ll be practically packed!’

  ‘This way the dance-off can go ahead. No one in the town will know it isn’t a party for tourists. Your cousin’s party. Antonio can still try and save the farm and you can still try and get the bar. It has to be worth trying!’

  ‘And I’ll have to dance in front of everyone? The crowd that turns up?’ I say, beginning to shake as the nerves rush in.

  He nods slowly but says nothing. And with my fear growing by the second, I nod too. I have to try.

  Olivia joins us with her huge pink case bouncing off the tufts of grass. She’s hot and sweaty and out of breath.

  ‘I can’t get hold of Mum or Dad,’ she says, holding up her phone with her spare hand. ‘I don’t know what to tell them. I’ve never been dumped before. And they were so looking forward to showing off to their friends!’

  ‘Well, just wait a bit. You may yet have a party that will get everyone talking,’ I tell her, and glance at Miguel, who is busy on Facebook.

  ‘God! Really?’ says Olivia, and she throws her arms around me. ‘Oh I knew I could rely on you, Bet. You’re a star! I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Thank you for doing this for me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not doing it for you, Olivia,’ I say evenly. ‘I’m doing it for me . . . and the people I’ve come to care about.’

  She looks at me blankly, but I’m pretty sure we understand each other. If only she knew . . . I might be making the biggest mistake of my life. If I fail now, everyone will see my mistakes. This has to go according to plan or I will have let everyone down. Nothing can stop it happening, and I’m absolutely terrified.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  ‘What? No! It can’t be! Not this weekend!’

  Antonio is pushing his phone into the top pocket of his checked shirt, open over a white T-shirt. He’s standing by the horses’ paddock. Miguel and I are escorting Olivia and her case down to the square to get the bus to the harbour. He has put up a hand to stop us and deliver the news.

  ‘It has to be. The harvest has to be brought forward. It must happen now. Next weekend will be too late. It’s how these things are. There is heavy rain forecast. I must get the cherries in or they will be ruined. I need pickers. Everyone out to the orchard. I mean everyone.’ He looks at Olivia firmly. This time Olivia is well aware of who’s in charge.

  ‘But the p . . . p . . . party?’ I stop myself saying peña.

  ‘What party? There is no party now there is no money to pay for it,’ Antonio barks, and I hear Olivia squeak. ‘A
nd the dance-off will have to be cancelled.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. People are expecting a peña. Word has gone out. They are expecting the Horse Whisperer to dance again!

  ‘No!’ I reply. ‘You can’t do that! That will mean they think you couldn’t do it, that you’ve given up. You’ll lose the bet! You’ll lose this place!’

  ‘I cannot risk losing the harvest. I cannot let this town down again. Maybe this place would be better in someone else’s hands. Someone who can pay for a watering system. Someone who can take care of the land and all its history better than me,’ he says, beaten.

  ‘No, Antonio! You love this place! No one could love it like you do,’ I find myself blurting out, wanting to reassure him. He turns to look at me but says nothing. ‘How long does the harvest usually take?’ I ask.

  ‘About a week,’ he replies flatly.

  ‘And how long have we got to do it in?’

  ‘Two days,’ he says, as deadpan as before. ‘The rain is due Saturday evening.’

  ‘Can any of the locals help?’ I ask helpfully.

  He shakes his head. ‘They have their own harvest to bring in. We are all in the same boat.’ He goes to the barn, bringing out a stack of crates and plonking them on the ground before looking up at the sunless sky.

  I take a huge breath. ‘If I can get you pickers, if we can get the harvest in, the dance-off can still happen, yes?’

  He narrows his eyes at me. ‘If you think you can get me pickers and we can get the harvest in, then yes, we will still dance.’ He glances at Olivia, who, unusually, says nothing.

  ‘Miguel, tell people to come, to help pick the cherry harvest on Saturday.’ I nod meaningfully to him and his phone. ‘Here, let me see.’ I take the phone from him and type in the words ‘cherry harvest festival’ at the top of his post, then hand it back.

  Antonio frowns deeply.

  ‘Don’t worry, Papa. Social media is a wonderful thing. We’ll get you pickers.’ Miguel grins at me and starts tapping on his phone. Antonio is looking at him, amazed that he has finally called him Papa.

  I feel like I can sense the storm about to come. I’m hot, my head feels heavy, giving me a headache. I just want this to be over. I don’t even know if anyone is going to come. All we can do is spread the word far and wide in the flamenco world. ‘The Horse Whisperer is dancing again. Come and be part of the cherry harvest and see him dance again.’ It might all be for nothing. Perhaps no one will come and there won’t be any money anyway. And if Antonio finds out what I’ve done, or any of the locals get wind of it, there will be hell to pay.

  ‘Well then, let’s get picking.’ I clap my hands together to try and quell my nerves.

  For the rest of the day, Miguel, Olivia, Bonita, Frank, Antonio and I work the rows of cherry trees in the orchards. We operate in pairs: one up the tree on a ladder, the other picking the lower cherries. Hardly anyone talks. Only the birds on the wires chatter, as if watching chefs at work preparing a long-awaited meal. The clouds begin to build. We’re all watching the sky every few minutes. Valentina is nowhere to be seen, other than a glimpse of her car in the car park. I’m guessing she’s been for her belongings and gone again. In the distance there is the sound of other family farms all doing the same as us, picking to save the cherry harvest.

  We work until we can no longer see the cherries on the trees. Aching and weary, we stack the crates of fruit, and then Bonita feeds us the most amazing tortilla española, Spanish omelette. We sit out on the terrace. It is pitch black all around us. Bonita cuts the vast yellow omelette and serves each of us a big triangle, and we help ourselves to a bowl of salad, crunchy leaves drizzled in glorious green olive oil. I take a mouthful of the fluffy eggs. I’m almost too exhausted to chew, but it slowly melts on my tongue. The onions are sweet like caramel, and the potatoes tender. It’s all lifted by the glorious taste of parsley that Bonita will have picked from outside the back door. There are pools of herby oil and butter on my plate that I mop up with a handful of pan rustico, crusty on the outside and soft as a pillow on the inside.

  Having eaten everything on my plate, I sit back feeling thoroughly satisfied. I glance across at Bonita.

  ‘I don’t know how you did all this as well as helping with the harvest.’

  She beams. ‘There is always time to cook for the ones we love,’ she says with a satisfied smile, looking round the table.

  Restored by the wonderful food, we all begin to find the power of conversation again, talking about the picking, and the bits of our body that ache. Even Olivia seems like a different person. Everyone is chatting away, except Antonio, who sits in contemplative silence, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Later, we close up the cortijo. Antonio offers Olivia a spare bed in the apartment, and I feel a strange pang, wondering if she is going to attempt to move in where Valentina has left. None of my business, I tell myself. Ridiculous to worry. I’m overtired and my emotions are playing havoc with me.

  I heave my weary body up to my finca by the light of my phone, little bats darting in front of me as though guiding me home. In bed, I try and focus on Will’s face, wondering if he’s going to come to the dance-off. But my thoughts, despite my best efforts, keep turning back to Antonio and his worried expression. I wish I could reassure him that everything will be fine, but I can’t. I have no idea if any pickers will turn up, or if I can win this bet for him.

  I sit bolt upright in bed. It’s Saturday. It’s today! It’s dark outside and I wonder if I’ve actually slept at all – it feels like my head hit the pillow just five minutes ago. But no, I check my phone and see it’s time to get up. Today is the day. We must get the harvest in in order to compete in the dance-off. The clock is against us. I wonder whether to lay out my dress and shoes, but don’t want to tempt fate. We have a huge amount of cherry trees to get through. I have no idea how we’ll do it before the rain comes if we don’t get help.

  As dawn comes, we all gather on the terrace outside the cortijo, drinking strong coffee and eating bread with butter and home-made cherry jam that Bonita has brought in a basket from home. There’s a strong wind blowing, hissing through the trees. I feel too nervous to eat, but Bonita insists, and the taste of the jam – thick, sweet and full of fruit – is out of this world. Even Olivia is up – well, upright. She looks totally out of her comfort zone. Antonio apparently insisted there was no time for things like showers and make-up; there was work to be done. Olivia, it seems, has done as she was told. She’s standing here looking like Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous, with her hair on end and yesterday’s make-up still smudged into the corners of her eyes. What would her picture look like on Facebook now? I wonder with gentle amusement.

  ‘To work!’ Antonio orders as the light starts to creep over the hills on the far side of the valley. ‘The rain is due at sunset. We have to get the harvest in!’

  I swallow hard. Miguel and I swap glances, hoping that the word he’s put out is going to work. I scan the car park. But as it stands, it’s just us and a whole bunch of cherries to get in. The wind whips around my ears and I pull my hoody up. Everyone is silent. Even Olivia senses the urgency of the situation. Antonio marches to the barn, where the horses have already been fed and watered. He pulls out the crates and starts handing out the wooden ladders. We turn to the orchard, my heart in my boots. It’s just us. We’ll never get all the cherries in before sunset tonight, before the rain is due.

  Heavy-hearted, we set up the ladders and the crates. The wind is rolling through the trees, rubbing up against our faces, teasing and taunting us. The light on the horizon is growing all the time. The horses, sensing something in the air, are galloping at speed around the paddock, their tails flying high, the colt dancing and bucking more than the rest.

  As the dawn rolls in, so does a battered old red car into the car park. The doors squeak open on their rusty hinges and three young people step ou
t. The one on the passenger side pulls the seat forward, allowing a young woman to get out from the back. She hands him a guitar. The driver looks around and smiles. They’re all dressed in colourful clothes, soft billowing shirts for the men and a full layered skirt for the young woman. They shiver at the wind and pull on jackets and jumpers from the boot.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Antonio frowns.

  They’ve come. People are coming! Miguel and I look at each other, and if we could, we’d jump for joy. Maybe we will be able to get the harvest in, have the dance-off and save the farm after all.

  A second car pulls in behind the first, and my heart gives another leap of joy.

  ‘Beti? Who are these people?’ says Antonio.

  ‘Pickers!’ I announce.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pickers. You need pickers, and these people have come to help pick!’

  ‘You have got me pickers?’ He looks astounded. He glances over at the young people again, then back at me, and as his face breaks into a wide smile, my heart starts stamping out its familiar beat, the rhythm of the sevillana, the beat of the courting couple. Stop it! I tell myself. Think of Will. Tonight, if Antonio is right, I will be back with my fiancé!

  ‘Gracias,’ he says, and turns towards the cherry orchard.

  ‘And Antonio . . . if people have come to pick, we can still dance tonight?’

  He looks at me and gives a single nod. ‘If the cherries are in, we will dance.’ He walks off up the orchard to organise more crates, and I smile watching him go.

  Miguel jogs over to greet the pickers.

  ‘Is that him? Is that the Horse Whisperer?’ I hear them ask. Miguel looks round at Antonio, and I can see his chest filling with pride.

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘And is it true? Is he going to dance again?’ the girl asks. ‘We read on the internet to meet here at dawn.’

  Miguel nods. ‘Once the cherries are in, he will dance.’