Jenny Telfer Chaplin

by Hopes

  With the candour of youth, Kyra said: “What’s stopping you then? Hunter says you were the best journalist he’s ever worked with. You’ve given up a good job for what? Just to sit around in the afternoon sun like all these pensioners with their walking sticks and Zimmers?”

  “Things aren’t quite as simple as they might appear. I’m just taking a last look at Glasgow before I leave tonight for Tenerife.”

  “Tenerife! Lucky you. My parents had a couple of weeks in the Canary Islands last winter – they’re still raving on about it. They said if they had the courage, they’d pack up and go out there for good.”

  Ivy tapped the side of her nose. “About Tenerife, that’s classified info, Kyra. OK? No one else needs to know yet what I’m up to.”

  Kyra nodded. “Yes, OK. I’d best be getting back to the office. Hunter will think I’ve gone to China for this packet of tea. Anyway, enjoy your new life. Hope it all works out OK for you. Send me a postcard.”

  Later that same evening as the plane took off from Glasgow International Airport and Ivy relaxed in a window seat, she thought: First time in my life I’ve ever done anything like this – simply book an air ticket to a destination without weeks of planning. No idea of hotel accommodation or length of stay, not even speaking the language and not a phrase book in sight. Yes, this self-awareness lark really has something going for it.

  “Sorry, were you speaking to me?” the passenger in the seat beside her asked.

  Ivy clapped a hand to her mouth. “I must have been thinking aloud. Suddenly, I just feel so damned glad to be alive, to be free, to be able to go where I will, into uncharted territory.”

  Her fellow passenger shrugged, raised his eyebrows and said: “Well, have a great holiday.”

  Ivy wanted to shout: “I’m not drunk! I’m not going on holiday. I’m changing my life.” But reason prevailed.

  Anyway, who cares. I’ll close my eyes. Pretend I’m asleep and enjoy my own thoughts.

  Despite the lack of planning for this trip – or perhaps even on account of the spontaneity – Ivy soon found to her amazement, somehow everything seemed to slot into place effortlessly. It was as if, because it was meant to be, everything in connection with the trip turned up in the right place and at exactly the right time.

  She made her way to the pension she had found in down town Puerto de la Cruz for an afternoon siesta to be greeted like a long-lost but returning daughter by Pilar, her motherly hostess. Pilar insisted they share a coffee and some little Magdalena cakes before the hour of siesta. The two women sat chatting in the flower-bedecked little courtyard. The canaries in their cages twittered endlessly, the water in the fountain trickled over black volcanic rocks and with much laughter Ivy and Pilar talked in a riotous mixture of Spanish, English, and pidgin English. Between the intense heat of the day, the rather over-energetic walk she had taken along the sea front, and the generous amount of wine over lunch, Ivy felt her eyes growing heavy.

  Excusing herself to the still garrulous Pilar, Ivy made her way upstairs to her room. There she collapsed back on the bed with a sigh of deep contentment. So far, her-spur-of-the-moment adventure was proving to be the best ever experience of her entire life. She wished the freedom of it could go on forever.

  Aware of how easily she was slipping into the Spanish way of life, as she drifted off to sleep her last thought was: Tomorrow, manâna, I’ll have to start thinking – what next? This manâna approach suits me only too well.

  However, for the moment she felt relaxed and happy to let life take her where it would.

  My father would have a fit. He always has to have everything planned in advance like a military operation. Oh! The freedom, the joyous freedom of just going with the flow.

  After another few weeks her money was still holding out and with every day spent in the pension she was becoming more and more like Pilar’s adopted daughter.

  So much for casting off family ties, Ivy thought, but somehow this is different. It isn’t based on long years of parental control, negative thought and restrictions on when and where I should do or not do something.

  What brought it home most vividly to Ivy of just how much she had been accepted into Pilar’s family – her extended family – was the invitation to be part of the celebration of her hostess’s sister’s birthday.

  “Ivy, Saturday evening we make party. My little sister – she become half-a-hundred – how you say, fifty? We all want you to join us.”

  On Saturday to Ivy’s surprise the fiesta was not to be in the pension. The assembled relatives decided noisily and spontaneously: “Tonight we go to a typico – an old farmhouse restaurant. Lots of them around Puerto. You will love this, Ivy, musica, vino, tapas, bailar – yes? Tonight, even old grandfather will dance.”

  In a fleet of cars of various vintages they roared off into the dark of the Canarian night. Ivy revelled in the sense of camaraderie, and delighted in the utter spontaneity of it all. On arrival at the finca restaurant the proprietor was not the least fazed by the arrival of such a large, exuberant, unbooked party of diners. Able bodied volunteers were conscripted to move heavy wooden benches and tables and arrange them into larger formations to accommodate the new guests.

  That done, everyone seated, suddenly they had a party with typical Canarian dishes, wine flowing freely and catchy, toe-tapping music being played by a band of strolling students.

  Pilar’s prediction that even the grandfather would dance came true. He danced but it was just as well the evening ended when it did as it was beginning to become clear that the over-exuberant grandfather was in danger of dancing himself into the nearest clinica.

  As they emerged from the finca, the mist surrounding the area and the pitch blackness and raw cold of the night air, in sharp contrast to the warmth and comfort of the restaurant, hit them almost like a physical blow.

  As Ivy began to shiver uncontrollably, Edurnia, the half-century birthday girl, said something in Spanish which was well beyond Ivy’s limited grasp of the language. There was a concerted, murmur of agreement. Then the uncle who had led them to this particular finca seemed to get a tongue-lashing from others in the group.

  Pilar rushed up to Ivy and tenderly draped a warm stole over Ivy’s shoulders and said: “Let’s get home now – away from this place.”

  The party certainly was over and it was a subdued group that made their way to the cars and some crossed themselves as they went.

  What had happened, Ivy wondered.

  The journey back to downtown Puerto de la Cruz was taken in stunned silence. Rather than happily intoxicated party-goers they now resembled nothing so much as mourners.

  As she thought about it she recalled her own behaviour the very moment she had left the restaurant and started to walk along the path bordering a fenced-off field.

  I wasn’t just shivering with cold. There was something else – a weird feeling of doom and disaster. That’s it I remember feeling exactly like that the one and only time I visited Glencoe. God knows precisely where on the island we were ... but my Spanish friends, the instant they felt the atmosphere, they knew. Crossing themselves and mumbling what sounded like prayers. They were praying!

  Later, Pilar told her they had in fact been praying – praying for the souls of the departed who had perished at Tenerife’s northern airport. Hundreds had died when two planes collided on the mist-enshrouded runway which lay on the other side of the fence Ivy had been walking along.

  Chapter Five

  After another week of glorious sunshine, excellent Canarian food and wine, Ivy thought: Why not sit out this winter here? In this ‘Island of Eternal Spring’? After all it isn’t as if I’ve anything pressing needing my attention in Scotland. She sighed. But if I’m going to stay on here for another couple of months I’d better think about getting a job of some sort – my money won’t last forever. Perhaps I could earn enough to get by on teaching English as a foreign language – lots of waiters and other hotel staff are keen to learn English.

&
nbsp; Then she smiled at the memory of the head waiter in one of Puerto’s top hotels who spoke like an Oxford don, frightfully correct BBC Queen’s English.

  No, my students, if I was lucky enough to get any, would all end up sounding more like Glasgow keelies – glottal stop and all. No, perhaps not the best choice of careers.

  Ivy bought a copy of ‘Tenerife News’ as she strolled along the sea front, then happily settled with her morning glass of wine she waded through the situation vacant columns. Having decided she was either underqualified or overqualified for most jobs and the rest had a language qualification she didn’t possess, she was on the point of dropping the paper into the bin when a photograph of two men in smart tropical suits caught her attention.

  I know that man, she thought, but it can’t be him.

  The accompanying article, written by one of the men who described himself as a self-confessed sceptic about the paranormal, described how on a chance visit to his wife’s office he was introduced to Bill McCaffrey a transfiguration medium from Scotland who was visiting Tenerife.

  So it is Bill!

  There followed a detailed account of sittings, meetings , and trancing carried out by Bill in the course of his supposed holiday. Ivy read the article twice

  What a coincidence! Well, Bill must be back in Scotland by now so there’s no chance of my meeting up with him here. But it has given me food for thought.

  She headed back to the shopping area.

  There’s an office-supply store someplace here. Even the most basic portable typewriter would do me now. I hope once I get started Pilar won’t be too bothered about the incessant clack-clack of my typewriter.

  She smiled as she remembered word-for-word the paper’s editor asking readers to send in their own accounts of paranormal happenings.

  I wonder how he will respond to a series of ‘on-the-fence’ articles on the topic?

  Life in Tenerife continued to be as warmly delightful as ever. Not only were her newspaper articles being well received by her readership, the money they earned was funding Ivy’s pleasant, if not luxurious, lifestyle.

  Pilar was happy with her permanent lodger. Although at first she refused any extra cash for what Ivy chose to call her ‘office space’, a cubby-hole in which Ivy typed, kept her filing system and generally worked from home. On occasion Pilar would accept a bulging sealed envelope handed over without comment from either woman.

  Also, these past months, what added to Ivy’s joy was the fact of now having a handsome male escort with whom she wined, danced and romanced. Francisco, a distant relative of Pilar’s, on holiday from the south of the island, had been so smitten by Ivy, that in a matter of weeks he had changed his entire life around. Thanks to the widespread net of the extended family, he rented a flat from one uncle in the La Paz district of Puerto, and from yet another uncle got a job as fast-order chef, singing waiter, and cleaner in one of his chain of beachside bars. A real stunning, dark-eyed, black-haired hunk of Canarian manhood.

  As Ivy sat surveying the passing scene it was borne home to her that she was not the only female on the beach to find Francisco attractive. A party of the most beautiful Spanish girls kept glancing over at him. Obviously well aware that every eye was on him, he made a great performance of coming to join Ivy. Once seated, he leant across, handed her a single rose and whispered in her ear. Ivy feeling a young girl again, rather than the divorced, disillusioned woman she was, found herself lapping up the attention.

  This is really living, she thought then said aloud: “Good job Pilar’s nowhere to be seen. She’s already got us engaged, would you believe?”

  Between the mix of Spanish, English and pidgin-English much of the precise nature of the conversation between Ivy and Francisco was lost.

  But, thought Ivy, the language of love is universal.

  Pilar, whose immediate family consisted of seven boys, was, Ivy knew, already planning the wedding of the new millennium for her adopted daughter from Scotland.

  However, some time later, quite by chance, Ivy said something about her ex-husband. From the stunned look on Pilar’s face it was obvious that Pilar knew what ex-husband meant in any language.

  There was no way that a divorced woman – innocent party or not – was going to be united with her relative, even if the Church would allow it. With Francisco’s film-star good looks, his family connections, his career prospects, he could have the pick of any Canarian or Spanish female – and it would not be a divorced woman. In this Roman Catholic country, family was all-important, marriage was sacred. A divorce! Not in Pilar’s family, thank you.

  After what Ivy privately called the ‘Revelation’, things were never quite the same between Pilar and Ivy – the mother-daughter closeness had gone.

  Francisco, still madly in love with Ivy and declaring that he was his own man in a modern world would have been happy to acknowledge Ivy as his live-in lover. However, having seen many unhappy outcomes of what old-fashioned Scots called ‘bidie-in’ households, Ivy would have no part in it.

  As yet unsure what to do, where to go, what her next career move should be, once again Ivy decided to drift along with the flow of life. She would finish her series, ‘A Sense of the Supernatural’ then just wait and see what would happen. Something would be bound to turn up.

  Her last article had been duly accepted and in phoning to tell Ivy this the Editor invited her to a forthcoming drinks party.

  “Just a few of our regular contributors, an informal get-together. You’ll enjoy it.”

  As Ivy prepared for the evening out she thought: Do me good to get out socially again. Meet a few people. Make a few business contacts – always useful in my job. Never know where it might lead.

  Leaving the pension, knowing she was looking her best in her new expensive outfit, she bumped into Pilar. The latter, aware now that the ‘danger’ was over since Francisco had found himself a more suitable, single Spanish girl, took one look at the vision before her. With cries of delight she gave Ivy a hug while talking rapidly in Spanish. Ivy, understanding about one word in twenty extricated herself and thanked Pilar for her good wishes. Feeling ten-feet tall, glad that, although perhaps not fully accepted back into the family, she was at least sure of her place in Pilar’s affectionate heart. She was keenly aware of the admiring, even lustful, glances being bestowed on her by passing males, Ivy strolled along the imposing sea front.

  It was a real mixed bag of guests – regular contributors like Ivy, occasional freelancers, advertising moguls, visiting swim-suit models, photographers. Then, there in the middle of it all, holding court in his usual fashion, was Bill McCaffrey, the Transfiguration Medium from Dunoon. He looked up, saw Ivy, gave her a quick nod of recognition, and waved her across to join his group.

  Excusing herself to the sub-editor she walked over. Outwardly cool, inwardly she was excited, thinking: What now? He is the last person on earth I would have expected to see here. Is this a sign? Is he the key to the next step on my life’s journey?

  On the outer edge of his circle of admirers, Ivy was glad she had splurged so much on the designer outfit she was wearing.

  The next evening found the urbane Bill calling for Ivy at Pilar’s pension. The moment Pilar clapped eyes on the tall, handsome man, Ivy could see she had set him up as a suitable escort, if not already bride-groom-in-waiting for ‘poor divorced Ivy’.

  Over the course of their meal Bill and Ivy chatted about life in general, Tenerife lifestyle in particular and by the time they had reached dessert they were well into an in-depth discussion about the paranormal.

  “Bill, I don’t know how you’ll take this, but I owe you a debt of gratitude. After all, you set me off on the path of spiritual enlightenment, self awareness and all that sort of ...”

  Her words trailed off as he butted in angrily: “Let’s get this straight! You owe me nothing, nothing! It’s spirit you should be thanking, not me. Do you understand?”

  Ivy flapped her hands at him. “Calma! Calma, as they say her
e. I guess it’s the Spanish equivalent of ‘Keep the heid’.”

  Bill gave a short laugh and Ivy went on: “It isn’t exactly as if I’d made an indecent suggestion to you is it? All I wanted to do was say, Thank you, for showing me what life can be like.”

  Again Bill laughed. “An obscene suggestion! You’d have got less of a reaction to that. No. The thing is, I get so angry when people try to credit me with what spirit has done, is doing, in their lives. It’s all down to spirit, and, of course, how people react to spiritual happenings, teachings and enlightenment.”

  “Angry? You? Surely not.”

  They opted to have coffee on the restaurant’s balcony overlooking the sea. As they gazed out over the moonlit-streaked waters Ivy felt it was a moment to treasure. Not for any romantic connotations but just for the feeling of peace, serenity, and of somehow being part of the whole of creation.

  Bill broke into the silence.

  “I know that you do love it out here – who wouldn’t? – but right now, although you’re at peace, even so I feel you are currently rather unsettled. Not sure which way to turn. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Well, you’re the psychic, you tell me.”

  “Having read your series of articles on the supernatural, I’d say you are decidedly more than a little psychic yourself.”

  “You’ve read them? How come?”

  “Hardly rocket science. I get the ‘Tenerife News’ sent to me in Scotland. Incidentally, you obviously don’t read it cover to cover yourself, otherwise you’d have known I was back here. I was invited back for a series of meetings this past couple of weeks. Very successful they were. Created a lot of interest in this Catholic oriented country.”

  “All news to me. But then I’ve had my head down working hard at my writing and ...”

  “And getting over a broken relationship, they’re telling me. A chap called Francisco, wasn’t it?”

  Ivy got to her feet. “For heaven’s sake – what is it with you? Do you know everything about me?”