The Lemon Grove

by Helen Walsh

  26

  The storm has blown itself out as she limps back along the dirt track. As she comes through the broken gate, she stops to watch the shape-shifting hens, bobbing and pecking at the soil in the grove. A sun lounger, illuminated in the pool lights, is half-submerged in the water. She drags the two remaining loungers from the lip of the pool and slides them underneath the terrace steps. There’s not much point in trying to salvage them now, though. Benni will be up here at first light, assessing the damage, licking his lips at the portion of their deposit he can keep for damages.

  The darkness is drifting out to silver, and up in the mountains, goat bells start up their maudlin chimes. She can’t quite countenance this new day, and what it will bring. She lingers on the terrace listening to the hum of the fridge inside. Afraid to go in, she paces the grove, retracing her footsteps from last night. Did Emma see them? No. Impossible. Too dark. But she remembers – she tries to shy away from it, but she remembers, and she hates it, the noise coming out of her. They’d started quietly, fingers in one another’s mouths, but she’d let go, howling alien, obscene words and thoughts. If Emma had been there, she would have clubbed her with a log.

  Jenn is tired; she is changing her mind with each pace this way, each step that. She circles the house and her dead-beat mind sets up little tripwires in the half-light. She sees Benni spying on her from behind a shrub. She bustles over – there’s nobody there. She steels herself. She’ll have to face Nathan sooner or later, and she’s suddenly parched. Gingerly, she steps inside. There is no sound; nothing here, not a creak from upstairs. The notion that he’s drifted off, carefree, listening to his music, enrages her. She swigs orange juice straight from the carton, gulp after gulp. There’s only an inch or so left. She catches her breath, ready to finish it off. She spies the slender wrap of Serrano ham stuffed to the back of the fridge like a child might hide a half-eaten cake. She remembers the two of them, lovers, feeding one another. She takes the packet out, despondent; ashamed of herself. There are two slices left. She takes out cling film and wraps the ham sadly, carefully – then places it back on the shelf next to Greg’s artisan cheeses and olives. She leans with her back to the fridge and closes her eyes so that she can feel its solid weight burring through her. She finishes the orange juice and, aware that she is doing things mechanically to put off the moment, she shoves the empty carton in the recycling bag. She is fumbling through her handbag, looking for her phone charger, when the image plays in front of her tired eyes in saturated slow motion. She steadies herself on the cold tiles and stares back at the fridge, the scene of the crime, desperately trying to bring it all back; but yes, she is certain. Vegetarian Nathan was gulping moist mountain ham from her lips.

  She takes the stairs, two at a time. Her heart is banging. The hippy girl. Monica. All those early morning jogs. The salt in his hair; on his skin.

  In the time it takes her to get to his bedroom two things become clear: Nathan is screwing Monica; and Emma knows. That’s where Emma has gone; the hippy cave.

  His room is empty; the drawers are open, emptied out. She snatches his wardrobe door open – and though she expects it, even though it’s best this way, she is defenceless against the silent howl of rage that splits her in two.

  27

  She can see the white heads of the waves slamming into the cliff as she crosses the little wooden bridge. The river bed, usually bone dry, is a fierce and racing torrent. From the bridge she can see the rocky cove, fully submerged. It is unthinkable that Emma, with her leg, could have approached the hippy cave from the beach; yet the only other way is via the cliff path – even more dangerous, in these conditions. For the first time, Jenn starts to fear for Emma.

  A green-pink light is starting to rinse the sky. The stone steps are steep and uneven, hewn from the rock’s natural ridges. No way could Emma negotiate these on crutches – and yet some inner motor propels Jenn on. Somehow, she knows that this is where she’s gone. She sits like Emma did, out on the terrace, and shuffles up the steps backwards, one at a time, using just one leg to help lever herself up. The last step, a sliver of stone that’s not much wider than her foot, is partially blocked by a huge tree-trunk, uprooted overnight. If Emma is up there, then she went before the storm. She didn’t see her, cavorting; unhinged. Relieved, despising herself, she hauls herself over the trunk and forges onwards, and upwards.

  Even in the low light, she can see the devastation that the storm has wreaked. The path is blocked by huge, severed branches and the big orbs of rock the uprooted trees have dislodged. She moves slowly, planting each step with caution. The storm has gone, but the terrain still feels vulnerable in its aftermath: up above, the creak and groan of tree limbs warns her to turn back. But she is out there. She knows her girl is there, somewhere.

  It’s useless. The further up the cliff path she penetrates, the more dangerous it becomes. She rounds a familiar bend expecting a gentle, staggered skip down to the next level only to find a gouged-out ochre hole. The path has simply slipped away with the headland. She stands there, beaten. That monumental promontory squats still, devoid of any life, human or animal. She could just stay here and never go back. A gunshot reverberates from the mountains above. Something is moving, then. Life goes on. Jenn holds the slender waist of a sapling with one hand and, timidly, begins her sideways descent.

  She sees the hippy cave and her spirits sink. Even if Emma made it as far as the overhang, it’s unthinkable that she could have picked her way down the escarpment, and yet while the light is still low, and for as long as the new day holds off, there’s still a flake of hope, she can’t give up. She pushes on.

  It’s daylight by the time she reaches the overhang. A gentle warmth disperses the early morning mist, and there’s an apricot sky, promising sunshine soon. Nearby, a spring wends down the mountain to the sea, and she’s thirsty once more. She kneels on the slick rocks and scoops handfuls of cuttingly cold water into her mouth. It seems to sharpen her senses. She should go back. Emma could not have made it this far. And yet the cave is just there, on the other side of the mountain brook. She can smell burnt charcoal on the wind, and she knows she must push on. Even if Emma hasn’t made it, there are things she needs to hear from Monica herself.

  The way down to the cave is steep, but navigable. She sits, facing the sea, leans back so that her shoulder blades are almost touching the ground beneath and slides down the scarp, a yard at a time, using the rocks that stud the springy heath as brakes. The sun bursts through the haze as she drops down onto the ridge above the cave, and she feels its warmth on her cheeks straight away. She leans back against an oblong block of rock and shields her eyes from the sun. She can see right across the bay into the restaurant where the four of them circled one another that first day. The storm has torn down a chunk of its woven palm-leaf thatch. The matron is sweeping up the debris; custom will be slow today, with the red flag flapping in the wind. She is directly above the cave. She lowers herself down and drops the last couple of feet. At the side of the cave, there’s a small wooden ladder nailed into the rock face.

  She hesitates, then goes in. The cave is empty. The remnants of a fire still burn, and beside it, an old mattress. Far from the hippy idyll she’s conjured up, the dank interior is strewn with empty cans and crisp packets. She gags and staggers back out.

  She is back on the cliff path, high up enough to see the police car turn into their drive. It feels like a portent – the silence. The car is moving in fatal slow motion, yet she cannot hear a sound; only her jagged breathing, and the chirrup of chicks, way up above. She steadies herself and tries to breathe more slowly, deeply, steeling herself for the worst, when she hears something – just: a sobbing that rises on the wind then fades to silence. She freezes, one of her hands resting on a pine to hold herself firm while she strains to make sure. She barely breathes, listening out and pleading for her cries to come again; she’d know their cadence anywhere. There is nothing. Her fatigued and foggy conscience is playing tricks on
her. She pushes herself off from the pine and walks on. She is tired. She sorely needs to lie down; yet down below, the police are knocking at the door and she knows, absolutely, that their call will bring no peace.

  It comes again, closer this time. Short percussive sobs. She scans her surroundings, the coarse scrub leading down to the cliff edge, below; the pine forest above her, leading up towards banked terraces of olive trees beyond. She stands still and tries to isolate the source of these cries – then she sees it. There’s a casita overlooking a rutted, abandoned olive grove. She’s done this walk a hundred times yet never noticed it – no more than a shepherd’s hut or a hunter’s shelter. It is overhung by gnarled trees and the cracked ground around it is barren, spiked with angry and diminutive thorn trees. The cries come again, more of a hopeless whimper this time, and Jenn knows she has found her.

  28

  The sun dips low on the horizon and, with the cooler air, the beach begins to empty; disparate clumps of people are merging into a single flow as they make their way to the road. Jenn folds up their towels and packs the empty water bottles into the wicker bag. She helps Emma to her feet and casts a glance up at the cave. No one has returned to it since the storm, yesterday.

  They pick their way across the shingle, Emma already adept at negotiating the uneven surface. She hesitates as they pass the beach café. The wizened jewellery vendor throws them an expectant look but continues packing up. Emma lets Jenn know, with her eyes, with her rueful smile, that she needs to linger for a moment, by herself. Jenn gives her shoulder a tender squeeze and walks a little way up the hill. She perches on a rock and waits for her.

  From deep in Emma’s bag, a phone bleeps. Jenn stiffens. Its klaxon has been blaring out all day; she could hear it on the beach, and each time her stomach would clench. Each time, Emma perfunctorily deleted the message without reading it. Jenn has no idea where he’s spent the last twenty-four hours. He could be back in Manchester now; it is possible that he’s still here in Deià, holed up with his new girl. She suspects that Emma knows and that the answer lies in her bag. She slides her hand in and locates the phone.

  Yesterday, in the shepherd’s hut, Emma had tried to tell her, but, each time, she’d broken down in tears. She couldn’t face going back to the villa; neither could Jenn, but the late-morning sun seared the tops of their heads through the holes in the roof and forced them back. They made their way, slowly, through the forest, Emma stalling every so often and succumbing to tears. She barely said a word, but Jenn felt it keenly: her torment, her sadness. There was remorse, too. Neither of them could bring themselves to say it – sorry – they didn’t need to; both of them seemed to know. At the rickety gate, as though winding back time, Emma had set down one of her crutches, and extended an arm to Jenn. Jenn ignored the sudden burst of activity on the terrace above; she slid her fingers through Emma’s and squeezed. Sorry. I love you.

  Emma had slept for the rest of the day, although Jenn suspected that this was as much to avoid her father’s probing as fatigue catching up with her. She appeared on the terrace shortly after he’d left for the village. She had sat down at the table, poured herself a glass of wine, and indicated with a nod that she was ready to talk.

  It wasn’t the first time. It had happened once before, not long after they started dating. She pulled pints in his local. She wasn’t even pretty, and somehow that hurt more than the betrayal itself. He denied it, even now he could never admit to it, but she knew; everyone knew. And a part of her blamed herself: it served her right for being so uptight, so damn cautious. The week before they came away, Nathan had given her an ultimatum: if she didn’t love him enough to make that sort of commitment, then he didn’t see any point in his coming out to Deià with her. They did it the night before they came away. She could forgive him for the bartender but she could never, ever forgive him for Monica.

  Jenn lets the phone fall from her grip, and slide back into the bag. She is stricken with remorse, then self-loathing. It hits her in waves.

  Tomorrow they will go home, the three of them. There is nothing she wants more.

  The last of the beach traffic has left by the time Emma limps into view. She is surprised and pleased that Jenn has waited. As she gets closer it’s clear she’s been crying, the soft hazel of her eyes rimmed red with tears, but she looks better for it.

  They can hear the spit and crackle of a bonfire as they reach the path, still strewn with tree bark. Greg is chatting to Benni. He is standing with his back straight, purposeful. He’s holding a sheaf of papers in one hand; with the other, he is tossing them, one at a time, into the flames. There is no hint of the ill mood that Benni’s presence usually begets. Greg is nodding his head in slow, considered acceptance of whatever Benni is telling him. Jenn suspects her husband is making his peace. They will not be returning to Villa Ana next year.

  Greg raises a hand in greeting as he hears the scrape of the gate on the gravel; Benni turns round, steps a little way from Greg. He gives Jenn a sheepish look then scuttles off with his rake to the other side of the lemon grove. Greg turns to smile at them as they come alongside him.

  ‘Nice day?’ he asks.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Jenn says. Her eyes are still trained on Benni. He looks back over his shoulder as though sensing her watching him. ‘Although the sun would have been insufferable without that breeze from the sea.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Emma says and leans her head on Jenn’s shoulder. ‘It was good just to be able to kick back and do nothing.’ She gestures to her plastered leg. ‘You do realise I’m going to have a two-tone leg for the rest of the year.’

  The three of them laugh. Benni is walking down the path to his van, smiling now. He throws them a wave and the little stub of anxiety in Jenn’s chest fades to nothing.

  ‘How about you, señor?’ Jenn nods at the incinerated papers, burnt to flaking charcoal. ‘That’s not what I think it is, is it?’

  ‘It is precisely what you think it is,’ he declares. He sees Emma’s face fall and snorts. ‘Couldn’t figure out how to end it. It’s pretty execrable actually.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you let someone else be the judge of that?’ Jenn asks him.

  ‘Not this time,’ Greg says and shuffles across to Emma so all three of them are in a row, watching it burn to ash.

  Jenn is conscious of the moment; the slow dissipation of the day; the sun, a dried-blood red; the three of them, healing.

  ‘Right, I’m off to bath before dinner,’ Emma says. She gives Jenn a hopeful look. ‘Can you help me get in and out?’ Jenn nods; smiles. ‘Where are we going, again?’

  Greg gives them a teasing, inscrutable smile. Emma pokes him.

  ‘Come on, Dad! Where have you booked? A girl needs to know what to wear, for goodness’ sake!’

  He shakes his head. ‘This is one place we don’t need to book.’ Jenn tries to catch his eye. There’s something about him, he’s reborn, and she likes it. His eyes dance on Emma.

  ‘Wear what you like. But be quick about it, yes?’

  Emma leans on Jenn’s shoulder and they start up the path to the villa, but Greg catches up with them. He touches Jenn’s elbow, signals for her to hang back. She gives Emma a smile.

  ‘You go on up, darling. I’ll give you a hand in a minute.’

  Greg waits till Emma is out of earshot.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Christopher.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve made a decision. I’m not going back.’

  Jenn nods, unsure what to say. She smiles, tries to project confidence.

  ‘Good … good. I’m glad.’

  She wraps her arms around his big solid frame. ‘It’s going to be fine, Greg. I promise.’

  She closes her eyes tight and lays her face flat along his broad chest.

  Jenn takes the white cotton dress off the hanger; it still has its label intact. She snips it off with the nail scissors, slips the dress on. She sits at the dressing table and fixes her hair. Tonight, she’ll wear it up, just how Greg like
s it. As she pins it in place she sees that around her temples, a few stray greys are starting to poke through. She drags one out above her head and picks up the nail scissors, but then stops herself. She fancies that this time, she might live with them a while, see how she gets on.

  Jenn and Emma sit on the terrace drinking wine, smoking. They can hear Greg getting ready upstairs. Footfall sails closer to the balcony above, and Emma quickly passes the cigarette to Jenn. They hear him move back into the bathroom and Jenn passes it back, winking.

  The darkness is deepening, the air is cooling. They can hear Greg trimming his beard. They smile at one another and sip at their wine – Jenn a split second after Emma. Stars are pinning the sky. The metronomic burr of cicadas seems to occupy every bit of space around them, then cuts to silence. It starts up again, just like that. Last night, flushed with brandy, Greg had told them how the male cricket makes that noise by running the top of one wing against the bottom of the other. ‘Like they’re crying?’ Emma said. ‘No, not at all,’ he’d replied. ‘Like they’re washing their hands of someone.’