by Lily Graham
‘So, you really think I should stay on a bit longer?’ I asked, my eye falling on the villa, with a frown. Could I stay here longer?
‘I do, Mum. I think this will be good for you. Tell you what, get my room ready, maybe I can come over for a long weekend at some point soon. Well, not soon soon, because I am the idiot who decided to study medicine, instead of what all the cool kids are doing, so I’m pretty much going to be studying for ever, but when I get a gap, you’re it.’
I grinned. ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal. And you know, love, I think you’re cool.’
‘You’re my mum, you have to think that.’
‘I’d think that even if I wasn’t.’
‘You have to say that too.’
I laughed. ‘Well. Anyway, I’m proud of you, you’re working so hard.’
‘Thanks Mum, and you know, Dad’s right, don’t resist this.’
I sighed. I was getting it from both ends now.
I walked back inside the house and put on the kettle again. By the time I’d made myself another cup of tea, I had made my decision.
‘Okay,’ I told James. ‘I’ll stay for a bit longer, all right?’
I’d use this time to recover, to find out about my family and perhaps to start writing the novel I’d promised my editor a year ago. If Sage could find the will to work so hard at her studies, I could do this, too. They say the old have a lot to teach the young, but it’s often the other way round as well. I felt something ease inside of me at the decision to stay a bit longer, to find out more about my family and get to know Maria. I hadn’t realised just how much I’d been in limbo till I made up my mind to stay.
It was early evening when I heard a knock on the door. I’d been using the back of a napkin from a nearby pizzeria to sketch out some ideas for a story, and chatting aloud to James’s ashes about it.
I hadn’t brought my laptop with me, as I hadn’t really thought that after a decade of not writing I would decide to write now, and was making a mental note to go and buy a notebook as soon as I could when the knocking interrupted me.
I paused in the hallway, wondering if the estate agent had come back. My heart started beating at the thought of another letter from James.
I opened the door with a degree of trepidation, only to stare in surprise when I found Big Jim standing outside, with his long grey ponytail hanging over a shoulder. He was wearing round, sixties-style glasses, faded denim blue jeans and another tie-dyed shirt that strained across his ample belly.
‘B— er Jim, hi,’ I said, opening the door, hesitating to call him Big Jim. While I’d enjoyed meeting him and spending time with Sue and Isla the other night at the Blues Bar, I wasn’t sure if I’d earned the privilege of the moniker just yet.
‘Good evening, Miss Charlotte,’ he said, taking off his glasses and bowing like an old-fashioned gentleman. There was a twinkle in his cornflower-blue eyes.
I laughed.
‘I’ve come bearing gifts,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ I said in surprise.
‘Yep,’ he replied, then went to his beaten-up Nissan and took out a bicycle from the boot. ‘I know you’re fond of your rental – the one I sort of dented when I crammed it in the back of my boot the other night, sorry! But’ – he gave me a somewhat bashful, though boyish, grin for his sixty-plus face – ‘I had this lying around my garage taking up space and I thought maybe you could put it to good use, save you those rental fees at any rate. What do you say? Why not see it as part of that new road you’re on?’
‘Jim! That’s so kind, thank you,’ I gasped, staring at the bicycle in shock. ‘It’s kind of strange, perfect timing really – I’ve just decided to stay on the island a bit longer than I originally intended.’
‘Ah,’ he said tapping his nose. ‘Something told me that might be the case.’
‘Really?’
‘Nah, had no idea! Had no idea you were originally intending it to be a short stay, not when you mentioned that you’d recently bought a house here.’
I laughed. That made sense.
It was an old mountain bike, with thick tyres and a navy frame, and an impressive set of gears that I knew would make getting around a lot easier than the heavy rental bike I had been using. ‘But why give me the bike? I mean, not to sound ungrateful or anything, it’s just you hardly know me.’
He rocked on his heels, swinging his ponytail over his shoulder. ‘That’s what we do here – look out for each other. Also, you know, it’s sort of nice just to be called Jim for once…’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.
‘You’ve never called me “Big Jim”. It’s not that I mind the nickname, but you know sometimes I’d like for people not to greet me by first sizing me up. I’m kinda more than just “a big guy”, ya know?’
My eyes widened, and I nodded, feeling oddly touched. He was a bit of a gentle giant really.
‘I know what you mean – my brother’s called me Twig for most of my life. I mean, I don’t mind it now, but it used to drive me bonkers…’
‘Twig? You?’
I laughed, especially when he spluttered, his face reddening. ‘Not that you’re not thin… or nothing, I mean you are very, er, I’ll stop now.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I laughed again. ‘I used to look a bit like a stick insect as a kid.’
I was thin now, I knew, but hardly twig-like, not with my hips, alas. Something childbearing had given and never taken back.
He grinned. ‘Sibling love, can’t beat it.’
‘Yeah – though he’s great, Allan. You’d like him.’
It was probably true, even if they were about as alike as oil and water.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ I offered.
He shrugged. ‘Won’t say no,’ he said and followed me inside to the kitchen, where I put the kettle on and fetched two of the four mugs I currently owned, quickly taking James’s urn and putting it into a cupboard, whispering a quick sorry under my breath that I had to put him away. Though it wasn’t as if Jim would know that the urn held my husband’s ashes, I thought. Still I didn’t want to have to explain that.
Jim brought the bike inside and leant it up against the wall in the hallway.
‘Thanks so much for the bike. I could pay you for it?’ I offered.
He shook his head. ‘Like I said, we weren’t using it. Actually it was Sue’s idea – it was her bike, but she’s got a scooter now.’
I grinned. ‘I like Sue.’
‘Feeling’s mutual. You know she’s read all your books.’
I blushed. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, she went online and bought them when she heard you were that Charlotte Woolf. Thinks you’re pretty great.’
I looked down, blushing. The truth was that I hadn’t been that Charlotte Woolf for a long time. I hadn’t written anything for years. I’d written a few novels that had done okay in the nineties, but my last book had been rather poorly received, and as a result I’d decided to take a break. For ten years.
For most of the last decade I’d been a writer more in theory than anything else. What I had been really was a housewife. A role that had pretty much become defunct when Sage left home and James passed away. Was there such a thing as a housewidow? It was a depressing thought.
‘I didn’t know they were still in print,’ I said, pouring the coffee from the cafetière that Escobar, the estate agent, had bought for me before I’d arrived.
‘Yeah, she got them second-hand,’ he admitted.
I laughed.
Before I could change my mind, I found myself asking, ‘Jim – would you and Sue, and Isla, if she’s free, like to come for dinner tomorrow night – if you don’t have plans?’
‘Plans? The last time I had plans they were still talking about knocking down the Berlin Wall. Sounds great. What can we bring? Sue will ask.’
‘Just yourselves.’
‘Okay, great. Sounds good to me. We can bring the wine though – got a friend who makes the
best costa wine. That means coast. It looks a bit iffy – it’s brown – but it tastes pretty good.’
‘Really?’
‘No, plonk really,’ he said, laughing. ‘But you gotta try it, man. It’ll put hair on your chest.’
I giggled. ‘Um, I don’t really want that…’
‘Yeah, okay, good point. But try it anyway.’
I grinned. ‘Okay.’
Then I told him about my local shop owner, Francisco, and the wine he made. It turned out that wine-making was a bit of an institution here, just like olive oil production. There was something about the idea that appealed to me, even though for a housewife I wasn’t all that domestic. More an undomestic goddess than anything else.
Jim looked around and said, ‘So, this house – Isla told me it used to be in your family but you bought it again?’
I nodded, and then decided to just tell the truth. ‘My husband bought it actually – as a surprise present – before he passed away.’
His eyes were huge. ‘That’s some surprise.’
‘You’re telling me. I’m still not sure what I think about it.’
‘How did he go?’
I bit my lip. ‘Cancer.’
One word that explained so much.
‘I’m sorry, kiddo.’
I sucked in a deep breath, looked away. ‘Thanks.’
‘But the house used to belong to your family? How’s that work? And how did he get it back?’
There was something likeable about Jim, something non-threatening, warm and a little endearing, and before I knew it I was telling him the whole sorry mess of it all.
I was halfway through the part about the first letter from James when he put up a hand and said. ‘We need wine for this, girl, where’s that bottle from your shop-friend?’
I grinned, tears in my eyes, and got up to fetch it, pouring it out into my last two coffee mugs, making a mental note to get some glasses tomorrow for my guests.
As Big Jim sipped on his mug of wine, he stared at me and shook his head. ‘Well, I think it’s pretty amazing. I knew there was a story there – sorry for saying so, but I saw it the other night. There was something in your eyes… man, it was a bit like some of the guys I grew up with, when they came back from ’Nam, their eyes looked like that – like they’d seen too much.’
He was talking about the Vietnam War and it felt odd to be compared to those poor souls, yet in a way I could understand why; I’d been through my own private war as well, though I hadn’t realised that you could see it just by looking at me. I didn’t love that thought, to be honest.
He squeezed my shoulder and poured us both some more wine. ‘But you’re going to get through this. I know you will.’
‘Thanks, Jim,’ I said, meaning it.
I liked his calm assurance. After he’d left, I took James’s urn out of the cupboard and placed him back on the table. Then I looked at the bicycle Big Jim had left behind, thought of the fact that I’d promised to make Jim, Sue and Isla dinner the following night and almost laughed.
‘Did I really I tell him I’d cook?’ I asked the ashes in disbelief.
I wasn’t a great cook. It was kind of a family joke. But I’d watched Maria make that stew this afternoon, and I figured maybe I’d give it a try for dinner tomorrow.
The meals I’d made in the past generally included macaroni cheese, spaghetti Bolognese, vegetable soup and reheated pizza… the things I made when James wasn’t home or was ill, really. They were ‘James’s Day Off’ meals. The home-style equivalent of going through a drive-through, just a bit healthier. They were perfectly edible, but compared to James’s cooking they were not the sort of meals you’d like to have that often. They were the sort of meals no one ever asked for unless they were past starving and there wasn’t a drive-through open.
You would have thought that, having a gran like mine, and with my Catalan roots, I would have learned from her, or that it was in my blood, but I hadn’t and I’m not sure it really was. We hadn’t lived that close to my grandparents growing up, as they were about forty-five minutes away in the Kent countryside, close to where my grandfather, Sam, had grown up. He was English, but he’d met Gran during the Spanish Civil War and whisked her away to England. When I was growing up they used to come over often for weekends, and we went down there too, but Allan and I were always far too interested in the garden or trawling through their old sea chest for old photos and other treasures to spend that much time in the kitchen. I regretted that now. You never know it’s too late until it is. Before Gran died I used to fetch her for little outings, like trips to the seaside, museums and teashops. Maybe I should have spent more time with her at home; maybe then there would have been more chance for us to talk. Or perhaps I’d be a better cook. The only real cooking reference I’d had was my English mother, and her culinary expertise was about as broad as my own. Which is to say: not broad at all. Toast with jam mainly. With cheese if she was feeling wild. Dad had inherited Gran’s passion for cooking, but after he died Allan and I were subjected to Mum’s lack of passion in the kitchen.
I wondered if I could ask Maria for some tips tomorrow… it would be rather lovely to learn some family recipes from her. Things that had perhaps been passed down through the generations? Things I could share with my own daughter. I smiled at myself. It was a first – looking forward to something. I hadn’t felt this way in a very long time, but I was looking forward to getting to know Maria more. To finding out more about my family’s past, and their present for that matter. I looked at James’s ashes, and shook my head. ‘I hope you’re happy.’
Chapter Fourteen
Formentera, present day
Maria’s house was filled once again with the sound of children’s laughter and the scent of cooking. There were fresh-picked lemons from the trees in her garden sitting in a bowl, herbs that she’d picked just that morning chopped and waiting on a wooden board for the large dorado fish that she was going to cook in lemon butter for lunch.
I learned that afternoon that children and cooking were two of the greatest passions of her life.
Maria had welcomed me back with open arms, giving me the customary kiss on both cheeks. We were strangers no more, I realised, and was glad. The first thing she did was put me to work. Giving me my own apron. She was pleased when I told her that I’d like to try making the stew she’d made for lunch the day before.
She turned to me in surprise. ‘You never learned at home?’ she asked, dicing a tomato for a bread and fish salad she was making, one of the island’s classic dishes, so she told me.
I told her about my mother’s cooking – or lack thereof – and how I hadn’t really learned from my gran, and she shook her head. ‘Ai carai, Alba,’ she lamented of her sister, looking up and beseeching the heavens. Then she frowned, seemed to consider something, and gave a little shrug. ‘Well, she wasn’t really much of a cook herself. So maybe not so surprising.’
I protested. ‘But she was a great cook.’
The old woman laughed. Her big, dark eyes widened considerably as she stared at me, perhaps considering if Alba had improved as her life went on. Then she waved a hand. ‘Ah, but you’re English,’ she said, nodding as if that explained everything.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
She had a wicked gleam in her eye. ‘You don’t know any better.’
I laughed. ‘We have got a bit better, you know.’
She made a sound, a bit of a snort. ‘If you say so.’
I argued about the great chefs we had, the fabulous cheese we made, our world-class sausages… This only seemed to make things worse. She didn’t seem convinced. She raised an eyebrow. ‘English food always seems to come in a set. Why is that? Pie and gravy. Sausage and mash. Bacon and egg. To me, the only things that should come in pairs is socks, not food.’
I shrugged, hid a grin. I liked all of it, but I could see her point.
She took down a pan, then gave me an appraising look, sizing me up. ‘You’re still
young, maybe there’s still time.’
I found myself laughing at that.
As I helped her, I learned that she had been married for sixty years, her husband, Pedro, had died two years ago and her sons and daughter all lived a few houses away. She had two children, and little Benito was one of four great-grandchildren. I also learned that she was trying her best not to show favouritism, and that her granddaughter, Louisa, Benito’s mother, kept calling her out on it.
‘You shouldn’t have favourites,’ she acknowledged. ‘But Benito makes it hard,’ she added indulgently. I found out that she looked after him while his parents were at work.
I told her about Sage, how it was easy to have a favourite if you only had the one, and she agreed that this would make things easier. ‘You never wanted more?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘We thought about it – it would have been nice, but somehow it just didn’t work out that way.’
I didn’t mention how often we’d tried. The failed IVF treatments, and how in the end we’d just decided to shower as much love as we could on the one we did have. There’d been a time when I’d got so focused on trying for another I’d lost sight of how lucky I was to have Sage.
Maria was interested in hearing more about Sage – or perhaps she was just being polite and perhaps I went on a bit too much, telling her about how she was studying to become a doctor, how she was always looking after everyone else.
‘She sounds a little like my great-grandmother’s mother’s sister, Cesca.’
I looked at her, and considered. ‘Maybe it’s in the blood, studying medicine.’
As I diced tomatoes that Maria had grown in her garden, mixing them into a salad with breadcrumbs, cheese and fish, she returned to the story she’d begun the day before in which I’d met the two sisters, Cesca and Esperanza.
As I cooked, I listened, and before I knew it, I felt myself borne along, like a boat at sea, swept back in time.
