Anka served them their meal and left them to eat, with hasty promises to see them the following day. Jutta thought of Felipe’s family and how warmly they were always welcomed when they went to visit.
‘She didn’t stay long,’ Oskar said, holding his plate out for another helping of casserole.
‘I suppose when you have children you have a lot of chores.’ Jutta tried to take the sting out of it.
‘Ummmm.’ Oskar wasn’t impressed.
Inga phoned while they were finishing off their meal with semolina dumplings and ice cream. ‘Hi Süßling, welcome home,’ she said cheerily. Well at least she’d called her ‘sweetie’, just like she had when they were young. Jutta smiled.
‘Hi Inga, great to hear you, when am I going to see you and my lovely nieces?’
‘Um . . . well I’m a little tied up, so it’ll probably be Thursday,’ her middle sister demurred.
‘Oh!’ Jutta couldn’t hide her disappointment. Clearly Inga was going to string out her freedom for another few days. Jutta felt utterly fed up. She’d given Inga and her family the use of an apartment for ten days the previous summer, and had wined them and dined them and driven them all around Andalucía while they were on holiday, and Inga couldn’t even be arsed to come and see her, let alone come and welcome home her dad, whom she hadn’t seen for almost a month.
‘OK, I’ll put you on to Papa to say hello. I’ll see you when I see you, then,’ she said flatly, handing the phone to Oskar. When he went to hand it back to her, after a brief conversation, Jutta shook her head. She wouldn’t be so accommodating the next time Inga wanted a freebie holiday on the Costa del Sol.
‘They can all go to hell, Felipe, and book their own apartments from now on,’ she grumbled to her husband later, when she’d cleaned up after their meal and made hot chocolate for Oskar. She’d phoned him from her old bedroom, lying on the single bed, covered by the patchwork quilt that her mother had made. The cosy room in the eaves, with the window opposite her bed facing towards the twinkling lights of the village in the distance, remained as it had been since her student days. A faded poster of U2 taped with yellowing Sellotape still hung on the side of the pine wardrobe. Her old pink teddy lay against the pillows.
The pale lemon moonlight illuminated the fields in their frosty filigree, a beam stealing in through the window to be reflected in the oval mirror of the dressing table, with its collection of half-empty bottles of perfume. The picturesque moonlit tapestry soothed her wounded feelings.
‘Aw, my poor little cariña. Don’t mind them, I’ll make a big fuss of you when you get home. Let’s fly up to Barcelona and stay with my cousin for a weekend and have some fun when you get back.’
‘Can we afford to?’ she asked, wishing Felipe was with her right now.
‘Of course we can.’
‘OK. I love you.’
‘I love you too, Jutta. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Jutta switched off the light and snuggled into the warm hollow of the bed. She hadn’t slept in flannelette sheets since she’d last been home and she felt a sudden sharp ache of sadness for her mother. The house was so different without her mother’s solid, comforting presence. Klara had been the glue that had held the Sauer family together. Now there was no cohesion, no real focal point like there had been when she was alive. They all lived their own lives, immersed in their own family set-ups with little reference to each other, their only thing in common, now, their father. When Oskar passed away she wasn’t even sure if she’d particularly want to see her siblings anymore. How lonely and awful was that? Jutta thought glumly.
Maybe it was time she and Felipe thought about having children, having a family unit of their own. And she’d be able to use her children as an excuse, as her sisters had, when trying to avoid taking on more responsibility for Oskar. He could live well into his nineties.
Could they afford a child, though? Felipe had been caught, unexpectedly, for unpaid property taxes and the payment had made a huge dent in their savings. She was scrupulous in her business practices; she paid every penny she was obliged to. Felipe was much more casual, always trying – like many of his colleagues in the property development and rental business – to evade his taxes.
She snuggled under the quilt and closed her eyes, listening to the unfamiliar creaks and moans of the house as it settled down for the night. Gradually her body relaxed and drowsiness overcame her and Jutta eventually fell asleep in her room under the eaves.
Felipe gazed out at the moonlit shimmering sea. He hated sleeping on his own, hated not feeling Jutta’s supple, toned body against his. He’d told her that they could afford to fly to Barcelona, and for now they could, but there was a problem in Alicante that was going to cost him dear. His partner in one of the property development deals had gone bankrupt, and his other partner was getting cold feet. He wasn’t going to say anything to Jutta yet. He’d see how things unfolded. If he could get someone else to invest it could all be salvaged. He might give Cal Cooper a call.
Felipe poured himself another beer and went back inside. The evenings were chilly, although the temperatures were in double figures by day. The only good thing was that his father-in-law was gone. Three weeks in the sour Hun’s company was three weeks too much. But he loved his wife and for her he’d endured Oskar’s dour personality with as good a grace as he could muster. Hell, he might even have another couple of beers, he grinned. After two, Oskar had looked disapprovingly at him as though he, Felipe, was someone who had alcohol problems.
He kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, sprawled on the sofa and surfed the TV channels until he found a football match. He was king of his own home again, but for how much longer could they afford to rent a frontline apartment? Felipe sighed. He’d skated on thin ice for the last six months, unbeknownst to Jutta. Now the cracks were beginning to show.
Oskar kissed his dead wife’s photograph and replaced it on his bedside locker. ‘Goodnight, Klara,’ he murmured. It was his bedtime ritual. He turned off the lamp and lay in his familiar bed with the big bolster pillow and the gold and chocolate brown patchwork quilt that Klara had made when they were first married. The year before she’d died, she’d reworked it, replacing worn patches, and bias binding, which she’d sewn to the front and whipstitched by hand all around the back, in the traditional way, eschewing the use of the sewing machine. He’d always enjoyed when she was quilting. They would sit opposite each other at the stove while he read his paper and she stitched. He would read out items of interest and they would discuss them or sometimes just sit in companionable silence.
The void in his life since she’d left it was immense and his loneliness knew no bounds. But he kept those feelings to himself for the most part. Only with Jutta could he lower his guard a little. She was the kindest of his children, perhaps because she was the youngest and her mother’s favourite. Her little dumpling, Klara had called her.
Exhaustion swept over him. It had been a long and tiring day. He hoped very much that he would sleep well in his own bed. There were nights in Spain when he hadn’t slept a wink.
It was good, too, to have Jutta staying with him for the next week. Comforting to have someone else in the house, especially at night. Oskar yawned and pulled the quilt up under his chin, wondering if the dull ache of Klara’s loss would ever leave him. He lay sleepily listening to the wind whispering through the fir trees, and thinking it was just like the sound of the sea shushing against the shore in Andalucía.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JUTTA
‘Jutta, I’m sorry to have to bother you but something happened in La Joya, in the Vissers’ apartment. Veronique was carrying a bucket of bleach out to the balcony and she tripped over the hoover, and the bleach splattered over the rug in the lounge—’
‘Oh Christus! Is there much damage, can we get it cleaned?’ Jutta’s heart sank.
‘I’ve looked at it, I even asked Constanza Torres could she recommend anyone – she runs her own cleaning team in the comple
x. But no luck, Jutta, it’s impossible to get the bleach marks out because it’s splattered all over. Even the crayon tip we Googled up wouldn’t do it. We’d done a pre-arrival shop and that was being delivered, and Veronique was going out to the balcony to clean the table and chairs when it happened. We’ll just have to tell them. I don’t mind doing it, but you know how fussy Mrs Visser is. Even if we managed to lighten some of the stains she’d spot them. You know what she’s like,’ Jutta’s maintenance manager said morosely.
‘I know.’ Merel and Jan Visser were one of Jutta’s least favourite clients. They were demanding, tight with money, arguing over every item on the apartment maintenance and laundry bill. Shopping with them to furnish the apartment had been a nightmare. The rug in question had not been purchased under Jutta’s auspices, so she couldn’t even try and get a replacement in twenty-four hours.
‘I’ll phone her myself, Christine. Knowing her, she’d demand to speak to me anyway. Anything else to report?’
‘Umm, that cranky Spanish guy, Eduardo, above the Hoffmanns, complained to Constanza that people who were staying in the Hoffmanns’ were hanging their towels on the balcony—’
‘Oh por el amor de Dios!’ Jutta shook her head. ‘Anything else that’s serious?’
Christine laughed. ‘Not really. The Cullens in Mi Capricho have a broken pane of glass; that’s sorted, and the repainting of the bedroom in the villa in La Cala is almost finished.’
‘OK, thanks, Christine. I’ll ring the Vissers immediately and get back to you. And tell Veronique to try and be more careful.’
‘Will do. Adiós.’
‘Adiós, Christine.’ Jutta poured herself another cup of coffee and absentmindedly nibbled on a slice of Edam that was on the cheese board on the breakfast table.
‘Could you not even have breakfast without being on that phone? You’re all addicted to your phones. It’s not civilized,’ Oskar remonstrated from the top of the table, frowning as she scrolled through her messages.
‘Papa, I have a business to run and things happen. When it’s your own business you have to deal with stuff immediately.’
‘Well surely you can have breakfast without having your head stuck in it? Is it too much to ask for you to chat to your old papa during mealtimes?’
‘Sorry about that, Papa.’ Jutta swallowed down her irritation and put her phone down. She’d ring her client from the privacy of her bedroom.
‘Ach, I’m just an old nuisance to you all, you’d be better off without me,’ her father went off on his familiar refrain.
‘No you’re not, don’t be saying that,’ Jutta chided.
‘That other pair haven’t put in an appearance since you arrived. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on,’ he grumbled, buttering his croissant. ‘They’re staying away because you’re here; they only come because they feel they have to, to do my shopping and feed me. I’m telling you Jutta, I’m nothing more than a nuisance and I hate being dependent on them.’
‘You know, Papa, you could be much more independent if you wished,’ Jutta said firmly.
‘How so? My arthritis is getting worse and so are my gallstones. I need a knee replacement. Who is going to look after me when I have that?’ he groused.
‘Why don’t you hire a housekeeper to come in for a few hours every day, to cook and clean—’
‘Are you mad, daughter? I don’t have that kind of money,’ Oskar interrupted, glaring at her.
‘Yes you do, Papa. You aren’t a pauper by any means. You have a good pension. You still save. Use your money to make yourself independent and then when Inga and Anka come to visit they can sit and talk to you and not have to worry about cooking your meals and doing your housework,’ Jutta said firmly.
‘I need my money in case I have to go to a nursing home, you seem to think I’m some sort of millionaire,’ he scoffed.
‘I’m merely pointing out options, Papa—’
‘Were you talking to the others about this?’ He cocked a wary eye at her. ‘Making plans behind my back. I won’t have it—’
‘Have I seen the others since I arrived?’ Jutta shot back indignantly.
‘You could have been talking to them on the phone,’ he pointed out.
‘I wasn’t. No one is making any plans behind your back, Papa. I was just suggesting something that might make you feel more independent and empowered. I was thinking about you!’
‘I don’t want strangers in my house,’ Oskar’s tone was sulky, and Jutta bit back her retort. Losing his independence slowly but surely as he aged must be a tremendous blow, she acknowledged. The old saying, Once a man, twice a child, was now proving very true in Oskar’s case. It was hard to believe that her once strong, commanding, seemingly invincible father was now becoming as petulant and dependent and in need of assistance as a child.
‘Think about it, that’s all I’m saying. Now I have to make a call to a client and I’ll tidy up after the breakfast when I’m finished. Excuse me.’ Jutta stood up and took her phone from the table.
She trudged up the narrow stairs to her bedroom and sat on the bed, heavy hearted. She’d had enough of listening to all their moans. All she wanted to do was go back home to Spain. And what was more, she decided, Oskar could go to a rehab hospital after his knee operation because she wasn’t coming back to Germany for a week in the high season, which was when his operation was scheduled for.
It was raining outside, great sheets of molten greyness obliterating the view of Dornburg and the fields. She’d forgotten how miserable and grim it was here when it rained and how hemmed in it always made her feel. Jutta missed the wide expanse of her sea view. Being landlocked again was slightly claustrophobic.
She propped herself up against her pillows, scrolling down her client list until she found the Vissers’ number.
Merel answered. Just her luck, thought Jutta. Jan was easier to deal with. ‘Mrs Visser, how are you? Good I hope. I’m afraid one of my cleaners spilt some bleach on your drawing room rug. We will, of course, replace it,’ she said briskly, deciding it was better, with Merel Visser, to get to the point straight away.
‘My Berber rug? My very expensive Berber rug?’ The Dutch woman’s voice rose an octave.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I’m . . . I’m . . . this is not good. It took me a long time to get the perfect rug for that room. How damaged is it?’
‘I haven’t seen it myself. I’m in Germany at the moment, but my office manager tells me it’s quite stained.’ Jutta kept her tone cool and crisp.
‘I’ll see what it’s like tomorrow when I arrive. I’m not happy about this at all, Frau Sauer. I particularly like the colours and . . . and . . . the ethnic resonance of that rug.’
‘I could try some of the markets and look for something similar,’ Jutta offered.
‘I don’t want rubbish from the markets. I bought it in a carpet shop in Tangiers, and that is where I’ll be going to replace it, at your expense, mijn goede vrouw. Goede dag.’
‘Good day to you too, my good woman,’ Jutta muttered to the disconnected phone. She felt like a five-year-old after their frosty encounter. She fired off a text to Christine.
Spoke to Madam Visser. Not impressed. Offer her a day trip to Tangier from Malaga, and tell her we will give her €400 MAX for a replacement rug. Tell her to make a claim to her insurance company. And make one to ours. Thanks! J.
Thank goodness she had efficient staff, Jutta thought, taking a deep breath before going downstairs to try and be a patient and understanding daughter.
‘And furthermore, you need to encourage Papa to either get a chairlift or move his bed downstairs until his op is over and he’s completely mobile again. He’s having difficulty getting up the stairs. Organize whatever he needs doing,’ Jutta spoke firmly to her brother the following morning, having just finished packing her case.
‘Can’t the girls do that?’ blustered Friedrich.
‘He won’t listen to any of us. He might listen to you
. You are the son and heir, and besides, they do more than enough for him. They’re constantly at his beck and call,’ Jutta retorted sharply.
‘It’s alright for you flying up from Spain once a year and putting your spoke in, we’re there all the time,’ her brother snapped.
‘Excuse me, but from what I’ve heard you make an appearance twice a month for a quick visit. If you can look after Helga’s mother you can spare a bit more time for your own parent.’
‘That’s uncalled for—’
‘Eh . . . I don’t think so, Friedrich, you get away very lightly, but Papa is getting older and more dependent and he’s going to need more of all our help, so get over it and start pulling your weight. Bye.’ Jutta didn’t give him time to respond and hung up.
Her brother could get into a snit if he wanted to, but she’d said her piece and put it up to him, she could do no more.
She took one last glance around her bedroom. It had been her haven once again, as it had been when she was a teenager dreaming of escaping her boring, mundane, village life.
She took the case off her bed and straightened the quilt where it was creased. ‘I miss you, Mama,’ she murmured before closing the door behind her.
‘It will be lonely for me now that you’re going, daughter.’ Oskar looked at her despondently and she felt her heart soften as she saw the dejected stoop of his shoulders and the sadness in his tired blue eyes.
‘I might try and get back for a quick visit when you go to have your knee done. I’ll wait until you’re out of hospital and in rehab and then I can walk with you,’ Jutta heard herself say, despite vowing to herself that she was not coming back home to Germany in the high season.
‘And sure maybe you could stay with me for a few days when I get home,’ Oscar brightened up. Jutta’s heart sank. Typical of her father, give him an inch and he’d take a mile.
‘We’ll see,’ she demurred. ‘It’s a very busy time of the year for me.’
‘Ah sure I’m only an old nuisance,’ Oskar muttered.
Orange Blossom Days Page 17
