by Sara Alexi
‘Her family is doing everything as far as I know. All we need to do is turn up on the day and then we are away the day after; Laurence had work.’ The blue sky forgotten, Sarah sucks in her bottom lip and bites gently. There’s that feeling again. If only the emotion would come with words, then at least she would know what she is dealing with. Her free hand crosses her chest to rub the side of her neck and she rotates her head.
‘The perfect wedding, then.’ Juliet chuckles and closes her eyes as she leans her head back. Sarah does not reply but glances briefly toward the gate. There is no sign of Laurence.
‘I could sit here all day, but I suppose I’d best go help Laurence to unpack a little.’ Sarah gives up rubbing at her neck; it is not helping.
‘You can sit here all day if you like. After all, you are here on holiday.’ Juliet opens her eyes and smiles, and her warmth brings a tightness to Sarah’s chest, a rushing in her ears, and she is suddenly struck by threatening tears. She clears her throat and swallows hard.
‘No, I don’t want to hold you back. I’m sure there are things you need to be doing.’ The words are brisk, hoarse even as she battles the unnamed cause of her panic. She struggles out of the low sofa, fighting heavy limbs. Maybe this holiday will help her pull herself together, stop these silly attacks.
‘Not really, but it’s up to you.’ Juliet remains lazing in her chair.
‘I’d best give Laurence a hand.’ Sarah stands, looking at the cat to avoid eye contact with Juliet, her legs trembling. The journey and her lack of sleep must be catching up with her; it is bound to make her emotional. Her fingers pull at the waistband of her skirt to relieve a knot of tightness deep in the pit of her guts. A wave of nausea sweeps over her.
‘Let me know if you need anything,’ Juliet murmurs, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.
Putting her empty glass next to Laurence’s untouched coffee on the table, Sarah steadies herself to crunch across the gravel. Walking helps.
Laurence has taken his suitcase from the car, but Sarah’s is still in the boot. She tries to lift it out but it is heavy and she scrapes the material on the boot lock, leaving a black mark. Then the luggage strap catches and she gives up. Laurence can do it later, but for now, she unzips the front pocket and takes out her flip-flops. The cat comes to help, biting at the ankle straps of her relinquished shoes, then jumping on the coloured leather flowers that adorn her new summer flip-flops. The flat leather feels cool to her soles and the cat’s antics help to relax the tightness in her chest and her breathing slows. She’ll be fine after a few days’ holiday.
The animal accompanies her through Juliet’s arched gateway, which is crowned with wild roses that Sarah had not noticed on the way in; so pretty, it lifts her heart. The fence of the holiday cottage next door hangs heavy with vine leaves and grapes no bigger than a fingernail, green and hard. A butterfly is darting around them, its white wings never settling. A bee searches the leaves and the cicadas’ song fills the air. There seems to be more nature here somehow. The world seems more alive and, as suddenly as the tears and tension that sprang earlier, a feeling of lightness, possibilities, as if anything could happen, a sense of hope and freedom engulfs her. Energy returns to her limbs. Laurence is right, her moods are becoming unpredictable.
The cottage is a restored old, low stone barn with an equally old but carefully restored lean-to, the roof of which slopes almost to the ground. The area between the lean-to and the barn has been paved with weathered stone flags shaded with a pergola that is all but taken over by vines. Under the dapple of this greenery are two loungers, a table with four chairs and a hammock strung from the building to one of the pergola supports. A traditional, domed bread oven and an orange tree all but block the view to the garden behind, where a shimmering blue streak indicates the pool. It’s perfect.
A shadow passes across the inside of one of the patio windows—Laurence. No doubt unpacking, laying out his ablutions, filling chests of drawers, lining up shoes. When all is perfect, he will, no doubt, check his emails. He strides past again. Her hand on the gate becomes motionless. The house looks inviting, the pool even more so, but she needs space, time, just a little, for herself.
Down the lane, a movement catches her eye. The dog, nose down, lurches this way and that, sucking up smells. She glances again at the blue, the hammock, the darkened windows before deciding there is time to walk to the end of the lane to see the dog and then hurry back to help Laurence.
Turning on her heel, she marches briskly, arms swinging, but her haste only lasts a few steps before her speed is ground to a snail’s pace by the intensity of the sun, and in her lethargy, she has time to look around her, to observe the details of her world in all this bright, beautiful sunshine. The sun has dried and browned the central grass strip up the middle of the lane. The angular stones of the wall on her left have softened and smoothed under the years of re-applied paint, and now the wall appears to have dribbled down the lane and frozen in time. She exhales slowly through puffed-out cheeks. The long wall is the back low building, roofed with terracotta tiles, age-worn and discoloured, dipping in places. The variation in colour is limitless.
A lizard stands motionless on one of the hot tiles, one leg raised, blinking, rolling its eyes. It lifts each leg in turn, in sudden, sharp movements. Sarah comes to a standstill to watch as it twists its head on parched skin, tongue darting out to taste the air before scuttling away, tiny nails tapping on ceramic.
At the end of the lane, the dog scampers across the sloping square towards the village. Everywhere are whitewashed walls and houses, blue shutters and pots of geraniums. If the dog doesn’t stop to be petted before the square, Sarah decides she will turn back. The sloping square speeds her steps and she turns, hoping to see the mutt in the road. It is there, sniffing at a stone. Sarah holds out her hand to approach; if she startles it now, it will run off into the village centre.
Her hand reaches out, stretches. The animal hesitates, sniffs, making up its mind. It edges towards her, nervous. Sarah stays motionless, arm extended. It stares, sniffs, lifts a paw to take the final step to make contact.
‘No way! Sarah, is that you?’
The dog scampers away. Sarah looks up, startled, and is engulfed by arms that wrap around her. The years drop away, her head drops and tears fall.
Chapter 3
‘Oh my God, it’s not that awful to see me, is it?’ Liz wipes away Sarah’s tears, then wraps her arms even more tightly around her friend, rocking her as they stand.
It’s dark against Liz’s dress with her eyes closed; Liz’s perfume is dusky and aromatic and reminds her of baked apples. Liz has worn the same fragrance for years, ever since she married Neville and could afford it. Sarah has smelt it so seldom since Neville’s work moved them, and his mother, to London, it’s like a dream remembered.
‘It’s brilliant to see you.’ Sarah’s laughter mixes with the lump in her throat and they pull apart.
‘So stop crying then, you silly moo.’ Liz pulls her in for another hug.
‘Your accent’s changed.’ Sarah sniffs as they break again and brushes up the end of her nose with her finger and raises her chin. ‘I heard it on the phone, but it’s more noticeable in real life.’
‘Yours hasn’t,’ Liz retorts, lifting her own chin and looking away.
Sarah’s laughter chases away the last of her tears. They stand looking at each other, confirming that nothing has changed.
‘You look great for forty-nine,’ Liz announces.
‘Says you!’ Sarah always knew Liz was going to age better than her; she has always had a slight roundness to her face, giving her a youthful look. When they were teenagers, Sarah’s angular looks had been to her advantage and she was often mistaken for being older than she was. Liz, of course, at the time, hated her own youthful appearance, but now she looks amazing. People would never believe they are the same age.
They stare into each other’s eyes, the years disappearing, the children within surfa
cing.
‘Where’s Laurence?’ Liz asks, her head sinking into her shoulders, her eyes narrowing as she looks left and right.
‘He’s back at the house. Shall we go up?’ Sarah points the way she has come.
‘Better idea.’ Liz picks up a plastic bag by her feet, which clinks with the sound of glass. ‘Let’s avoid Laurence and go to mine. I have the cure for all ills in these bags.’
‘Well, I don’t know. I didn’t tell him ...’
‘Come on; he’ll manage.’ Liz raises her hand as a sun visor.
‘Yes, but he won’t know where I am, he left me ...’
‘Oh, text him as soon as we get to mine. Come on. We have wine, we have sun.’ She lifts her face to the sky. ‘What more can a woman want?’ Sarah feels the return of the knot in her stomach, that same old familiar feeling. Her smile grows watery. Steadying her breathing, she induces calm. The feeling does not grow.
‘I sometimes wonder, you know, if, perhaps we possibly made a mistake all those years ago,’ Sarah says.
Liz sniffs. A moped putters past them. The farmer has a dog across his knee, and he is texting as he drives. ‘Different world here,’ Liz says, watching his progress before slinging an arm around Sarah’s shoulder, forcing her to walk. ‘God, it’s good to see you. Come on, it’s this way. It takes us through a really steep olive grove and you can see the whole village from the top.’
The lane divides and they take the right fork, which is lined with single-storey houses, the dust on the road kicking up with each step. Red tiles all but slip from the roofs of whitewashed houses, each with a swept concrete yard in the front, most boasting tables with chairs, and all with potted flowers, bursts of colour, bougainvillaea and geraniums. There is a smell of cooking: tomatoes, herbs. Sarah gets the strange feeling of belonging again, but it is brief this time, like a whisper.
‘Where is everyone?’ Sarah asks, ‘I’ve seen so few people.’ She takes a hanky from her pocket and mops her brow and under her chin.
‘It’s that time of day, you know, like a siesta. Here it’s called mesimeri.’ Liz laughs. ‘Messy Mary.’ She laughs again. ‘Talking of messy, how is Finn? Any cold feet yet?’
Sarah snorts a chuckle. Finn, her impossibly tidy son.
‘Like he would tell me if he had. He would talk to Joss.’
‘I always thought he would come out one day, surprise you with a good-looking boyfriend,’ Liz muses.
‘Who, Finn? With his track record?’ Sarah looks at Liz, whose freckled skin is reddening in the sun.
The houses peter out and the lane here is edged with irregular fencing made from mismatched wire and various props, a metal bed frame, some planks of wood, make-do arrangements that look like they have remained for years, rust blending them together.
‘It’s like Ireland was when we were kids, isn’t it?’ Liz points to some oven racks that have been joined together with twists of wire into a gap between hedge and chicken wire. ‘Do you remember that time we walked to the cliffs and tried to find the short way back past Dinni McMahon’s house?’
‘It was your idea to climb the walls.’
‘But not that fence.’
‘But what other way was there?’
‘I did say to hold it down.’
‘Holy Mary, my ma was furious. She’d just bought me that coat ...’ Childhood accents return.
Sarah’s eyes shine. Her walk develops a spring.
The fence ends and on the open ground to the left is a long building, barely the height of a man, set back a good way from the road. The roof undulates, tiles missing here and there. In front of the construction, a tightly fenced area devoid of all vegetation is bisected by a trough nearly as long as the building. The smell hits them before the sounds. The sheep are audibly different from the goats.
‘There’s another reminder of our childhood. I bet your London friends would not have been so keen to befriend you when you smelled the same yourself.’ She sniffs the air, enjoying the pungent aroma of the animals.
‘You just remember who has the wine before flinging your insults. Besides, we neither of us smelt so sweet back then.’
‘Do you miss Ireland even more now you are in London? The Isle of Man is just across the water but London! It’s like once more removed again.’ Her voice is soft, slow.
Liz doesn’t answer. Sarah knows not to ask twice, but after a minute, Liz says, ‘It was thirty years I lived on the Isle of Man, which was longer than we were alive in Ireland. But you know, it never really felt like home there. I don’t miss Ireland either, really. I just miss, well, you know, how life was before ...’ They both fall silent.
A large dog by the animal enclosure lazily raises its head to look at them, trying to muster some interest, move in the heat, as it wakes from its mesimeri. It eventually gets up and, once on its feet, barks excitedly at them. Gaining energy, it runs full-pelt towards them, only to be throttled to a standstill by the chain around its neck.
‘Here, up here, it gets steep,’ Liz says. They climb a dusty road and just as Sarah thinks the gradient will defeat her in the heat, Liz continues. ‘Hey, not that way. We cross and then up between the olives the other side.’ Sarah follows Liz with relief into the grove. The patchy shade is delicious and when Liz turns to climb the hill again, Sarah declares she’s had enough and sits on a rock under a dense clump of branches. Liz is quick to join her.
‘So tell me what’s new, apart from the wedding.’ Liz is fishing around in her material bag, which has some designer label stitched on the outside.
‘Nothing much. You?’
‘Ah,’ Liz pauses, deep in thought. ‘But no, I’ll tell you that later. Da dah!’ She pulls out a Swiss Army knife from her bag. ‘No, tell me about you now. I know you were weeping with joy at the sight of me.’ She chuckles. ‘But I also know you only cry when your emotions are near the surface, so come on, what’s going on? Is it the wedding?’ She levers the corkscrew from the army knife and pulls one of the bottles from the plastic bag.
‘I think I’m just tired from the travel. We didn’t get much sleep.’
‘And?’ There is a satisfactory pop.
‘And nothing,’ Sarah replies. Liz offers her the bottle. ‘So much for your posh London ways.’ Sarah takes a swig; it is cool, which seems odd as it is red, but then, the day is so hot, after a second swig, she feels tempted to empty the bottle by herself.
‘Okay, I’m not buying it. How is Laurence anyway, a proud Father-in-law-to-be? Does he approve?’ Liz takes the wine back and drinks.
‘Oh yes. Big family, wealthy, half of them live in Australia. There’s a whole bunch from Germany and the Father and Mother, and Grandmother I think, are in America. A lot of her cousins are with Helena in London. I think Finn originally met her through a cousin.’ Sarah takes a breath. With words more languid, she adds, ‘In construction, most of them. And they have some company that designs artificial limbs or something ... Would you look at that!’
Liz follows her gaze across the land laid out before them, stretching to the blue-tinted hills at the feet of pale purple-hued mountains that encircle the plain. A spread of deep green orange groves and silver-blue olive trees, dotted red-roofed houses, and a lacework of dusty roads lays before them. The colour soaked out by the sun, a heat haze over everything. Just visible to the left, a slice of blue in the distance, hints that the sea is hidden round the end of the hill they are climbing.
‘I think you’re burning.’ Liz puts her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Come on, it’s two minutes from here and we can sit on the veranda with the same view and air con.’ Liz heaves herself up and offers Sarah first a helping hand and then, once standing, the bottle, which Sarah declines. Liz takes another gulp, rams the cork home, and true to her word, in a couple of minutes, they are on the patio of a very large stone house.
‘I’ll get glasses.’ Liz disappears into what looks to be a very grand interior, with white gauze floating curtains, plump sofas facing each other, glints of polishe
d glass and silver in the shadows. Sarah takes out her phone. Her intention is to text Laurence but instead, she texts Finn.
‘We have arrived. Shall we come to you, meet up, what?’ She waits; there is no instant response.
‘Liz, is that you?’ a light voice calls. Hairs on the back of Sarah’s neck prickle. Swallowing, she steps back onto the patio, vaguely wondering if there is somewhere she won’t be seen. ‘Who are you talking to? Oh Sarah, oh my dear, how are you, how lovely to see you. Is Laurence with you?’
‘Hi Neville, it’s good to see you, too. I’m sorry to hear about your mum.’ She links her arms loosely across her chest. His hair is entirely white now. Laurence, three years younger than his cousin, appears years and years his junior. Although Sarah is aware that this is in part at least thanks to the dye bottle, she nonetheless experiences a strange sensation of momentary relief that Laurence does not look Neville’s age. Neville looks like an old man, but then, sixty-eight seems a lifetime away from her forty-nine
‘Oh thank you, Sarah, you always were so kind. She passed quickly, thank the Lord, so we have to be thankful for small mercies, I suppose. And she was ninety four.’ He walks towards her.
‘It’s a good age. Everything else alright? I hope you have been spoiling Liz?’ Sarah shows him her cheek to receive a kiss but Neville embraces her. Her arms unfold. He smells the same as he always has, clean, always so clean.
‘Of course.’ He breaks away but his fingers trail down her arms and take her hands, which he holds as he looks at her. Sarah pulls away gently, looking him in the eye.
‘Here you go, Sarah. Ah Nev, you want a glass?’ Liz reappears.
‘Oh, no thank you dear. A little early perhaps?’ He looks at his watch just a little too long.
‘It’s a holiday,’ Liz retorts and Sarah catches Liz’s quick glance at Neville, her face like stone.
‘So, good journey?’ Sarah breezes.
‘Yes, it was eventless, which I always think is good. Where did you say Laurence was?’ Neville asks.
