Chapter Eight
Will Sutherland, of Govan, south-west Glasgow, knows that, in order to be a proper writer, you have to balance your reading time carefully with those moments when you should actually be putting pen to paper.
No point citing your influences if they have influenced nothing more than a vague ambition or a nagging dream.
And, in those circumstances, who in God’s name is going to ask you anyway?
So back into the fading, plastic sports bag that he always carries, bouncing over the cheap but essential suntan oil and equally essential duty-free Marlboro, drops the newly purchased le Carré. And out come the worn yellow notepad and requisite chewed-up Biro.
The gentle trickle from the fountain soothes him, as he squats on its comfortingly cool surround.
Legs that haven’t seen shorts since childhood (and won’t be seeing them any time soon) stretch out onto the tiled terrace.
Despite wifely entreaties, his toes are still firmly encased in sensible, un-summery shoes.
He makes sure his pale, northern face is gently shaded by trees from the ferocity of the Andalusian sun.
Will is just about to start scribbling, in the rare but welcome silence, when he senses that there is someone else close by.
He can almost feel the foreign eyes staring at him. (Well, foreign to him.)
Will Sutherland looks around to see a handyman/gardener whom he hadn’t even noticed.
The man is quietly tending some flowering plants, in beautifully ornate ceramic pots, that sit in a corner of the courtyard.
He is small but solidly built, with the sort of tan, Will reckons, that comes not from basking in the sun but labouring under it.
He is convinced that there is a difference, as indeed there has to be between lines etched by toil and those simply doled out by nature.
The man’s stare begins to take on a quality of permanence, which disconcerts its object.
“You’ll know me the next time, pal,” says Will, with the confidence of a guy whose accent is impenetrable.
The man turns back to one of the orange trees surrounding the courtyard and deftly picks a luscious low-hanging fruit that sits glistening in the sun.
He bites into it with almost theatrical relish and smiles invitingly at Will through strong, juice-stained teeth.
The young man nods and the older guy tosses another orange his way.
Will catches it one-handed and immediately sinks his teeth right through the skin, giving it an even bigger bite.
The shock is immediate and his face contorts into a mask of pure repugnance Unfortunately, just as a lovely young woman emerges from the hallway.
“Will? I am not nice for you?”
He stares grimacingly at his wife of a few days, who is looking so fresh and soft and utterly disconcerted. Instinctively she gazes down at her crisp, brightly flowered dress and slim, bare legs, then back at her sour-faced new husband.
“Eh?” says the young man, before he understands. “No – no, Lu. Jeez! You’re – you’re lovely. You look gorgeous. Beautiful. Wow! It’s the bloody orange!”
It was almost worth the anguish for the radiant, open-hearted smile he receives, a smile that elides into a giggle so throaty and uninhibited that it sets the large camera around her neck and the silver cross beneath it swinging wildly.
“They are not for eating! Mermelada. Marmalade, sí? Silly… Willy.”
He acknowledges her “English” naughtiness, laboured as it is, with a raised eyebrow, as he rises from his perch. Will knows that he could listen for hours to that gentle, laughing voice, like the tinkling of the fountain but with the earthiest undercurrent, and believes that he always will.
Before he moves on, he swiftly clicks his neck, arches his back and bobs his head north and south.
The young woman waits patiently, as she has already learned to do, then nods towards his bag.
A small, black umbrella has slipped out and almost into the fountain.
He retrieves it and notices the amused handyman shaking his head.
“Reckon we should see just a tiny wee bit of Seville, now we’re finally up?” he asks her. “BETWEEN WILD AND FRENZIED BOUTS OF CALEDONIAN COPULATION!”
This is clearly for the benefit of the older man, who can no more understand it than Lu.
But her attention has moved on – she has caught hold of a scraggy, white cat, who either belongs to the hostel or thinks it does.
She is nuzzling it to her breast with almost maternal affection.
Will can’t understand why, despite the cosy charm of the picture, he suddenly feels such discomfort and an even less explicable impatience.
It isn’t as if they have a schedule – there is absolutely nowhere they need to be.
He tries to park his irritation, even as he acknowledges its familiarity. He’s being childish. Perhaps it is simply the drums that he can hear in the distance, moving closer beat by beat, sending their insistent rhythm to his heart.
The young man checks his watch, as he always does, but it appears to have died on his wrist. He shakes it, listens to it, winds it and even thumps it against a readily available tile. Nothing. So he discards it crossly into the fountain. “Time to go.”
“Will!”
“One day,” he vows, with a sudden seriousness that takes her by surprise, “one day, Lu, I am buying myself a solid gold Rolex. And a – whatever posh women wear for you.”
“Oh, gracias, Senor. But the time she is not so very important to me.”
She holds up the camera and frames her photo. Flame-haired, pale-faced husband and trusty black collapsible brolly.
“Say manana!”
Will knows how much in love she is with her camera – he has teased her that it’s almost as much as she’s in love with him.
So he plays up to it and adopts a sequence of poses, his personal favourite being to take a mouthful of water and mirror the naked cherub in the fountain.
Spitting out the liquid in a perfect stream, he pulls down his pants to reveal more than a hint of pale, Glaswegian buttock.
So intent is he on making his new bride laugh that he doesn’t notice an elderly Spanish couple emerge from the hostel.
“We are lucky it is not Michelangelo’s David,” says the man, with a twinkle, as he leads his equally amused wife out of the courtyard.
Will is struck by a sadness that is almost like an old friend as he watches them go. “Why couldn’t they be your parents?” he mutters.
He sees Lu wince at this and he can’t help but feel some small satisfaction. She gently frees the collar of his fraying shirt, where it is curling beneath itself.
“What’s that smell?” he says, sniffing the air and changing the subject.
At first she thinks he means her, but then the familiar aroma hits her. “Churros!” she cries, with childlike glee.
“Okay,” says Will, who has no idea what she is talking about but knows an excuse to move on when he hears one. He taps his bare wrist, where the apology for a watch once sat. “Come on then, Senora Sutherland. Let’s take a wee shufti.”
Lu waves adios to the handyman, who still watches them unashamedly.
They move through the wrought-iron gates to join those happy many who have suddenly congregated outside in anticipation of an approaching procession. But not before Will manages a courteous, “Thanks for the orange, Senor!”
A few seconds later, a young receptionist comes out into the courtyard and starts to look around. “Telefono – Senor Sutherland?” she announces, without great enthusiasm, to no one in particular. The handyman shrugs at her and goes back to his tending.
The scraggy white cat finds some shade under a tree laden with oranges.