Chapter 9
Violet
My mobile phone woke me, the screen lighting up with a message from Luke.
Got bus to Palma. Back late, will eat out. x.
I stared at the single ‘x’ for a long time, blinking as I calculated how much sleep I’d managed to get. Not enough, was the answer. It never felt like enough.
Staggering out from under the sheets, I went straight to the window and opened the shutters, recoiling at the brightness of the sun. The main bedroom of La Casa Naranja offered a far-reaching panorama of the Tramuntana mountain range that never failed to lift my spirits, but it was the view directly below me that I found most edifying. That of the garden. My garden. The beds and borders, shrubs and fruit trees, bird bath and compost bin – all chosen, planted, and nurtured by me. I was proud that sections of it had thrived despite my neglect. The multiple blooms were a testament to my careful planning, the fragrant roses evidence of the nutrient-rich food I’d mixed by hand. I was adept at gardening, taking care of plants came as naturally to me as carpentry did to Henry.
When he and I had launched our home building, repair and refurbishment business, House-a-Home, a little under thirteen years ago, it had been my idea to offer a landscaping service in addition to interior projects, and many of our early clients hired us as a result of it. The two of us would go into a property and make our assessments, Henry within the walls of the house, me out in its grounds, before coming together to draw up a schedule and begin estimating costs. Those early halcyon days of working life had been tough but rewarding, my self-confidence growing upon each job’s successful completion. I discovered team management skills I’d been unaware I possessed and had designed our company logo using a basic Canva subscription. At last, it felt like I was good at something, that I was achieving, and when I’d had no choice but to give up the role, I’d cried for weeks.
Stepping away from the window, I rifled in my case for something to wear, then showered and dressed, not bothering with make-up but applying high-factor sun lotion to my face and bare shoulders. Henry’s comments the previous evening about La Casa Naranja being worth a potential million euros or more had been playing in a loop in my mind. It was impossible not to envisage how much of a difference that amount of money could make, not only to me but to Luke. Sentimentality would not pay the bills, and so I had resolved to accept what was happening and do whatever I had to in order to ensure it did. With a final, cursory glance in the mirror, I headed downstairs determined to make a start on packing the place up.
There were eggs in the fridge, so I scrambled a couple and ate them out on the terrace with a handful of homegrown tomatoes and black coffee. Usually, at this time of year, I would harvest most of them and make passata, or sun-dry them in batches on the flat patio roof to use in salads. There were high levels of lime in the island’s soil that prevented mineral absorption and, as a result, the fruit and vegetables grown on Mallorca tasted exquisite. If Luke hadn’t become phobic about the pips when he was a child, I would have incorporated our garden tomatoes into every meal.
I thought again about that single ‘x’ at the end of my son’s message, wondering if he’d forgiven me my transgression of the previous night. I had replied effusively, of course, wishing him and Eliza a fabulous day. These were the steps of our dance, the ‘la-la-la-la’ hands-over-ears song our particular tune.
Breakfast done, I carried my plate indoors and was in the process of rinsing it under the tap when my phone began to vibrate in the pocket of my dress.
It was my mother.
I toyed with the idea of letting it ring out, then thought better of it. There was always a chance, however minuscule, that she was calling for a nice reason.
‘Hello,’ I trilled, as cheerfully as I could muster.
‘Yes, hello, Violet.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Fine, yes, fine,’ she said shortly, as if the question barely warranted a response. ‘How are you? How’s Luke?’
I considered my answer before replying.
‘He’s, you know, Luke-ish. His girlfriend is out here with him, and she seems...’ I hesitated. What was the adjective that best suited Eliza? Opinionated, capable, compassionate, mature? I settled on ‘nice’.
‘And Henry?’
I raked my fingers through my hair. It was still damp from the shower and would undoubtedly dry to a frizz.
‘Violet?’
‘Yes? Sorry, trailed off for a moment there.’
‘Henry – have you seen him?’
‘I have,’ I confirmed.
‘And?’
‘He’s . . . you know Henry.’
‘Things between the two of you still dire, I presume?’
My mother cut to her point the same way shears might through strands of grass.
‘Well, he is at least speaking to me,’ I told her. ‘Which is something.’
‘There’s some post for you here,’ she said, apparently now done with the subject of my estranged husband. ‘I haven’t opened it, obviously,’ she went on, and I could picture her then, perched on the seat of the ancient telephone table in the hallway, sensible Marks Spencer blouse tucked into tapered beige trousers. Henry had once described her as ‘a porcupine in a smart outfit’, which pretty much summed things up. My father, though conservative, had been soft as peat below the surface, his core of kindness cushioning my mother’s inherent spikiness. Losing him had also meant losing the gentler side of her, and while I didn’t blame my mum for the way she was – grief did all sorts of terrible things to a person – I did miss the old her. But then, I missed the old me, too.
‘I’m glad to hear it, Mum,’ I said lightly. ‘It’s against the law to tamper with another person’s mail, you know.’
‘Yes, yes – no need to be facetious about it.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Well, don’t. A few of these letters have “do not ignore” printed on the front of them.’
Oh.
‘Probably nothing urgent,’ I said. ‘A smear test reminder or something.’
‘These aren’t from the NHS. They use those special envelopes with the blue logo – we got enough through the door when your dad was ill.’
‘Do any say where they’re from?’
‘There are three,’ she said, and I heard the sound of paper shuffling as she leafed through them. ‘Two from different companies, none of which ring any bells with me, and another with no stamp or postmark, so it must have been hand delivered.’
A chill went through me as I contemplated the final thing she’d said. Staring out through the kitchen window into the garden, I watched a warbler as it flitted from branch to shrub. The summer Luke had turned five, I’d bought him a Mallorcan birds poster and pinned it up on the wall right next to where I now stood. He’d sit with his small pair of binoculars raised, feet up on the sill, and a look of concentration on his face, announcing each new arrival in that oddly solemn way of his.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked my mother. ‘Shall I open them?’
‘No!’ I’d practically shouted. ‘Sorry, I mean, don’t worry. I’ll deal with them when I get back.’
‘But they might be important,’ she insisted. ‘You haven’t missed a bill, have you?’
I hesitated. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘I suppose you don’t have to worry about money, not now you’re living with me.’
I closed my eyes, counted slowly to ten. ‘I’ll be out of your hair again soon,’ I said. ‘Just as soon as we sell this place. Now, if that’s all you needed me for, I should really go and get on with clearing it out.’
‘Right, well – do send my love to Luke, won’t you?’ She allowed a beat to follow before she added, ‘And to Henry.’
‘I will.’
‘And Violet?’
It took all of my effort not to sigh. ‘Yes?’
‘Try to be nice. Remember what your father used to say? If you can’t be nice, pretend—’
‘And if you can’t pretend, be quiet,’ I finished. ‘Bye, Mum.’
After she’d rung off, I stood watching the warbler as it dug through the soil and extracted a worm. The creature wriggled in desperation, its urge to survive strong despite the hopelessness of its situation. Unable to bear its final moments, I turned away, sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and, with my head in my hands, proceeded to silently sob my heart out.