Chapter 33
Violet
The only thing I wanted to do in the days after Antonio died was hide. Not only from the brooding watchful gaze of my son and the smouldering ball of distemper that had become my estranged husband, but from myself. So much of what had happened could be blamed solely on me, and while I was hurt by Henry’s betrayal, of the way in which he’d made it clear that I’d been the one to stray, I also understood it. What I was finding far more difficult to forgive was the way he’d spoken to Luke, the manner in which he’d confronted him, and the caustic remarks he’d made about him being ‘screwed up’.
The wounds inflicted by father on to son during those moments would leave scars – of that, I was certain. Luke would dwell, and he would suffer, and then, eventually, he would blow. It was only a matter of time, and no amount of hiding away would change that.
News of Antonio’s death spread rapidly through Pollen?a, and when I ventured out of the house on the morning of the second day after it happened, I discovered Ynes in the lane outside. She was clutching a frothy bunch of pink peonies wrapped in brown paper, and a carrier bag that strained under the weight of foil-covered dishes.
‘Cabecita roja,’ she said sorrowfully, enveloping me in a rather moist hug. The trudge up the Calvari Steps from the centre of town had left a sheen of sweat on her skin, and there were bright blue mascara blotches under her eyes.
‘I am very sorry.’
She pulled back to look at me, the paper around the flowers crinkling as she gripped the top of my arm. There was concern etched across her features that made me want to curl up into a ball at her feet and weep. When I’d called my mother the previous day to tell her the news, she’d reacted more with bewilderment than sympathy.
‘Was he ill? He always seemed so energetic.’ Then, ‘Did he have a younger girlfriend, someone pushing him to do too much?’
And while I’d never have expected her to fly out for the funeral, I was hoping she’d be, at least in part, concerned about my well-being. Unlike my mum, who I felt had viewed me differently ever since the day I told her I was pregnant with Luke, Ynes treated me as if I was something fragile, one of her delicate blooms that required careful handling – and I needed that. Perhaps more at this moment than any other. And so, I let my Spanish friend see my tears; hold me to her chest and stroke my hair. We stood together in the lane that way for some time, while the ignorant sun poured liquid gold puddles across the rooftops.
‘Sorry,’ I said after a time, lifting my head and wiping my eyes. ‘I’ve cried all over your apron.’
Ynes’s dark eyes crinkled. ‘I have many more.’
‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked, gesturing towards the house, but she shook her head, taking my hand and leading me over to the boundary wall.
‘Sit,’ she instructed.
I sat.
Ynes lowered her bag of meals to the ground before easing herself down beside me.
‘How is Enrique?’
I shook my head and she grimaced.
‘Ah. And little Luke?’
I smiled at that. Of all the words a person could use to describe my son, ‘little’ was not one of them. Unsure if she’d know what I meant by ‘subdued’, I settled instead on ‘quiet’.
Ynes nodded. ‘Death is harder for the young.’
I thought about my mother in the weeks after my father died, haunted, broken, and angry enough to spit fire. I’d wanted nothing more than to tear down the world with her, but one of us needed to remain strong. And I had Luke. Falling apart was an impossibility. I’d envied my mother her raw and unequivocal grief. While she had burned white hot, I had smouldered, hiding my sadness behind practical tasks, and saving my silent tears for the few moments each day that I was alone. I knew I should be encouraging Luke to let out his own grief, but the cowardly part of me could not bear to face him, not now he knew what I had done. My betrayal.
‘It doesn’t feel real,’ I murmured. ‘Antonio was so...’
‘Grande,’ Ynes intoned, adding with a chuckle, ‘He would enjoy hearing us talk like this about him.’
The hint of a blush crept across her cheeks as she said it, and I stared at her, my brow arched in enquiry.
‘You and Antonio?’
She smiled. ‘A long time ago. But you must not tell this to anyone.’
‘I won’t – but why the big secret?’
She leant in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘My papi is eighty-four, but he would still—’ She slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other. ‘He has not forgotten what Antonio was like as a boy, always in trouble, misbehaving, fighting.’
‘Boys and their troubles,’ I said with a sigh, although it wasn’t a universal truth, not when I considered what Henry had been like when I’d met him. His determination to do the right thing by me, and by us, and the willingness he had to love and be loved, could perhaps all be attributed to Antonio. Not because the older man had set good examples, but because he’d demonstrated to his second-born son what not to do. However, while being a supportive partner had come naturally to Henry, it was undeniable that fatherhood had proved trickier. He wore the role as he might a suit off the rack; it looked good on him but didn’t fit quite as well as it should have.
‘Women are no better,’ Ynes said, punctuating her words with a dismissive sniff. ‘We are all –’ she whirled her hands around her head – ‘loca.’
‘You can’t say that!’ I exclaimed, but she shrugged.
‘When you are as old as I am, you can say whatever you like.’
‘In that case, I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Ach,’ she scolded. ‘You are still una bebé.’
‘Does it get any easier?’ I asked, wanting her to say that it did, to tell me everything would be OK, that all the worries I had now would seem trivial one day. But Ynes never had been one to play the game of make believe.
‘Not easier,’ she said, putting a soft, reassuring hand over mine. ‘But things, they do change. Life moves on, people grow up and start to make their way into the world.’
‘And people die,’ I said, to which she smiled.
‘Sí, cabecita roja. And this is OK. Death is with us, in the earth and the trees, the wind and the sea. Those that we love, they do not cease to be when they leave us.’
My mind went to Henry; the feelings I had for him like knotweed, forever destined to grow no matter how many times they were uprooted.
‘Is there anything you need?’ Ynes asked. ‘Anything that I can bring for you?’
I nudged the carrier bag of food with my foot and smiled. ‘I think you’ve outdone yourself already but thank you.’
I didn’t want her to go. Having her there made me feel safer; she was my buffer against the hardships of the world. Ynes got to her feet, and I tucked each of my hands underneath my thighs so I wouldn’t be tempted to cling on to her. We both turned at the sound of feet on the lane, my heart dropping as Malcolm and Mags came into view.
‘Oh,’ said Mags, all brightness and good cheer. ‘Is now a good time?’
I gawped at her.
Malcolm blinked uncertainly. He was impeccably turned out as usual, in ironed shorts and a polo shirt with the collar turned up, while Mags looked pretty in a tiered pale-pink maxi dress that could have been modelled on Ynes’s peonies.
‘We don’t mean to be a nuisance,’ he began, pausing as his wife rushed forwards, nodding her agreement.
‘We really don’t,’ she said ardently. ‘We just love the house so much, as you know and, well, we didn’t want to go without making that point clear.’
I could almost feel Ynes’s intrigue as it burned through me.
‘You’re going home to England?’ I asked, but Malcolm shook his head.
‘Just heading out on a chum’s boat for a week or so, doing a bit of sailing, some snorkelling perhaps.’
‘Right.’
‘But we’ll be back soon, won’t we, Magsy?’
‘This time next week,’ she agreed, sounding so hopeful that I glanced away.
‘Sorry,’ I said, my eyes on the ground. ‘There’s been a death in the family, so we’re all a bit... Everything is on hold.’
I braced myself against the flurry of ‘oh my goshes’ and ‘how awfuls’ and ‘you poor things’, during which Ynes remained silent, arms folded across the front of her apron.
‘We’ll know more by next week,’ I promised them. ‘I’ll talk to Henry.’
Not that he’d say much back.
The sun had moved around and had me in its glare, scratching at me with its jagged rays. I raised a hand to shield my face, then turned it over to wave farewell to Malcolm and Mags. They headed back the way they’d come, dragging their feet, each throwing a last, longing look up at La Casa Naranja.
Ynes waited until they were out of sight before she spoke. ‘They want to buy the house.’ It was not a question.
‘Sí.’ I sighed. ‘Very much so.’
‘And they can afford to do so, a young couple like that?’
I pursed my lips. ‘Apparently.’
Ynes huffed under her breath, before sitting down once again beside me.
‘Antonio had money,’ she said. ‘Plenty of money. You will not have to sell now, I don’t think.’
But any inheritance would be Henry’s money. Not mine.
I could hear my mother’s voice, her words from the previous day’s phone call as clear as if she’d been standing right in front of me: ‘There are more letters, Violet – they’re not going away. You need to do something about them.’ And then there were the calls I’d ignored from unknown numbers, the empty funds in both accounts, the credit card with its balance far exceeded.
The despair.
The desperation.
The disgust.
And then there was the other problem, the deal I’d made with a person I should never have let myself trust, who may now never relinquish their control over me.
I couldn’t tell Ynes; I was too ashamed to admit the extent of it, but I did manage to share a sliver of truth.
‘I don’t want to sell the house,’ I told her. ‘But we have to – don’t you see?’
She squinted at me, not understanding, wanting to sympathise but being unable to do so without knowing more.
‘Henry—’ I stopped. It was too painful, the truth – it stole the air from my lungs.
‘Qué?’ she asked gently. I closed my eyes, squeezed them shut, the texture of the wall rough beneath my hands. Saying it felt impossible, yet somehow, I found the words.
‘Henry doesn’t love me any more.’