The Lemon Grove (11 page)

Emma’s eyes do not leave Nathan’s back for one moment; his athletic shoulders packed into an emerald-green polo shirt. He only has to turn his head a fraction and look in her general direction and Emma stands to attention, willing a smile from his lips; a look, a wave – any kind of peace offering. Jenn places a hand on Emma’s shoulder, gives her a sympathetic squeeze.

‘Everything OK there?’

‘Yep.’

The curt monosyllable is emphatic, a caveat. The matter is not open for discussion. Jenn is not giving up – not yet. She stops for full effect.

‘The thing with boys, Em …’ She sighs – she already knows how this will end up, but she soldiers on. ‘What you should know about them is that they like to play—’

Emma spins round, exasperated. ‘Don’t. You know nothing about him.’

As well-prepared as she thought she was, Jenn is taken aback by the venom of Emma’s delivery; the anger in her eyes. She holds up her hands in surrender, smiles, tries not to reveal her shock, her hurt. Only the day before yesterday Emma was squeezing her fingers and thanking her for making this happen. Emma shakes her head, marches on in front. The gap between her teeth is still there.

Suddenly, the path just drops away. There is no indication in the landscape, no gradual descent or loosening of soil, nothing to suggest that the sudden splash of light and space is a sheer and deadly drop. They have walked this path many times before; they are respectful of the seasonal shifts of landscape, attentive to its ruses and hidden perils, yet it’s Nathan, the novice, who spots it. Without warning, he shoots an arm across Gregory’s chest.

‘Whoa!’

Emma screams. There’s a collective gasp followed by
a prolonged silence. Perhaps, if Emma hadn’t snapped at her, Jenn might have realised they were climbing over a purposely erected barrier, not detritus; she might have noticed the daub of red some distance back, directing them upwards and away from the ledge. But none of them would have seen the warning sign that blew down in last week’s gale. With both his trekking poles set firmly in the soil, Gregory inches towards the edge. He cranes his head and shoulders forward to peer down; Jenn does the same. She swoons and quickly steps back. Just below the precipice, a tiny stone hut clings miserably to the clod of earth and rock that has simply plunged straight down into the gorge, carrying the little outhouse with it. The whole thing, edifice and the clump it stands on, is wedged halfway down the cliff. Below it, there is nothing: no sea to break your fall, just boulders and fallen pines whose branches stand erect like rapiers.

Gregory turns to them, smirking. ‘So this is how the municipality of Deià is keeping tourist saturation in check.’

But there’s fear in his eyes. He is thinking the same as everyone else: that could have been them. He backs away from the ledge, takes Emma’s hand and squeezes it tight. Only Nathan seems indifferent; he is already retracing their steps, trying to figure out where they went wrong.

‘Here!’ he shouts. ‘Eureka!’ The splash of red paint on a rotted stump is inconclusive, they could veer left, or right. Nathan points up to a further flash of colour in the trees above. ‘There we go. Problem solved.’

Gregory doesn’t move. ‘I don’t know, guys … could be another bum steer.’

Jenn cannot see that far up; Emma is not yet ready to take Nathan’s side. He shrugs.

‘Shouldn’t we at least check it out?’

Emma bunches close to her father, still prodding the ground beneath his feet. Jenn shoots Nathan a sympathetic look; shrugs her approval. He smiles back, and takes off into the woods. They follow his progress via splintered glimpses of emerald, darting through the forest. The gradient is steep. He is right above the ravine, now. It’s a straight slide down to the precipice – loose soil all the way, with little to grab hold of. If he were to slip, he could die.

‘He’s really high up,’ Emma says. She shuffles over, her grudge forgotten for a moment, and she leans into Jenn’s hip in search of reassurance. Jenn pulls her close.

‘He’s okay, Em. He knows what he’s doing.’

Greg tightens his lips, lets out a hiss. Jenn silences him with a look. Her bronchial passages are starting to tighten again. Her breathing drags, it feels woollen in her lungs. She casts her gaze out over the sea. The low clouds are
lifting; patches of blue starting to break through. Yet she can feel it, is sure of it; a storm is on its way.

Nathan emerges in a clearing at the highest point of the forest. Here, the trees thin out to meet the weather-bashed terraces of an olive grove. They can just about make him out as he squats and rests his flat hands on his thighs. Then he’s back up and off and out of sight again. Seconds later, he’s up in a clearing. He makes a beckoning flourish with his hand.

‘Found it!’ he shouts. ‘Come on!’

Gregory’s face twitches. He mops a veil of sweat from his brow.

‘We can’t just cut through somebody’s back garden,’ he says in a low voice. Nathan – fifty odd metres above – calls back as though he’s right there.

‘It’s not a garden – it’s just an old olive grove.’

He disappears from sight briefly, then reappears on the other side of the ravine, trotting down the slope like a goat. He’s enjoying himself, smiling at them as he skips down to the cliff’s edge as though it’s all in a day’s gentle work. Gregory’s face tightens. He narrows his eyes and begins scanning around for an alternative way across the chasm. Jenn leans back on a tree trunk as he plots his
own route. His lips move silently before, eventually, he reveals his master-plan.

‘Right. See back there where the mudslide leads down to the cove? Okay – follow it back. See the steps cut into the cliff face? That’s the old path leading down to that little beach. Remember?’

She mentally traces his route down the side of the cliff. That little tier of footholds may well have functioned as steps once, but, like the rest of the landscape, they have crumbled beyond all recognition; no way are they stable.

‘I don’t know, Greg. You’re the only one with proper walking shoes on. Why not scope out the other route?’

She is careful not to say
his
route. The roll of thunder turns their heads towards the sea. It’s dense and guttural, as though coming from the very bowels of the ocean. Greg looks anxious for a moment; Jenn, vindicated.

‘Did you bring your inhaler?’

‘No. You predicted clear skies.’

She lets him fret for a moment, then fishes the pink one from her pocket, takes a precautionary blast. Greg shouts across to Nathan:

‘You’ll have to come back, Nathan! We’re taking a different route. We need to press on.’

Jenn tries to control her irritation. Once, she might have found Greg’s obstinacy endearing; now she just sees
it as folly. Nathan is standing there on safe, solid ground, shaking his head, and Jenn realises, in one furious flash, that she’s not embarrassed for her husband; she’s embarrassed
of
him. This bearded man with his hiking boots and collapsible trekking poles is a bad reflection on her. He drives the poles into the ground as he marches off, aloof. Emma scurries to catch him; grabs him by the wrist. With a stifled groan, Jenn pushes back against the tree with both palms, forcing herself forward.

‘Greg! Don’t you think we should at least
try
the other route? I mean, he’s
there
, after all. He’s on the other side!’

‘The other side of
where
though?
This
is the path!’ he shouts back.

Jenn dawdles, unsure who to follow. The sky creaks and groans. Greg waves his stick at her.

‘Jenn! Will you come
on
?’

She watches him scuff and slip his way up the slope, Emma almost dragging them both back down. She watches them until they’re gone.

11

The flea-bitten donkeys cease chewing as she comes sliding into the olive grove on her bottom. Cautiously, she gets to her feet and skirts the curious beasts. She scans around for Nathan. He’s straddling a fallen tree, making like he’s looking out to sea but furtively he’s observing her. He gets up, walks towards her, eases the rucksack from her shoulders and swings it effortlessly over his own.

‘Is he always like that?’

There’s a mocking glint in his eye. A defensive jolt shoots through her.

‘Like what?’

He shrugs. ‘Childish. Stubborn.’

She takes a step back.

‘Greg knows the paths inside out. We’ve been walking here for years.’

‘What? Knows them well enough to put his daughter’s life at risk?’

He strides towards the cliff ledge. A thunderclap rips the skyline. He points to the cove below and traces a path back from it with his finger.

‘That’s where he’s heading to, down there?’

She follows his eye line to the flimsy steps, which end abruptly halfway down the cliff. A landslide has left a bronze-coloured rubble scree sloping down to the rocky beach. Again, a protective lurch, deep in her guts. She shrugs. ‘I’d imagine so. Who knows?’

‘Madness,’ he mutters.

Even in the sheltered cove below them, the sea is rough, wild with bobbing gulls. There’s the shimmer of a tin roof; a fisherman’s shack. Small wooden boats strain at their moorings. Yes, she thinks, madness – and follows Nathan sideways, one foot planted carefully after the other, down the narrow path then slowly down the cliff steps.

There is no sand, no shingle, just boulders and rocks, stones and pebbles of various shapes and textures; some as smooth and huge as prehistoric eggs, others jagged enough to shred the soles of her feet. The stony
cove is empty save for two women, one sitting between the other’s legs, both staring out across the stormy sea. Jenn selects a rusty rock, wide and flat, just back from the water’s edge. She squats down and unpacks the food. Nathan narrows his eyes as he watches the older woman kiss her girlfriend’s neck. Is that disapproval in his look? Or is he, like most young men, beguiled? She taps his shoulder with a bottle of water. The face that greets her is neither leery nor judgemental – just wistful.

The sun comes out, yet rain spatters their shoulders. The sky bellows. Nathan does a 360-degree sweep of the horizon.