The Lemon Grove (25 page)

They can hear the spit and crackle of a bonfire as they reach the path, still strewn with tree bark. Greg is chatting to Benni. He is standing with his back straight, purposeful. He’s holding a sheaf of papers in one hand; with the other, he is tossing them, one at a time, into the flames. There is no hint of the ill mood that Benni’s presence usually begets. Greg is nodding his head in slow, considered acceptance of whatever Benni is telling him. Jenn suspects her husband is making his peace. They will not be returning to Villa Ana next year.

Greg raises a hand in greeting as he hears the scrape of
the gate on the gravel; Benni turns round, steps a little way from Greg. He gives Jenn a sheepish look then scuttles off with his rake to the other side of the lemon grove. Greg turns to smile at them as they come alongside him.

‘Nice day?’ he asks.

‘Gorgeous,’ Jenn says. Her eyes are still trained on Benni. He looks back over his shoulder as though sensing her watching him. ‘Although the sun would have been insufferable without that breeze from the sea.’

‘Mmm,’ Emma says and leans her head on Jenn’s shoulder. ‘It was good just to be able to kick back and do nothing.’ She gestures to her plastered leg. ‘You do realise I’m going to have a two-tone leg for the rest of the year.’

The three of them laugh. Benni is walking down the path to his van, smiling now. He throws them a wave and the little stub of anxiety in Jenn’s chest fades to nothing.

‘How about you, señor?’ Jenn nods at the incinerated papers, burnt to flaking charcoal. ‘That’s not what I think it is, is it?’

‘It is
precisely
what you think it is,’ he declares. He sees Emma’s face fall and snorts. ‘Couldn’t figure out how to end it. It’s pretty execrable actually.’

‘Shouldn’t you let someone else be the judge of that?’ Jenn asks him.

‘Not this time,’ Greg says and shuffles across to Emma so all three of them are in a row, watching it burn to ash.

Jenn is conscious of the moment; the slow dissipation of the day; the sun, a dried-blood red; the three of them, healing.

‘Right, I’m off to bath before dinner,’ Emma says. She gives Jenn a hopeful look. ‘Can you help me get in and out?’ Jenn nods; smiles. ‘Where are we going, again?’

Greg gives them a teasing, inscrutable smile. Emma pokes him.

‘Come on, Dad! Where have you booked? A girl needs to know what to wear, for goodness’ sake!’

He shakes his head. ‘This is one place we don’t need to book.’ Jenn tries to catch his eye. There’s something about him, he’s reborn, and she likes it. His eyes dance on Emma.

‘Wear what you like. But be quick about it, yes?’

Emma leans on Jenn’s shoulder and they start up the path to the villa, but Greg catches up with them. He touches Jenn’s elbow, signals for her to hang back. She gives Emma a smile.

‘You go on up, darling. I’ll give you a hand in a minute.’

Greg waits till Emma is out of earshot.

‘I’ve spoken with Christopher.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve made a decision. I’m not going back.’

Jenn nods, unsure what to say. She smiles, tries to project confidence.

‘Good … good. I’m glad.’

She wraps her arms around his big solid frame. ‘It’s going to be fine, Greg. I promise.’

She closes her eyes tight and lays her face flat along his broad chest.

Jenn takes the white cotton dress off the hanger; it still has its label intact. She snips it off with the nail scissors, slips the dress on. She sits at the dressing table and fixes her hair. Tonight, she’ll wear it up, just how Greg likes it. As she pins it in place she sees that around her temples, a few stray greys are starting to poke through. She drags one out above her head and picks up the nail scissors, but then stops herself. She fancies that this time, she might live with them a while, see how she gets on.

Jenn and Emma sit on the terrace drinking wine, smoking. They can hear Greg getting ready upstairs. Footfall sails closer to the balcony above, and Emma quickly passes the cigarette to Jenn. They hear him move back into the bathroom and Jenn passes it back, winking.

The darkness is deepening, the air is cooling. They
can hear Greg trimming his beard. They smile at one another and sip at their wine – Jenn a split second after Emma. Stars are pinning the sky. The metronomic burr of cicadas seems to occupy every bit of space around them, then cuts to silence. It starts up again, just like that. Last night, flushed with brandy, Greg had told them how the male cricket makes that noise by running the top of one wing against the bottom of the other. ‘Like they’re crying?’ Emma said. ‘No, not at all,’ he’d replied. ‘Like they’re washing their hands of someone.’

The moon climbs up above the mountains, low and swollen. Finally, they hear Greg locking the shutters. Jenn corks the wine bottle and scatters the cigarette ash in the grass, wiping down the saucer with her thumb.

Greg strides out onto the terrace. He’s wearing his linen jacket with jeans and loafers – no socks. Jenn catches his eye and conveys her admiration. She helps Emma into the car.

They reach the top of the switchback and fork right for Deià. She leans her head coquettishly on his biceps.

‘Greg, how thoughtful of you … you’re taking us to El Olivio!’

He stares straight ahead – steely.

‘Not this time.’

They drive on through the village. They spot Benni on the pavement outside Bar Luna. Greg taps the horn with the base of his palm and Benni sees the car and ducks down to the window as they pass. Jenn throws him a cheery wave but he seems to look right through her and instead focuses, very directly, on Greg. He takes his pipe out of his mouth and his lips press together in a gesture of something – what? Jenn cannot be sure, but her shoulders give out a little quiver of unease. She thinks back to the two of them by the bonfire before, their heads bent as one. Is it possible that he saw? She flips her head over her shoulder, expecting to see Benni standing in the road, watching their car tail away, but he’s disappeared into Bar Luna. She relaxes a little. Whatever they talked about earlier on – whatever she imagined they talked about – it does not concern her.

They pass Jaume, and she’s relieved, if a little sad that they’re not paying one last visit to Miki’s wonderful place. They head out past Sa Pedrissa and it suddenly dawns on her – the roadside restaurant they’re always promising to visit. Of course! The little car labours up the hill then, as they coast its crest and begin their descent towards the garage, Greg slips into fifth gear and motors past the café.

She can’t help herself. A panic pricks at her armpits. She can just make out the faint odour of fear-sweat. There’s only really Valldemossa they could be heading for, now – scene of his first betrayal. She can hack it, she thinks; she can put a brave face on it. If Emma can, then she can.

Gregory slows past the garage and waits at the junction as though prolonging her agony. He turns right and she knows, now, where he’s heading. There can be only one place. Her throat starts to tighten.

The darkness closes in, impenetrable. The road dips and coils. He clicks his full beam on. Emma’s head appears in the space between the front seats.

‘Come on, Dad! Where are we? Where are you taking us?’

Greg darts his eyes at Jenn, before focusing on Emma in the rear-view mirror.

‘I doubt you’ll remember it, darling. But you loved it!’

Jenn’s heart is banging.

‘Where?’ squeals Emma.

‘Your mother knows. She had a sandwich there the other night – isn’t that right, Jenn?’

Jenn nods. Her fingers open and close, open and close against her thighs.

Without looking at her, he says, ‘You know, I was telling Benni before. All about your little trek out there …’ And now he turns to her. ‘Tell her, Jenn. Tell her where we’re going.’

‘I think we’re going to Paco’s, Em.’

Greg smiles and shifts into a lower gear as they make their descent into Banyalbufar.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank:

Mary-Anne Harrington; Imogen Taylor; Georgina Moore; Emily Kitchin; Emma Holtz; Vicky Palmer – and everyone at Tinder: I heart my home.

Susan Traxel; Louise Dennys; Deirdre Molina.

Ailsa Cox.

Jonny Geller; Kirsten Foster; Kate Cooper.

Deborah Schneider.

Bill Sherridan.

Dr L. Storrar, professor of Mallorcan horticulture.

My mother.

And my husband and son, for everything.

HELEN WALSH
was born in Warrington, England, in 1976. Her first novel,
Brass
, was published in 2004 and was the winner of the Betty Trask Prize. Her second novel,
Once Upon a Time in England
, was the winner of the Somerset Maugham Award. Her third novel,
Go to Sleep
, was published to much fanfare in 2011.