Weeks in Naviras (3 page)

As I put the lid back on the box and stowed it on the top shelf once again, I smiled to myself; wondered how the journalists outside would react if they’d known the Prime Minister’s wife was just another happy-tablet drone. Would they feel any sympathy? Not unless they’d known the backdrop, and that was something I’d decided would never be revealed. Not because it would’ve reflected badly on James, but because people would’ve realised quickly that my actions left a lot to be desired, too.

I gaze at the almost-still water, wondering how it would feel to die in it. It’s my ocean, after all, as much as it is Luis’s. The one I’d always swam in, played with my children in. Should I feel animosity towards the sea for killing Luis? Everyone knows it can be dangerous but still we venture into it, because drowning’s the sort of thing that happens to other people’s friends and family, never your own. No, there’s really no point getting angry at the sea for being there. No-one’s ever forced us to swim in it, or sail on it. Anyway, now I really am dead I could swim out for miles and never drown, surely.

I think about Bobby and Sadie and feel guilty, but for what, dying? I know how it feels to lose your mum so young, the anger one feels at them for disappearing like that, permanently with no chance of reversal. Will they hate me for getting myself killed, will they come to realise it wasn’t my fault? Will they find a substitute mother, somehow and in time? Is that how Luis feels about Carolina? Perhaps he’s waiting for her so he can apologise for running off into death like that.

I stand up, an intriguing experience. There’s none of the mild stiffness I’ve been feeling in recent years as I rise from the chair. For the first time I notice what I’m wearing; cream sandals, a short, floaty green sarong and a pale blue bikini top, all clothes I used to take to Naviras. I must’ve been wearing them when I stepped out of the ocean, for I’ve no memory of putting them on. My boobs are lightly tanned, not burnt as they’d sometimes become during my trips to the village. I’m not wearing my wedding and engagement rings.

I leave the glass of wine on the table and walk slowly up the sun deck, past the other customers. The older man in his sixties wearing the Panama hat smiles, raises his hand in welcome. I don’t know him but still smile back as I walk past, through the patio doors. The bar’s unchanged; the lampshades made from old lobster pots hanging from the ceiling, the fishing nets draped along the top of the wall above the counter. Luis is sitting halfway down the bar, a cigar resting in a terracotta ashtray in front of him. Pale smoke rises from the tip, but there’s no nutty smell. He beckons me. ‘How’re you feeling?’

I say I don’t know, staring at the ocean through the large windows. ‘You died out there, Luis. But you look at it all the time.’ I prop my arm against the bar next to him. ‘Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?’

‘I don’t think about it much.’ He turns his face slightly away from me and puffs. ‘People don’t, here, they just get over it.’

'You’ve forgotten what happened.’

‘No, I can just about remember. There was a boat coming towards me, I could see the swell on the surface above me. I tried to swim away from it. That’s all.’ His smile’s accepting. ‘The next thing I remember I was coming out of the water, the same way you just did.’

‘You look great, Luis.’

‘Hey, smoking isn’t bad for you here, the bar never closes. You look good yourself.’ He gestures with his cigar to the long mirror at the end of the bar. ‘Go and see.’

It’s not that I’m younger which shocks me as I walk up to my reflection, although there’s no denying I am. About ten years younger, in fact. It’s how I’m far more attractive than I’d been, even back then. My breasts are like avocadoes, my skin flawless with no circles under my eyes. My hair’s straight without any hint of waviness, no need for highlights or serums to get it to behave. I look my best, the best I could have possibly ever looked, without makeup or any other adjustment required. It’s extraordinary.

Delighted with myself I walk back to Luis. ‘I’m so different,’ I say. ‘We both are.’

‘It’s how we were meant to be, I suppose.’ Still there’s a distance to him.

‘Everyone here’s the same?’

He takes a long pull on the cigar. ‘It seems like it, everyone looks younger than when they died.’

‘I don’t know any of these people.’

‘No, they came here a long time before you.’ I notice his cigar’s not burning away. ‘They remember me, though, from when I was a child. Mostly they just sit here and talk.’

‘What about the family on the beach?’

‘Those four? They’re happy. They haven’t moved once since I got here. I’m pretty sure they know they’re dead.’ He cocks his head towards the beach, grins slightly. ‘When I first got here, I thought I’d wait to see if Carolina would come,’ he looks at me again. I can’t work out what his almond eyes are saying. I ask him how long it feels since he arrived. ‘Maybe an hour? You’ll see, there are no clocks here, no watches.’

I look around the bar, trying to remember if there’d ever been a clock on the wall. ‘Who owns this place?’

‘Nobody,’ Luis rests his cigar on the side of the ashtray. ‘I don’t think anyone owns anything here. There’s no work, either. People don’t really want things, that much. Nobody gets hungry or thirsty, food and drink are just for tasting. Other than that, people just sit and remember things.’

‘And Casa Amanhã?’

‘Yes, Lottie’s up there, she came down to the beach not long ago.’

I feel like I’ve been given a present, a get-out. Lottie’s here, and that makes dying almost feel worthwhile. ‘I have to go and see her, Luis.’

He just looks at me calmly, understanding. ‘I know. She’ll be happy to see you.’

‘Have you talked to her much?’

‘We’ve said a few words.’ He’s more evasive, looking away from me again. ‘She said most of the people in the village are up at Casa Amanhã, a few more in La Roda.’

‘You haven’t been up there?’

‘No.’ His top lip curls up slightly. ‘I wanted to wait by the ocean. You know Ellie, Lottie’s much, much younger here. It’s more of a change in her, you’ll see it and you’ll be surprised about it. I was. But it’s fine.’

Some things don’t change, it seems. He still cannot say what he really wants. Why should someone else always have to say it? Finally I speak. ‘Will you come with me? We can talk some more on the way.’

He considers it for a moment. ‘It’d be good for the three of us to all be in the same place, but you should see her alone first, I think. And maybe James is up at Casa Amanhã, too.’

Yes, I think. Far more likely he’d be there than at the beach bar. I ask Luis if he’s sure he won’t join me on the short walk to Casa Amanhã, not surprised when he won’t change his mind.

‘I’ll stay here. How’s about you go and see her, and then ask her to come down here for a drink? We can have a chat together. She might come.’

His manner toward me is confusing, almost as if he sees me as just another patron of the beach bar. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

He seems to find this funny. ‘Make sure you do. You’ll understand more, then. Probably more than me, you’re that smart, Ellie.’

I touch him lightly on his forearm. ‘Ciao,’ he says, as I walk past him to the open door at the other side of the bar, walking down the stone steps to the path that runs along the back of the beach to the slipway. I feel excited, I must say.

There’ve been times in the past when I’ve been drenched by crashing waves on this path. Naviras sits in a sheltered bay, facing south and shielded from the ferocity of the Atlantic. Even so the spring tides could be bracing, and on rough days people crossing the slipway were often doused in spray. Normally it was just funny, but once I’d heard about some tourists whose car ended up bobbing into the sea. The slipway’s designed for fishing boats but over the years I watched them being replaced by hire-cars, and even the boats that remained were for scuba lessons, not fishing.

This time there aren’t any cars at all, just two small fishing boats hauled halfway up the slipway, attached to iron cleats with thick rope. I’d stubbed my big toe on one of these cleats once, walking up from the beach bar on a moonless night. The next day I couldn’t go into the sea because of the sting of salt.

The slope’s just as steep as always, but this time it doesn’t make my legs ache as I walk up into the square, which is deserted. La Roda’s open, though. I’m curious to see who might be in there, so I walk up the small steps to the veranda. There’s soft music coming from inside the bar. A man and woman are sitting at one of the small tables on the veranda, looking out to the ocean. They have clear fizzy drinks on the table in front of them, next to two bowls containing green olives and cherries.

The woman who says hello is English and middle-aged, wearing a red and white spotty maxidress. ‘You’re new,’ she says, with a Yorkshire accent.

The man’s just finishing eating an olive. He swallows it and welcomes me. ‘I’m Bill and this is Jean.’ Both of them look a bit older than me, but not aged. Neither have wrinkles, no sagging skin. She’s the kind of lady who might’ve worn dangly earrings, but like me she’s not wearing any
jewellery.

‘I’m Ellie. I don’t remember seeing you here before.’

Jean shakes her head slightly. ‘No. You must be from later on,’ she says it with no hint of surprise. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down and have some olives? These cherries are delicious, too.’

I peer behind them into the bar. The TV screen that used to be suspended in the corner is missing, but the snooker table’s there. In the far corner a Portuguese man’s playing an acoustic guitar and singing softly. I look back at the couple in front of me on the veranda. ‘From later on?’

Bill picks up a cherry. ‘From what we’ve learned, it seems like twenty years have passed.’

‘That would explain why you don’t recognise me,’ I say.

Jean nods. ‘And how old were you when you came here, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I came here a lot in my thirties, usually on holiday.’

Bill raises his hand, ever so slightly. ‘No, love. How old were you, when you came
here?’

‘Oh. I’m, well, I
was,
forty-one. But I don’t look it. I look a lot younger.’ Finally I sit down in front of them.

Jean nods again, knowingly. ‘You look just as you did when you first came?’


‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘But different as well. I saw my reflection in the mirror at the beach bar.’

Jean picks up her drink from the table and sips it through a small white straw. ‘That’s how it works here,’ she says eventually, explaining how both of them lived into their eighties, but started coming to Naviras thirty years earlier, in the ‘sweet’ years after the revolution.

‘Did you come here often?’ I know it’s a ridiculous thing to say and Jean laughs.

‘We came out every summer, for fifteen years. We had a cottage here, on the road leading up the hill.’

‘And it’s still there?’

‘Of course. Not that we go into it much, we like it out here. Go on, have a cherry.’

I feel I can’t say no. I put a cherry in my mouth and sink my teeth down, expecting to feel the stone but it’s not there. I chew on it, mash it up in my mouth. It’s the most delicious, tangy cherry I’ve ever tasted.

‘There’s no stone.’

Bill smiles, a bit proudly. ‘No. It’s the same with the olives. That’s just the way things are around here. You get used to it.’

I can’t feel the cherry going down my gullet, but the taste lingers in my mouth. I look at Jean. ‘It’s so quiet here, quieter than I remember it. And where are all the villagers?’

She purses her lips. ‘People come, and then they go. Some wait for their family and then they leave together. I suppose we’re quite unusual in that we’ve stayed.’

‘How long? I mean, did it seem like a long time, while you were waiting for your husband?’

Jean looks at me, then to Bill, then out to sea. ‘I’d only just settled in to it all, when Bill came round that corner.’ She waves her hand towards the sea. ‘And when people leave, they go up there.’ She turns and gestures to another lane, the one that leads out of the village to the main road.

‘What, minutes, hours?’

‘I wasn’t counting,’ she says. ‘You’ll stop thinking about that after a while, if you stay.’

It’s hard to take it all in. James always had an odd relationship with Naviras, loving it initially but feeling quite constrained by it later. But if he’s not going to be in the village, then where?

The car dropped Anushka and me outside Parliament, and even though it was just a couple of paces from the car to its large doors I was smattered by the rain. Once through the doorway I looked back and up at the tower housing Big Ben. It was twenty past eight in the evening, the clock face looked, what, tired and irritable? Certainly the semblance of a frown, like it had seen it all before.

The smell of old wood from the roof always struck me as I walked into Westminster Hall. You’d think that after hundreds of years the musty smell would dissipate somehow, that every molecule of it would have eventually given up its last. Maybe they gave the roof some kind of treatment, to keep the smell of the centuries wafting down. The whole hall seemed designed to make one feel conditional. It’s the combination of the size of it and the age of it. All strangers to Parliament normally came through that entrance, which put them in their place, or tried to. Despite the muggy wet weather the vast stone hall remained cool, impervious to the seasons.

I was still a stranger, in many ways. Parliament wasn’t somewhere I visited often, not because I felt intimidated by it, but because I’d no reason to be there. Even James hadn’t spent huge amounts of time there in the evenings, like most Tories he preferred to do his business off-campus, in bars and dining clubs. Still I had a pass for Parliament and could go in whenever I wanted; obviously not allowed into the MPs’ tea-rooms, but I’d always enjoyed the terrace. Occasionally I would take people on a little tour of the building, although I’d normally do that alongside an MP who knew its history better. I turned to Anushka as we quickly walked up the cold and gloomy staircase towards Central Lobby. ‘Any sign of rebels?’

Anuskha was scrolling through her messages. ‘I don’t think so, there was some chatter on the news at tea-time saying there might be one or two.  But Rosie thinks the news are just talking it up to get viewers.’ Anushka hadn’t been working for me for very long, she’d previously performed a client relations role for a hedge fund.  She’d been quite an expensive hire; Rosie queried it, saying it’d be picked up by the press. I think really she’d just been annoyed that I’d ignored her recommendations and appointed someone from outside the party machine.

‘He still doesn’t know you’re coming?’ Anushka smiled at me, uncertainly. I shook my head. James wasn’t in any danger of losing the vote, but I’d decided that pre-announcing my visit might rattle him. Still, I thought it would be a nice surprise for him, a show of support. A friendly MP had fixed me a ticket for the gallery and I’d arranged to meet one of their bag-carriers in Central Lobby, which was crowded. Despite being dimly lit and cold it was teeming with journalists, staffers and anyone else in the area with the time and the curiosity to see how the vote would go. At that point I didn’t have that much of a profile, so really only politicos and MPs gave a double-take as I walked into the lobby. I wanted to get in and out of there quickly before the hacks had time to notice me. We went straight upstairs, through private corridors and staircases to the MPs’ gallery above the Commons.

Everyone who’s been in there says it’s smaller than it looks on TV, what fewer people notice is the chalky light. One only sees that when up in the galleries, looking down and across. Is there dust in the air? Something makes the light from the gigantic art deco lamps above the MPs slightly diffuse. Thanks to the brownouts those lamps were often dimmed, to show solidarity with the rest of the country. They only turned them up to their normal brightness during PMQs or other major Parliamentary set-pieces, like the one playing out beneath me.

I was sitting above the government benches, looking down on the opposition MPs. My entrance hadn’t gone unnoticed by the press gallery to my left. They took one look at me, then either started muttering to each other or punching buttons and touchscreens. ‘Eleanor Weeks has arrived at the Commons to watch her husband fight for his political life,’ they might have said. A very minor footnote in British political history, forgotten instantly but documented somewhere, forever.

To my right sat the public in their own gallery, hemmed off behind its glass partition. From my angle it was hard to make them out individually because the reflection from the lamps bounced off the divide. The orderlies were chaperoning the public, fewer of these than I’d expected. Perhaps the weather had put people off, more likely the brownouts had made the trains and tube unreliable. At the back of the chamber below me next to the Speaker sat the government civil servants and advisers. Rav was sitting at the end of the bench, flicking through his phone. He looked relaxed; that should’ve felt encouraging.

I didn’t recognise the Labour MP who was speaking but I’d heard his words before. Dozens of times. Not from that particular man, but from any number of his colleagues. ‘A clapped-out government that’s run out of ideas, a cabinet too busy fighting within itself to run the country properly. A dismal failure of leadership as the country struggles.
’

Tedious words, and not particularly true. The government felt like a lame duck and admittedly James’s predecessor’s position had become untenable, but in leadership terms the party had actually done well – they’d dispatched a leader who really hadn’t shown enough action on the brownouts. Very clean and quick.

Several Tory MPs crowding behind the Speaker’s chair had also noticed my presence. Some gave me a nod, one young woman MP just stared. I knew what she was thinking.
There’s that woman who snared herself a future prime minister, who gets access to the most powerful man in the country on a nightly basis.
If only she’d known how several aspects of that assumption were entirely wrong.

From my vantage point it was painfully obvious how James’s hair was receding at the front. He’d been dying it for a couple of years; the colour was pretty accurate, perhaps a little bit darker brown than his natural tone. His grey hairs were really only at the sides, but his stylist had insisted on covering over the whole thing. It was probably too late for him to consider implants, people would’ve almost certainly noticed and ridiculed him.

The Labour MP finished his speech with a flourish: ‘The lights are out across the country, but it’s Downing Street that’s truly in the dark.’

James stood up at the despatch box. ‘The Honourable Member will not be surprised to learn that I utterly reject everything he says.’

The Labour MPs were chanting. They’d long since agreed their attack strategy for James, and had been periodically yelling it at him since he’d been home secretary.
Weak, weak, weak
. So unoriginal, and James knew he just had to bulldoze over the jeers, preferably without needing the Speaker to stick up for him. ‘The party opposite seems to forget how the public gave its verdict on them just two years ago,’ He bellowed at them. ‘His party asked for power back. And what did the public say?’

He turned around to his own backbenchers and many of them yelled ‘No,’ in unison. Some of the Tories were slapping their thighs in affected hilarity. I noticed Oliver Drake, sitting quite inconspicuously on the under-used government benches in the very corner of the chamber. The old PM, latest in a long line of political failures who’d not even managed to last five years. I think he might have gone on to be one of the better leaders of recent times, had the brownouts not come so suddenly and severely.

I’d been supportive of him; so had James, at least initially. In the final weeks of crisis I’d occasionally looked into Oliver Drake’s eyes and seen what he’d wanted. A statue of himself in Parliament, right opposite Thatcher. Or maybe even outside Parliament in the square.

Deep down he knew that was improbable, if not impossible, the previous six months had been horrific for him, and for his wife, come to think of it. For the first time since he’d taken charge those truly awful things happened. The four day week was obviously devastating, but I think most people accepted the blame fell on previous administrations. A generational cock-up. I’d seen him quite randomly at a reception the day after the announcement, walking down the corridor and looking terrible, surrounded by his people. He didn’t stop to say hello to anyone. You could almost see the weight on his shoulders, which seemed to curve inwards near his neck.

Drake assumed that because most of the Cabinet were relative newbies he could throw his weight around, but by that point James and the other leadership contenders had all been in play for a few years. They had their own views and exercised them through leaks and briefings. Drake very quickly lost control. Over the course of six months the mutiny intensified. I knew James and the Foreign Secretary had been talking a lot outside of Cabinet, they often called each other late at night. But other than that, it was hard to be definite. Until James entered Downing Street, I didn’t have anyone who could find things out for me. Once I had Anushka that started to change.

I’d zoned out of the debate for a while, probably because I already knew what the outcome would be. Everyone did. Labour didn’t have the votes to bring down the government and they knew that. I think they wanted to blood James in his first week in office, see if any backbench Tory dissent could be smoked out. It didn’t happen. When the vote finally came at 10 o’clock, the government won by eleven votes. Easy-peasy, every Tory had voted the right way.

Immediately the chamber emptied, as did the galleries. I felt lost for a second and sent James a message asking him where he’d be. He didn’t respond immediately but I knew exactly where his new office was, I’d been there a few times before when it had belonged to Oliver Drake - no; not belonged to, merely had been occupied by. I told Anushka to go home, leaving me to walk alone through the corridors that surrounded the chamber, lined with mostly unread books and files. As I turned around the corner I almost bumped into Liz Brickman, who had her back to me. I said sorry and she turned around.

‘Congratulations, Ellie,’ she said. ‘You must be glad tonight’s over.’

‘Well there’ll be more nights like this, I’m sure,’ I replied. It was difficult to talk to Liz, anything I said might be misconstrued. ‘What’re you doing back here?’

She narrowed her eyes, shamelessly. ‘Trying to see who goes in and out of your husband’s new office, of course. Everyone knows he’s reshuffling tonight.’

I didn’t say anything, or even nod, even though she was expecting me to. ‘You know I’m not going to give you a line, Liz,’ I said finally.

‘Oh I don’t want anything on-record, Ellie.’ When she wasn’t on the TV and projecting her voice she was quite demure. ‘Can I just have a quick word with you? You’ll want to hear this.’

I looked around for a quick exit from the corridor; saw the entrance to an office which looked empty. ‘In here,’ I said.

Once inside Liz closed the door behind us. ‘I wanted to warn you about something I think’s about to come out. Not on the news, but possibly the blogs.’

‘Rosie Costello?’ I didn’t see any point in beating round the bush.

She tilted her head back slightly. ‘I just wondered if you knew, that’s all.’

‘Well, I’ve always wondered if someone would bring up her history with James.’

‘Well,’ Liz pursed her lips. ‘There’s chatter that she’s not really up to the job and that Weeks -  sorry, your husband – has ulterior motives in making her press secretary.’

‘I don’t know anything about that, honestly,’ I said firmly. ‘And as for their history, I’ve told you before. They broke up a few months before James and I started seeing each other.’ I was confident and firm about that, which must’ve come across because Liz blinked slowly, took a small step back. ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, then.’

‘I don’t understand why it might be a story now,’ I muttered. ‘People have known about it for years.’

‘Well, it might seem like that to you, but outside the party hardly anyone’s aware of it. He’s a dark horse, your husband, and people haven’t really dug deep before now. Are you going to do any interviews, by the way?’

‘I suppose I’ll have to at some point. You could talk to my new assistant if you like, Anushka. Have you met her?’

Liz chuckled. ‘I have, yes. Good choice, by the way. But I won’t be bidding for you, because I don’t do the girly stuff, Ellie. Not my style. But be careful who you do speak to, though. I’d be happy to help if you want some pointers.’

‘Thanks, Liz. That’s kind of you.’

Of course it wasn’t kind of her at all, it was self-serving. She was positioning herself to get an interview with James and we both knew it. But you don’t resent people for being like that, in those situations. Not much, anyway.

Liz was looking out the window into the courtyard outside. ‘I should get home. I’ve been at it all day, and I’ll be here all day again, tomorrow. I’m starting to forget what my husband looks like.’

‘Sure, at least I always know where mine is all the time, I just have to turn on the TV.’

‘Well that’s a blessing and a curse at the same time.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘My other half knows how that feels, and he still complains I’m never at home. No overlap, Ellie, you’re sure?’

I paused for a second. ‘Look, Liz. You know what James is up against. The old guard are desperate to find something to brief about, and they’ve got nothing real so they’re probably focusing on this. It’s none of anyone else’s business what James got up to before he was in office..’

‘When you say in office,’ interrupted Liz. ‘Do you mean before he was in Number 10, or a minister, what?’