remained undisturbed, amid the wild beauty he had so loved . . .
‘Señora.’
The call cut across her sad, yet comforting thoughts. She looked around and watched the gardener approach with his shambling walk.
He came to a stop. ‘Señora.’
She waited patiently. Tomas Mesquida so often had trouble in expressing himself.
‘I need . . .’ He fiddled with his thick lips. ‘I need more money.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you any more.’ Her Spanish was fairly fluent, though her accent was poor.
‘My mother says I must have more or I stop.’
The foreigners had taught the Mallorquins to be avaricious and now money had become their god. To point out to Mesquida’s mother that it would be very difficult for him to find another job and therefore it was surely better to continue to work here for a slightly lesser wage, would be a waste of words; she would never understand that something definite was better than the image of something more. Valerie turned, flinched at the stab of pain from her gouty foot, looked up at the twisted olive tree. If he left, the garden would quickly revert to a wilderness because she could no longer do the work.
Mesquida waited, then, when she remained silent, went over to his rusty Renault 4. He stood by the car for quite a while, as if expecting to be called back, opened the door, settled behind the wheel, drove off.
She turned and, limping slightly, went into the house. There was the sound of the old grandfather clock—one of the pieces they’d brought from Wales—striking the half hour. It reminded her that she was meeting the Attrays for coffee. Since her husband’s death, she’d seen quite a bit of the few English residents who lived in, or near, Estruig, rightly judging that for her own mental sake she needed human contacts. In any case, she’d never been the natural recluse that he had.
She went upstairs to the bathroom to find there was no water. Slowly, and most of the time painfully, she returned downstairs and went out to the pump. It was becoming more and more of an effort to work it and normally each weekday Mesquida filled the tank on the roof. If he left her, she’d have to do it all herself. . . An electricity line had come within a kilometre of the house a couple of years before and the electricity company had asked them if they wanted to be connected. The estimate had come to two million pesetas . . .
Twenty-five minutes later she left the house and went down to the small stone shed in which she garaged the ancient Seat 850 which was kept going by faith, hope, and the charity of the garage who so often didn’t fully charge her for the work they’d done.
She drove down the often precipitous road to Estruig, which was built on and around a small hill that stood a kilometre away from the mountains. She parked in the main square, crossed to the cafe, and looked for the Attrays, but they were not there. She wasn’t surprised. They were very poor timekeepers. She sat at a table, newly vacated, and picked up a copy of El Dia which had been left on it. She could read Spanish quite well. On the fourth page, underneath a lurid description of a suicide, complete with photograph, there was a short article which said that the man who had died in the car crash near Fogufol had been identified as Steven Thompson, an Englishman. Her expression became bitter.
CHAPTER 7
Mike Taylor replaced the telephone on its stand, turned, rested his elbows on the bar. Whoever had said that life on the island consisted of one long crisis was dead right. Not very long ago, he’d been wondering how in hell they’d ever pay for the alterations in the kitchen which the bloody inspector had demanded be done before they received their licence to open the restaurant (there was little doubt, but no proof, that the inspector had been prompted by one or more of the established restaurant owners), and no sooner had that problem been solved than he was presented with a fresh one.
‘Señora.’
The call cut across her sad, yet comforting thoughts. She looked around and watched the gardener approach with his shambling walk.
He came to a stop. ‘Señora.’
She waited patiently. Tomas Mesquida so often had trouble in expressing himself.
‘I need . . .’ He fiddled with his thick lips. ‘I need more money.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you any more.’ Her Spanish was fairly fluent, though her accent was poor.
‘My mother says I must have more or I stop.’
The foreigners had taught the Mallorquins to be avaricious and now money had become their god. To point out to Mesquida’s mother that it would be very difficult for him to find another job and therefore it was surely better to continue to work here for a slightly lesser wage, would be a waste of words; she would never understand that something definite was better than the image of something more. Valerie turned, flinched at the stab of pain from her gouty foot, looked up at the twisted olive tree. If he left, the garden would quickly revert to a wilderness because she could no longer do the work.
Mesquida waited, then, when she remained silent, went over to his rusty Renault 4. He stood by the car for quite a while, as if expecting to be called back, opened the door, settled behind the wheel, drove off.
She turned and, limping slightly, went into the house. There was the sound of the old grandfather clock—one of the pieces they’d brought from Wales—striking the half hour. It reminded her that she was meeting the Attrays for coffee. Since her husband’s death, she’d seen quite a bit of the few English residents who lived in, or near, Estruig, rightly judging that for her own mental sake she needed human contacts. In any case, she’d never been the natural recluse that he had.
She went upstairs to the bathroom to find there was no water. Slowly, and most of the time painfully, she returned downstairs and went out to the pump. It was becoming more and more of an effort to work it and normally each weekday Mesquida filled the tank on the roof. If he left her, she’d have to do it all herself. . . An electricity line had come within a kilometre of the house a couple of years before and the electricity company had asked them if they wanted to be connected. The estimate had come to two million pesetas . . .
Twenty-five minutes later she left the house and went down to the small stone shed in which she garaged the ancient Seat 850 which was kept going by faith, hope, and the charity of the garage who so often didn’t fully charge her for the work they’d done.
She drove down the often precipitous road to Estruig, which was built on and around a small hill that stood a kilometre away from the mountains. She parked in the main square, crossed to the cafe, and looked for the Attrays, but they were not there. She wasn’t surprised. They were very poor timekeepers. She sat at a table, newly vacated, and picked up a copy of El Dia which had been left on it. She could read Spanish quite well. On the fourth page, underneath a lurid description of a suicide, complete with photograph, there was a short article which said that the man who had died in the car crash near Fogufol had been identified as Steven Thompson, an Englishman. Her expression became bitter.
CHAPTER 7
Mike Taylor replaced the telephone on its stand, turned, rested his elbows on the bar. Whoever had said that life on the island consisted of one long crisis was dead right. Not very long ago, he’d been wondering how in hell they’d ever pay for the alterations in the kitchen which the bloody inspector had demanded be done before they received their licence to open the restaurant (there was little doubt, but no proof, that the inspector had been prompted by one or more of the established restaurant owners), and no sooner had that problem been solved than he was presented with a fresh one.
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