Quietly shushing me. It makes me feel like crying, almost.
Jean selects a cherry. ‘Don’t worry about it, flower. It won’t be long now. Really it won’t.’
‘So you both chose to stay here, then. You made that decision together?’
They look at each other and then Jean looks at me. ‘We can’t be apart from each other. What was your name again?’
‘Ellie.’
‘Ellie. Sorry, love. You get to see so many people sitting out here, but they don’t stay long. Who knows what comes after this?’ She looks over at her husband. ‘No, Bill and I made the same choice. You can always change your mind, but we lived long lives and there’s a lot for us to remember. Perhaps we’ll make the journey together, but there’s no need to rush, is there?’
‘The journey?’
‘Out of the village. That’s where people go when they’re ready. Nobody comes back.’
Would having a shorter life mean fewer memories for me to reabsorb? ‘I was married to the prime minister before I came here,’ I say, and Bill raises his eyebrows with interest. ‘I don’t expect you to believe me.’
‘Of course we do,’ says Jean. ‘Why would you be fibbing?’
Why indeed. ‘I could tell you about the world, the way things have been. If you wanted to hear that.’
Bill shakes his head, dismisses the idea with a wave. ‘You’re alright, love. But tell us about your husband, what colour was he?’
‘What colour?’
‘You know, Labour, Conservative?’
‘Oh,’ I laugh, for the first time. ‘He’s a Tory, the MP for Eppingham. We were about to go into an election year.’ It’s hard to explain James without describing recent events. I touch on the brownouts, the years of political turmoil which had caused them. Jean tuts and says she never had much time for politicians. Almost defending James, I tell them about the peace treaty and try to recount those final hours in Israel. I find them strangely difficult to recall. Even though I’ve revisited them in my mind and explained them to Luis not long before, the memories won’t come easily. I expect to feel something, some bad emotion, some sense of abomination. But nothing.
‘Once you’ve remembered, it’s normal to forget,’ offers Jean, her eyes out to sea once more. ‘That’s what happens here, it’s what you’re here to do. Remember, then forget.’
I ask them if they’d had children and Jean says yes, two boys, but she doesn’t expect to see them in Naviras. ‘They’ll be in their own place, with their own families,’ she says, without regret.
‘Maybe that’s why I’m finding this... I feel my life’s been cut short, I won’t watch my kids grow up.’
Is that a flicker of sympathy in Jean’s eyes? ‘Most people in your situation don’t stay here that long. We’re lucky in that sense, our boys had grown up, so we let go of them in life. I’m quite content where I am, and I’d never leave Bill.’
‘And I’d never leave you, love,’ Bill leans over and kisses his wife on the cheek. I can almost feel Jean’s happiness radiating out from her, beckoning me to engage with it, add my own joy to the mix.
‘I need to check for my husband,’ I stand up quickly, and for the first time I actually feel something, not dizziness but a sense of inertia, like mild in-flight turbulence. ‘He wasn’t down at the beach bar,’ I continue, once the feeling’s passed. ‘So I’m going to check up at Casa Amanhã.’
Jean laughs. ‘Ah, you used to go up there often? How lovely for you! Why don’t you pop up there and see? You must know Lottie.’
‘Yes, I know her very well. I was on the way to see her, actually.’
‘Well, why don’t you go up there then? She’ll be delighted, I’m sure.’
I promise them I’ll return, both just nod casually. I walk down the steps and cross the square, heading for the travessa to Casa Amanhã.
I’m walking up Travessa de Cosmo, a narrow conduit that cuts right through the village. An alleyway, I suppose it
Jean selects a cherry. ‘Don’t worry about it, flower. It won’t be long now. Really it won’t.’
‘So you both chose to stay here, then. You made that decision together?’
They look at each other and then Jean looks at me. ‘We can’t be apart from each other. What was your name again?’
‘Ellie.’
‘Ellie. Sorry, love. You get to see so many people sitting out here, but they don’t stay long. Who knows what comes after this?’ She looks over at her husband. ‘No, Bill and I made the same choice. You can always change your mind, but we lived long lives and there’s a lot for us to remember. Perhaps we’ll make the journey together, but there’s no need to rush, is there?’
‘The journey?’
‘Out of the village. That’s where people go when they’re ready. Nobody comes back.’
Would having a shorter life mean fewer memories for me to reabsorb? ‘I was married to the prime minister before I came here,’ I say, and Bill raises his eyebrows with interest. ‘I don’t expect you to believe me.’
‘Of course we do,’ says Jean. ‘Why would you be fibbing?’
Why indeed. ‘I could tell you about the world, the way things have been. If you wanted to hear that.’
Bill shakes his head, dismisses the idea with a wave. ‘You’re alright, love. But tell us about your husband, what colour was he?’
‘What colour?’
‘You know, Labour, Conservative?’
‘Oh,’ I laugh, for the first time. ‘He’s a Tory, the MP for Eppingham. We were about to go into an election year.’ It’s hard to explain James without describing recent events. I touch on the brownouts, the years of political turmoil which had caused them. Jean tuts and says she never had much time for politicians. Almost defending James, I tell them about the peace treaty and try to recount those final hours in Israel. I find them strangely difficult to recall. Even though I’ve revisited them in my mind and explained them to Luis not long before, the memories won’t come easily. I expect to feel something, some bad emotion, some sense of abomination. But nothing.
‘Once you’ve remembered, it’s normal to forget,’ offers Jean, her eyes out to sea once more. ‘That’s what happens here, it’s what you’re here to do. Remember, then forget.’
I ask them if they’d had children and Jean says yes, two boys, but she doesn’t expect to see them in Naviras. ‘They’ll be in their own place, with their own families,’ she says, without regret.
‘Maybe that’s why I’m finding this... I feel my life’s been cut short, I won’t watch my kids grow up.’
Is that a flicker of sympathy in Jean’s eyes? ‘Most people in your situation don’t stay here that long. We’re lucky in that sense, our boys had grown up, so we let go of them in life. I’m quite content where I am, and I’d never leave Bill.’
‘And I’d never leave you, love,’ Bill leans over and kisses his wife on the cheek. I can almost feel Jean’s happiness radiating out from her, beckoning me to engage with it, add my own joy to the mix.
‘I need to check for my husband,’ I stand up quickly, and for the first time I actually feel something, not dizziness but a sense of inertia, like mild in-flight turbulence. ‘He wasn’t down at the beach bar,’ I continue, once the feeling’s passed. ‘So I’m going to check up at Casa Amanhã.’
Jean laughs. ‘Ah, you used to go up there often? How lovely for you! Why don’t you pop up there and see? You must know Lottie.’
‘Yes, I know her very well. I was on the way to see her, actually.’
‘Well, why don’t you go up there then? She’ll be delighted, I’m sure.’
I promise them I’ll return, both just nod casually. I walk down the steps and cross the square, heading for the travessa to Casa Amanhã.
I’m walking up Travessa de Cosmo, a narrow conduit that cuts right through the village. An alleyway, I suppose it
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