‘Everyone, no one. The Civil Guard are saying it was a Communist gang, mistaking him for some rich kid. Others are blaming it on the gypsies. Anarchist, Communist, Falangist or Socialist, oligarco, gitano or what? Maybe his father did it?’ Isaac spat.
Olive wanted to comfort him, but she knew her mother would be back any moment. She tried to be steady. This was a one--off, she told herself, a hideous thing, but still unique. The boy was a symbol of nothing, just an unlucky human put out too soon. But she remembered what Isaac had told her – the polar bear, the priest swinging from a tree, the soil of the land coursing through the -people’s veins. She thought of The Orchard, waiting in her attic, her perfect, multi--coloured paradise; and she felt ashamed of her ignorance, her foreign and insistent make--belief.
?
The next evening, Teresa sat at the kitchen table in the cottage, whilst Isaac skinned rabbits he’d shot for a stew. She had before her the Vogue which Olive had given her, and she handled it as delicately as if it was a first edition of a precious book. The woman on the cover stared delicately back. She was blonde, wearing a long cream cape, one black--and--white--striped beach shoe peeping out. She was leaning on the side of an open--top car, shading her eyes against the sun but looking upwards nevertheless, at some invisible point. The sky behind her was deep blue. HOLIDAY – TRAVEL – RESORT FASHIONS ran along the bottom of the picture in a clean, attractive font.
‘You’ve been quiet,’ Isaac said. ‘Are you worried about what I’ll do?’ When she remained silent he said, ‘Jesus, Teresa. You should be worried for me.’
‘Just be calm about all this, Isaac. Nothing you do will bring back that boy Adrián. Stealing honey from the duchess’s beehives is one thing, but putting yourself in danger is another—-’
‘I could say the same to you, Tere.’ He pointed at the magazine with his knife. ‘You should behave, too.’
‘But I’m not in danger.’
‘Are you sure? Remember last time, Tere. I won’t bail you out twice.’
‘I haven’t taken a thing. Olive gave me this.’
Teresa remembered how it had been with Miss Banetti. The loneliness, the drudgery. The woman had had so many belongings that she didn’t even notice when they began to disappear. It had been so tempting, so easy. Small things first, a ring, a silver matchbox. Then on to empty scent bottles, and finally a necklace of emeralds. Teresa had seen these items, always overlooked by the rich foreigners in her care, as fair payment for a grey life. She buried the trinkets in a tin out by the well, and she would visit them sometimes, never actually putting them on her own body, only holding the emeralds to the sun, watching them wink in complicity. She loved them so much that she felt no guilt.
It was the German family who had caught and dismissed her. Isaac had gone to talk to them, explaining that she had mental problems – which was a lie, but was better than letting the Frau report her to the Civil Guard. He’d returned everything to them, but she kept quiet about the Banetti box, the emerald necklace hidden in their garden. It was her little private escape.
‘Tere,’ Isaac said more softly, bringing her back into the room, the sound of the rabbit innards slick on the blade. ‘Olive can’t be your friend, you know.’
‘You should take your own advice.’
‘I know it must be lonely for you when I’m in Malaga. But she’s some rich kid drifting around after her parents and before you know it, she’ll be gone again. I don’t want you to—-’
‘I’m not lonely. And I’m not a child. You don’t need to be so patronizing. I don’t want to be her friend.’
‘Good.’ He began to dismantle the rabbit’s leg. ‘Come and help.’ She slunk from the table and stood next to him. ‘You can’t tell me what to do, either, Tere,’ he said.
‘I can try.’
He laughed, and she did too. ‘Haven’t I always looked after you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Isa. But I never needed you to.’
?
Harold had not seemed to notice his wife and daughter’s absence particularly. He seemed distracted, sitting at his desk in the middle of his study, marooned on the Moroccan tapestries he’d bought from a rug trader in Malaga, elbows digging into the fraying leather top, barely acknowledging Teresa as she dusted round him, or left him a glass of fino at his side. He looked like the captain of a drowning vessel who had found a piece of driftwood and was clinging on for dear life.
On the day the women were having their last painting session, and Teresa was in the finca preparing a stew, the telephone rang. She waited, but Harold was nowhere to be seen. ‘Se?or?’ she called. The house was silent, except for the telephone ringing and ringing. She tiptoed along the corridor towards the study, listening through the door before she went in, making her way across the rugs. As she hefted the Bakelite handle to her ear, she knew she’d made a mistake.
‘Harold, bist du es?’ It was a woman’s voice. Teresa remained silent, listening to the caught pocket of air as the woman inhaled sharply and the line went dead. She looked up; Harold was standing at the door, in his coat, holding his hunting rifle.
‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘Teresa, what the hell are you doing?’
Teresa looked dumbly at the receiver, wishing in that moment that she’d never come to this finca, that she’d found work elsewhere. It had not been enough for her to move only between the tissue layers of the Schlosses’ lives – she had wanted to be closer, to the scars and the spots and the hot red mass of their hearts. But now she remembered the danger of knowing other -people’s secrets.
Harold came towards her as she slammed the receiver down. He put his hand on top of hers, and she was surprised by how warm it was. ‘Teresa,’ he said, smiling, his hand exerting the minimum of pressure. ‘Who could you possibly be wanting to call?’