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  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Formentera, present day

  Maria’s home always smelt like food, and the sea. There was warmth, made up of more than sunshine, in the old walls.

  It wasn’t just the past that I was learning about. It was about daily life, the rituals of old-fashioned practices that hadn’t changed, for the most part, in hundreds of years.

  Every week when I visited her, I discovered new things about my roots. I learned about the flavours and art of Jewish cooking, although it was a kind of cooking that had had to adapt greatly over the years. Like the history of the Jewish people themselves, who had no homeland for thousands of years and had to constantly flee hardship and persecution, their travels influencing what they cooked, ensuring that the Jewish cuisine was nothing if not varied.

  There was a particular flavour to the Ibicenco Jewish table too – as Maria would tell me, a lot of the practices of keeping a kitchen kosher couldn’t be strictly observed, particularly as certain things like not eating pork might act as a signal if anyone was watching. Also, times were tough; the people lived on an island with not much of an economy beyond farming and the salt trade, so limiting what they ate just wasn’t practical, though behind closed doors things were sometimes a little different.

  I learned what was kosher and what wasn’t. In some ways, it was an eye-opener. There were practices that my father had followed – like the way he always used to move the yoghurt if it was on the shelf that stored cold meat. I had just thought this was a personal quirk, but now I realised that it was a habit derived from trying to keep kosher over the centuries that had been passed down without any of us realising.

  Maria told me that the islanders used to have creative ways of getting round the practice of not working on the Sabbath. ‘Even today most islanders will tell you that it is unlucky to work on a Saturday. In fact, many shops were manned on Saturdays by children.’

  There were other things too, like the fact that we only ate fish with scales when I was growing up, never shellfish – though I had since rebelled – or that we hardly, if ever, ate pork or game. I hadn’t questioned those things. Or the fact that every Friday night, without fail, my father used to light candles, and that it was the one time of the week that he always made sure we sat down to eat as a family, even though it used to drive me crazy because I wanted to go out with friends on a Friday night and not sit at home. I hadn’t realised that this whole time we’d really been practising shabbat.

  My legs were getting stronger from riding the bicycle every day. The longest excursion I took was to the Cap de Barbaria lighthouse. Isla was right; it was thirsty work and an arduous ride: a stretch of scratchy brown earth through narrow paths and desolate golden fields until I found the lighthouse at the end. As I rode, my thoughts cast back over time and I realised that, in the time of Maria’s stories, there hadn’t been a lighthouse. I couldn’t help but wonder how much else had changed, like our family, when people like me didn’t even know about who we once were. At least that was shifting now, I thought as I pedalled home, towards Marisal.

  A few days later Emmanuel came into the kitchen, his sombre face dark, almost forbidding. ‘Did someone, a woman, come to speak to you about me?’ he asked.

  I swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  A muscle went in his jaw. ‘I see.’

  I chewed my lip. ‘Look, it’s none of my business, obviously…’

  He nodded. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  I sucked in a breath.

  He sighed. ‘Except that she made it your business – so why didn’t you come and speak to me about it?’

  I closed the notebook I’d been attempting to do some writing in. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  He frowned. So I stood up and shrugged. ‘Well, I’m going to make myself one, so…’

  ‘Okay.’

  I went past him and switched the kettle on. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know what to think – so I asked Big Jim about it. Sorry.’

  ‘Instead of asking me?’

  ‘Well, yes. I didn’t know if it was something I had to worry about – you’re in my house…’

  His jaw tensed again but he nodded.

  ‘And Big Jim, he…’

  ‘Told me I had nothing to worry about.’

  He stared. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes – well, that was the gist.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Then he got back to work.

  But after that, we were friends, real friends. It started slowly – an extra cup of coffee before he left, then a sandwich that led to lunch or dinner.

  When I told Isla about it she raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think it’s going to be something more?’

  I shook my head. ‘No – well not for a long while, not for either of us.’

  I couldn’t explain that there was something comforting about his presence and I enjoyed having him around. I wouldn’t be able to cope with anything more right now. And I didn’t know if it was wrong or right, I liked the fact that there was someone male in the house, someone made of flesh and blood, who occasionally spoke back.

  I didn’t need it to be anything more than that.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Formentera, 1718

  Cesca was teaching Benito about herbal medicine, an important part of island life, he discovered, particularly when it came to survival. There were times, she said, during bad weather, when Formentera was cut off from the main island, and these herbs had kept them alive. Most islanders, she said, had learned to use what grew wild. Though Cesca was fortunate in that her brother Antoni brought back many medicines, including exotic herbs and spices that could be used for healing. Benito marvelled at what she knew, what she’d learned as the doctor’s apprentice and at how her face lit up when she spoke of it.

  He discovered that aniseed was used to help cool high temperatures – she’d used that on him when he’d had a fever. Calendula helped with swelling in the mouth and stomach, and it could be used on the body to help wound recovery. He listened as she went through the jars, naming each one.

  It was a pity, he thought, that she couldn’t train the way that a man could. He had a feeling that she would do better than he had at university. He smiled at the thought. She was explaining how ordinary vegetables also had healing properties, such as garlic, which could be used to help someone recover faster from a cold. What?’ she asked, noting his smile, her face colouring.

  ‘I was just thinking that there were a few men I’ve known who have long argued about the dangers of teaching women – perhaps they feared that many of the women they knew would become cleverer than them.’

  Cesca looked down, vaguely embarrassed. She knew it was meant as a compliment, but she had, in fact, been accused many times of being ‘something like a man’ by those who saw her passion for medicine as an oddity. Those who didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  She was resilient, and hard-working. Her father had encouraged it. There was no place for weakness on an island like this. Life could be tough and they had all learned to be tougher. And those who struggled, like her sister at times, had to be forced to be strong for their own good.

  ‘How is it that you and your sister are so different?’ he asked, as if he were reading her thoughts.

  Cesca tried hard not to bristle at the question. Esperanza was beautiful, and feminine to her core. She was wild, and spirited, and said what she thought. Whereas Cesca was careful and hard-working and slow to temper. The boys they’d grown up with had been falling in love with her beautiful, wild sister for most of their lives.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She’s so lazy,’ he said, laughing. ‘And she’s always got an excuse. She’ll let anyone else do the work if you give her half a chance.’ Which had happened to him a lot over the past few weeks, he’d noticed. It was he who now milked the goat and made the cheese. ‘I’ve never met anyone who can waste time the way she does. She’s always talkin
g, it takes her hours to finish things.’ He said it fondly though, and Cesca couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘My father always used to say if you want time to go slowly have Esperanza make your breakfast,’ she said.

  Benito grinned. ‘Exactly.’

  Cesca looked away, her heart starting to pound. Not many men saw the laziness, or saw beyond the dark eyes and beautiful visage.

  ‘She has a kind heart though,’ he said, thinking of Esperanza’s affection for the dog.

  She looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. He grinned, adding, ‘Deep down.’ She laughed.

  Then she sighed. She did love Esperanza, for all her exasperation with her. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m more her mother than her sister, and it makes me angry, I often just don’t understand her. Then I feel bad because I’m snapping at her. It’s a horrible cycle.’

  She knew that Esperanza tried to be better, but she didn’t understand why she made her life harder – if she just concentrated on what she was doing then she wouldn’t have to be reprimanded, and she could go out and enjoy her free time once she’d earned it.

  She sighed, then admitted, ‘My sister would have perhaps thrived more in a home where she would have been praised for the things she’s good at. She enjoys drawing, reading, and she has a fine ear for music. She’s really talented. Here there just isn’t time for such things. We all have to work hard just to survive.’

  ‘She would have enjoyed Majorca,’ Benito said, thinking of some of the women he’d known there, who came from wealthy homes and lived more affluent lives. Women who were called accomplished because of their skills in conversation and art and music.

  Cesca nodded. ‘Maybe. I don’t know, though – because she is wild too. I sometimes think she would sleep outside if we let her just to be with that dog of hers.’

  He laughed, and she sighed. ‘The truth is my sister just needs to grow up – and fast.’

  Benito shook his head. ‘I’ve met some people who grew up too quickly – friends, cousins, people who were forced to. People who were treated like something under a shoe because of what they believed in. Don’t wish that on Esperanza.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Formentera, present day

  ‘So, I’ve got a serious question for you,’ said Isla, one afternoon while we were sitting beneath the orange tree in my garden, watching the gentle lap of the water in the distance. I had my feet up on my table, crossed at the ankles, and I’d been idly scribbling notes on my novel when she spoke. Her sketchpad lay abandoned, and she took a sip of Sue’s home-made sangria.

  Big Jim was leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, his eyes closed as he lazily strummed a melody on the guitar.

  The sun was still warm, just beginning to go down, and already I could hear the cicadas starting to stir in the dry grass. It was an impromptu, lazy Saturday afternoon. I turned to her in surprise.

  ‘Okay?’ Wondering if she was going to ask me something about James.

  ‘Well, you’ve got rhythm, right?’

  I stared at her, then burst out laughing. ‘Um, I’m not sure… why?’

  ‘Well, I think you do – I mean you’re always tapping your fingers along to the music.’

  ‘Okay,’ I hedged, not really seeing where she was going with this.

  Sue came out of the kitchen, with a grin and a tambourine.

  ‘Well, we brought you this,’ she said.

  I frowned, and took it. ‘A tambourine?’

  ‘We thought, you know, maybe you could be the fourth member of the band,’ said Big Jim, opening up one lazy blue eye.

  I laughed. ‘With the tambourine?’

  Isla grinned. ‘Easy to learn.’

  I gave it a little shake. Big Jim put on a very bad English accent and said, ‘By George, I think she’s got it!’ Then he roared with laughter.

  I looked at them all, then grinned. ‘You’re all bonkers.’

  They were all waiting, staring at me, so I grinned too. ‘Okay,’ I said with a chuckle.

  ‘Cool,’ said Isla, winking. ‘We practise on Tuesdays. And perform two nights a week.’

  I started at her. Then I had a thought. I sat up straight. ‘Oh, maybe I could also sing backup?’ I said, a big grin spreading across my face.

  Isla raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah…’

  ‘Tone deaf, darlin’,’ said Big Jim. ‘But the girl’s sure got rhythm.’

  I grinned. Took a sip of sangria. I’d take it.

  Which is how, somehow, at age forty-five, I became a member of a band.

  ‘You’re what?’ asked Sage, barely suppressing a giggle, when I told her about it a few days later.

  ‘Part of a band,’ I said, laughing myself, and then I explained, which made her laugh so much that I got hysterics, too.

  ‘The tambourine,’ she cried, after a full minute of howling laughter. ‘Oh God, Mum, I needed that. I can’t freaking wait to come and see you.’

  ‘Me too, darling, you have no idea how much I miss you.’

  ‘Is it about five-texts-a-day worth?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, affecting a casual, nonchalant air.

  ‘Because I get on average five texts a day from you,’ she said, deadpan.

  ‘Ah – yes. That. Sorry.’

  ‘Nah, I’m just teasing. They’ve helped, thanks, Mum.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then she said, ‘I cannot wait to tell Uncle Allan that you’ve joined a band.’

  I giggled. ‘Ah God, no don’t, he already thinks I’ve lost it a bit.’

  Which was sort of true.

  But for once I didn’t mind.

  That night after they’d left, I couldn’t sleep. I sat up in bed, twisting James’s ring over and over on my thumb, listening to the sound of the waves outside.

  I got up, put on my robe, padded through to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went back to my room. I was too tired to try to work, and too wired to go back to sleep. Tired but wired. It seemed to be a recent new state of events.

  I prowled around the room, casually opening up drawers, avoiding looking at James’s ashes – I knew what he’d tell me to do: go back to sleep. But instead I went about idly looking through cupboards. This is why I needed a TV, I thought, as I opened the old wardrobe in my bedroom more out of boredom than anything else.

  It was as I slowly opened one of the empty drawers that I saw it, the sharp edge of what looked like an old photograph wedged in far at the back. I knelt down and prised it loose with my fingers. After a full minute it came free, bent and slightly jagged from where I’d pulled it out. It was a faded photograph of two young girls standing with their backs to the house. Much of it was blurry but I could just make out a familiar smile.

  It was Maria, and she had her arm across the shoulders of another younger girl, who I realised must be my grandmother, Alba. She had her eyes closed and was laughing uproariously at whatever Maria was whispering in her ear.

  I touched the photograph, and felt my eyes smart. They had been close once. I couldn’t help wondering, as Maria told me Cesca and Esperanza’s story, what had happened between these other sisters. Why hadn’t my gran ever mentioned Maria to me? How could you forget to mention your own sister? Why had their relationship fallen so drastically apart?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Formentera, 1718

  ‘It seems you have made quite an impression,’ said Riba to Esperanza a few days later.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Esperanza, who was loading the bread into the communal oven.

  ‘On Don Santiago, of course. You were all he could talk about the other night, when he came for dinner.’

  Esperanza closed her eyes in shame, recollecting their encounter on the beach. She had been afraid of that. Her sister would be furious.

  ‘It seems that at first he didn’t even know your name… but then he started to describe you and of course, they knew it had to be you.’

  ‘How?’ asked Esperanza.
She was hardly the only woman with dark hair on the island. Couldn’t she be spared the shame, just for once?’

  ‘Well, there was Flea too – he’s quite a distinctive dog.’

  Esperanza rolled her eyes.

  Riba nudged her in her ribs. ‘Well, according to him you are the most beautiful woman on the island. I half believed he was going to go straight over there and propose, the way he was speaking.’

  Esperanza sighed. Ordinarily she would have enjoyed the compliment. She was aware of her good fortune in being attractive – she couldn’t help but be aware of it considering how some of the men had stared at her when she was growing up.

  ‘Apparently, you went swimming and that’s how he found you. He likened you to a mermaid.’

  Esperanza blushed, pushing her hair out of her eyes and looking away. ‘Hardly. I was hot and tired, and in a bad mood because Cesca had left me all the fish to do while she ran off with Señor Garcia, as usual, so I took a little break and went for a swim. I had no idea he was there.’

  Riba shrugged. ‘Well, anyway. I think he was trying to get me to invite you for dinner the next time he comes.’

  Esperanza stared at her friend. ‘Best to tell him that I am betrothed to someone else.’

  ‘I will. I mean, your marriage should be taking place soon after Cesca’s, yes? But why wait if Rafael is already living in your house? We need something to celebrate here after all, and a marriage feast would be perfect.’

  Esperanza stared at her friend, then swallowed. Riba didn’t know that Rafael was dead, and that the man in their home was actually a stranger. She hadn’t told her – she’d been sworn to secrecy. It was best to come up with some or other excuse for why she couldn’t marry the man she had been promised to since the age of six. She just couldn’t think of the reason just yet. ‘Um, well, my mother wants us to focus on Cesca’s wedding first… and with my cousin unwell it is best not to overtax him, I think.’