Weeks in Naviras (20 page)

‘Lottie’s been missing for two days,’ I said quietly, not wanting the constituency staff to hear. ‘Carolina called me earlier.’

‘That’s what’s urgent?’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece to talk to someone in the room with him. When he removed his hand from the phone he said he was incredibly busy, couldn’t it wait until the evening? ‘Maybe she’s gone to visit someone. You know how batty she is.’

‘She hardly ever leaves the village, James. And there’s no way she’d go off this, not without telling someone at the house.’

‘Well maybe it’s a surprise or something. Look, L, I’m really caught up in something here. Try not to worry. There’s not much we can do about it from here, anyway.’

That evening the Casa Amanhã’s number came up on my phone again. It was Carolina, saying the police had found the wreck of Lottie’s car at the bottom of a cliff down the coast. It was somewhere I’d been before, a dangerous track which served as the back road between two of the less-frequented beaches south of Naviras. Tourists never used it, nor did anyone with the slightest bit of sense because it didn’t have a barrier on the outside edge. It was a hundred foot drop. The local police had investigated the cliffside track and concluded she’d come around it too fast and plunged off. The car had burst into flames on impact, there hadn’t been much of a body left to recover, nothing left really of the car either, save for some twisted hunks of metal and melted rubber.

‘I have to go out for her funeral,’ I’d said to James on the phone.

‘Well, I hope you’ll understand I can’t come.’ He was somewhere in Parliament, there was a hubbub of noise surrounding him. I almost pleaded with him to make the journey with me. ‘Look, I know she was a good friend, and I’m sorry.’ In the background the Commons division bell rang. ‘We’re in the middle of a crisis, L. You can appreciate that, surely?’

‘No, what crisis?’

‘Hang on, let me just … go down this corridor,’ he said. Soon the noise of the bells and the chattering MPs died down. ‘The Russians are threatening to cut off our gas supply,’ he said to me, quietly. If that happens then we’d have big problems.’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘Are you joking? The power could go out. Seriously, it’s possible.’

‘But how likely?’

‘Look, L, there’s a vote going on here. I haven’t got time to go into it any further. Things will probably be okay, but at the moment it’s all hands on deck. You understand?’

I suspected he only told me about the gas crisis to get me off his back. Certainly it never made it onto the news, at least not at that stage. I tried to imagine how things might be if the shoe were on the other foot, if one of his close friends was missing. It made me wonder whether James really had any close friends at all. He and Rav had both become desensitised to everything outside of politics. Although I’d tried to take control of our sex life after my encounter with Luis, it was sod’s law that James’ own libido had waned. Perhaps through age, maybe due to the stress of work. The reason was fairly irrelevant; what mattered was that just as I was undergoing a belated sexual awakening, James had suddenly lost interest.

‘I’ll go on my own, then,’ I said. ‘But you’ll have to look after the kids, somehow. It’s not fair on them, or on Paula, for her to have to stay with them day and night.’

‘Deal,’ said James, and hung up.

I had new feelings three days later, sitting alone on the plane to Lisbon. I’d only ever felt pleasure and excitement traveling to Naviras, suddenly all I felt was dread. I didn’t want to go, but couldn’t stay in London. As the plane neared the coast after crossing Biscay I willed it to turn around, not to return to Britain but to fly out into the ocean, or perhaps in endless circles until the fuel ran out.

Lottie’s funeral took place on a Friday, in the little old church on the outskirts of Naviras. Had she died a few years before it would’ve affected the whole village, but Naviras had depopulated so much that the street was almost empty as her coffin made its way to the churchyard, Luis and I walking alongside it. There were a few English expats, along with some Lisboans who’d driven down. Luis had tried to contact as many people as he could.

The service was very traditional, and I cried during most of it. Not just because she was gone, but because I knew Lottie wouldn’t have wanted such an austere Catholic ceremony. I was angry, frustrated at how my best friend’s death had been circumvented by a religion she’d never had any time for. It undermined her. At least I got to sit next to Luis, who squeezed my hand as the service came to an end and I broke down again.

‘Don’t see it like that, Ellie, because she wouldn’t,’ he said, when I explained why I was angry. ‘It’s all just a load of old skin and bones, darling,’ he said, mimicking Lottie’s voice, hoping I’d laugh. We were walking through the little graveyard, heading for Lottie’s burial. I reached out to hold Luis’ hand again. He was speculating about what would happen to Casa Amanhã. ‘I guess it will be sold, but who gets to decide, I’ve no idea,’ he said.

‘She didn’t tell you anything about her arrangements?’

‘No, but whoever gets the house will have to keep her menu,’ Luis was oddly upbeat. ‘If they try to change it, I’ll make sure nobody eats there again.’

A small wake was held in the restaurant of Casa Amanhã, attended by most of the village. Everyone from La Roda and the beach bar chipped in with food. I’d been to wakes before but Lottie’s was more
sombre than anything I’d experienced. Perhaps it was the shock of it. Lottie left a gaping hole, both in Naviras and in me. There was also the incongruous aspect of the guests who’d been staying in Casa Amanhã; they’d all understood the circumstances, nearly all of them refused Luis’s offer of a refund. But a few still hadn’t left and were lurking, unsure what to do with themselves. Most of the food went uneaten and people began to drift off after an hour or so. Luis and I were left to clear up, Carolina helping initially before Luis told her to go back home. She’d not slept properly for several days and looked terrible.

‘But I want to help,’ she’d said, but Luis suggested the best thing she could do was continue to contact future bookings and ensure they knew the guesthouse was temporarily closed. That was the worst part of it, the worry that people who’d made long-standing bookings would continue to show up.

Carolina took the guest bookings folder and went home to make phone calls. Luis and I cleared up the food, putting most of it in the fridges. Lottie had abhorred waste and it seemed disrespectful to throw food away. It felt like her laughter was lurking in the clink of crockery as we washed up. Once we were done Luis and I just looked at each other. ‘I think I need to lie down,’ I said. There’s nobody in Room Seven, is there?

‘No, they cleared out yesterday,’ said Luis. ‘Do you want me to come up with you?’

I hesitated. ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ I said.

We went upstairs. We didn’t get into bed but lay on it, both of us fully clothed, Luis with his arm around me. Neither of us slept, I could hear his breathing remain short and shallow. It was quiet, even the waves in the bay seemed subdued. A single sparrow chirped occasionally. Then I heard my phone vibrate, sat up and reached for my handbag on the floor. It was James.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, L, but I need to know when you’re coming back.’ In the background I could hear Sadie having a tantrum.

‘My flight’s booked for tomorrow evening,’ I said.

‘Can’t you come back tonight? Or early tomorrow? The shit’s really hitting the fan, here, and I can’t deal with this and the kids at the same time. Seriously, L. It’s bad.’

‘Can you ask Paula to stay over tonight? She’d said it wouldn’t be a problem.’ I was ruefully amused at how for the first time James actually wanted me to be not in Naviras but London.

‘She could, but come on, it’s not fair on the kids to have neither of us here,’ James was making no attempt to calm Sadie down. ‘What more can you do out there, anyway?’

Luis drove me to Lisbon that night, I paid a staggering amount to get the last flight back to Heathrow, then a long taxi ride through the night on the motorway circling London. When I got back to Eppingham I found James still awake, poring over a document at the dining room table.

‘You okay?’ he didn’t get up, but at least he’d taken his eyes off his work.

‘Not really, it was horrible.’ I began to cry again and he stood up and embraced me. It was the first time we’d been that close for weeks, months maybe.

‘Shhh. It’s over now. I’m sorry to drag you back here.’

I let go of him and sniffed. ‘What’s going on with the Russians?’

He drew in a long breath and sat back down. ‘It’s fine, I think. We’ve come to an agreement over the gas. We’ll pay through the nose and people’s bills will go through the roof. But it’s better than the alternative.’

‘They’re holding the country to ransom, then.’

‘Pretty much, yup. And this is just a sticking plaster, I don’t know how long we can keep a lid on it.’

Through Carolina I learned of Luis’s fruitless attempts to trace Lottie’s will or an executor; how the doors to Casa Amanhã were simply bolted shut, Luis and the other staff given three months’ pay and told to clear out. Throughout all of this I was paralysed, said nothing to anyone, not even Gail. Whether she played any part in the mothballing of Casa Amanhã I don’t know, because I failed to return any of her calls or messages. I bought a new phone with a new number, telling James I’d lost the other one on the tube whereas in fact I’d thrown it in the Thames one evening at Embankment when the calls from Gail and a random number in Lisbon became incessant.

Burying my head in the sand? More like sticking it in a pool of cement and waiting for it to harden around me. Whenever an email from Gail appeared in my personal inbox I would delete it unread. Part of me wondered whether I could keep up the denial, whether Gail and I would bump into each other or if she’d come and find me, but as the weeks became months the emails stopped.

The next time I was in Naviras the following year, I walked up to the house one evening as the sky was turning red. It was silent except for the crickets and the occasional rattle of one of the wooden shutters, which I could hear from the road as I stood staring at the closed metal gates. They’d been chained shut, secured with a rusty padlock. Lottie had been wrong about something; there did come a point when there was no tomorrow.

Now they’ve taken both of Morgan’s
eyes I can’t stop myself wondering what the giant bees will do next. All four of them have been clinging to the sides of one of the hexagonal chambers a few feet below, squabbling over Morgan’s dismembered eye, but that little snack’s now chewed up and devoured. I’ve developed a ghastly addiction to them, peeping out from behind the curve of the tunnel, transfixed by the state of her, wondering what I’d do if I were in her position. In her shoes, I might’ve thought, except neither of us are wearing any.

Then I look down again at the things below and I’m hit by a wave of nausea. Yes, it’s possible to think bad thoughts here, feel bad things. Their absence in the places I’ve been before seems to accentuate them now they’ve returned. I felt like I’m about to be sick but the gag reflex won’t come. Anger, bitterness, fear; all those feelings from life aren’t just here, they’re amplified. Worse still, it’s possible to explore them, project them. How much worse could things be, and will they start happening to me if I stay there?

There’s an entrance to another tunnel on the other side of the chamber, opposite the one I’m standing at. I’ve not spotted it before because Morgan’s pillar’s mostly in the way, and I’ve been focused on her and the things beneath her. The other tunnel’s in shadow and I can’t see where it might lead to, but it’s easy enough for me to get to it. I just have to walk around the chamber on the broad ledge, but doing so would almost certainly attract the attention of the bees below.

Morgan’s moans have quietened, they’re now just a series of whimpers. She can’t cry, I suppose. Then she screams again as I hear the bees’ wings getting louder, forming a crescendo. I peer down to see all four of the creatures floating upwards, stopping when they draw level with Morgan’s pillar. She shrieks again as they begin flying around it in unison, the noise overwhelming. I don’t know what would be worse, being able to see them or not. They weave around her in circles for a few revolutions, curling their abdomens forward, seemingly preparing to attack her again with their stings.

Morgan remains still for a moment, then she just pushes her hands backward and falls. You expect things like that to happen in slow motion but they don’t; she just drops, initially head first but then doing a little somersault. She disappears into the gloom below, but still I hear her land a few seconds later with a horrible thud. At least she didn’t see the ground rushing up to meet her, I think. The bees seem angry, their buzzing becomes more urgent as they dive-bomb down, disappearing into shadow.

They seem preoccupied, this could be my only chance. I step out onto the wide ledge circling the sides of the floorless cave, sidestepping with my back close to the wall. I refuse to look down, but sincerely hope the president’s out of her misery. She’s not making any sounds, at least. Hopefully the fall finished her off before the bees started on her.

I reach the entrance to the tunnel on the other side of the cave, turning back in spite of myself and looking down. The bees are still buzzing angrily, it sounds like they’re squabbling over what’s left of Morgan. I feel pain in the backs of my legs, notice they’re grazed from rubbing against the rocky wall. My sarong’s dirty, streaked with grey.

Just as I turn away from the chamber to explore the second tunnel there’s a wail. I turn back to see Morgan’s somehow returned, she’s back on the ledge of the pillar, facing slightly away from me. Her eyes are back, she’s fully clothed in the outfit she’d been wearing in Israel, except for her shoes. She’s no longer covered in blood. The sequence has reset itself; instinctively I know the things with wings will soon rise up again. Morgan screams, it’s not one of pain but one of despair. Does she remember what’s just happened to her, what in all likelihood will shortly happen again? From below me, out of sight, the buzzing from the bees begins again.

I turn and hurry down the tunnel, using my hands to steady myself in the growing darkness. I can’t stay to watch; I can’t help her anyway, and I’m probably in danger, too, that’s what I tell myself.

The tunnel seems longer than the first one I’d gingerly passed through. Behind me I can hear various buzzing sounds interspersed by Morgan screaming, but soon these fade and the breeze dies down. I seem to be stumbling through the darkness forever, feeling disgusted with myself for not trying to help Morgan. But what can I do? It occurs to me that I could go back, maybe get a plank of wood from the debris in Catseye and use that to bridge the gap so she can get off the pillar. Yet still I don’t go back, because I don’t want to. I tell myself I wasn’t meant to see what I’ve just witnessed, was there by accident. I have no way of knowing whether any of that is true.

Gradually I’m becoming aware that my steps are getting easier, the sting from the grazes on my legs is subsiding. The tunnel’s straight, but definitely heading upwards on a gradual slope. I think the walls are getting smoother, too, less cold to touch. There’s the faintest hint of light ahead of me, not the anaemic light of Morgan’s chamber behind me, but yellow-tinged like sunlight. I don’t feel tired and heavy any more. I don’t feel anything particularly, except hope as I begin to hear the sound of waves sloshing.

Where I’ve emerged isn’t quite Naviras, but it’s close enough. I’m underneath the cliff at the end of the beach, where it juts into the sea at the western end of the bay. In front of me large rocks provide a break for the waves. It’s still snowing; if anything it’s coming down thicker than when I was up at Casa Amanhã. It’s settling on the surface of the ocean in floes; not melting as it should but forming a crust. It doesn’t look pretty, more like a layer of effluent.

I can see the village to my left. The sun hasn’t moved since I was last here, it’s still bathing the other side of the bay. The cottages clinging to the sides of the opposite cliffs are shimmering, encrusted by snowflakes. Further up the hill beyond the village the top of Casa Amanhã is peeking out from behind the poplars in Lottie’s garden, its roof caked in snow. Down on the beach I can just about make out the two children still playing their games, apparently oblivious to the snow falling around them. The waves no longer seem gentle; they’re sluggish and weak. The village isn’t a refuge, it’s more like a prison. What’s changed inside me? The knowledge that Naviras and Morgan’s cave are ultimately connected to each other, perhaps. Underneath the village there’s suffering and misery, as such Naviras just isn’t safe, not somewhere where I could bring my kids. I’d have to worry.
Don’t go into the cave, Bobby
, I’d say.
Sadie, make sure you stay away from the cliffs
.

It’s impossible to get directly back to the beach without swimming. The rocks are just too large for me to climb over, I’d never be able to grab the top of them to haul myself up. Yet in the other direction, away from the village, there’s an easier route, an almost obvious path winding up and away from the sea, around the side of the cliff. I look down at myself; the
grazes on my legs have gone but my sarong’s still covered in dirty streaks. Still I don’t want to swim, find the water the dark and forbidding, who knows what might be lurking under the surface.

I feel no pain or even discomfort in my bare feet as I follow the path around other side of the cliff. It’s like I’m wearing thick walking boots. I judge it’ll take less than ten minutes to walk into Naviras from here, and it’s not long before I reach the top, standing at the highest point in the village. I can’t see much of the ragged coastline; after a mile or two it becomes lost in a strange haze, one I’ve not seen in Portugal before but which reminds me of the fog at the bottom of the valley in Catseye. I turn around to see it’s exactly the same in other direction, in fact in all directions. Naviras - or what passes for it - is just an island surrounded by dense fog. Whatever this place is, it exists in isolation, and it doesn’t seem to stretch very far.

I’m about to join the larger path, the same one James and I walked up and down many times, before I see the building and feel foolish for not remembering about it. I’ve seen it before, after all, when I’d looked out the window at the top of Casa Amanhã. Then it had been in silhouette because of the afternoon sun but now it’s right in front of me, fifty yards down the path where the ruin of the old cottage used to stand.

It’s not a renovation of the cottage, in fact it doesn’t look Portuguese at all. It’s a facsimile of our house in Eppingham, and looks utterly out of place sitting on the cliffs near Naviras. Its terracotta brickwork and large grey snow-covered roof clashes oddly with the blue sky above it.

Most odd is how it stands by itself, alone at the top of the cliff. Houses like that are always found in clusters, at the end of cul-de-sacs. They have landscaped gardens, driveways with new cars on them. I can’t shake the feeling the house has been uprooted from its foundations and winched across the ocean before being roughly dropped here. That said, the front garden’s intact, with the very same red and orange gazanias I’d once planted. They look happy in the sunshine, despite the snow collecting on their petals they seem more suited to the climate here than in Eppingham.

A man’s sitting in a large rocking chair on the lawn. Initially I suspect it’s James, so I walk down the path towards the house, wondering what on earth I’ll say to him. But as I draw near I see it’s not James sitting there, it’s Gavin Cross, looking only half out of place in his ski-thermals.

‘Hey,’ he says quite casually as I approach. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’