Weeks in Naviras Read online

  Bobby was enrolled at a wonderful primary in Southwark with large gardens, a good track record and a pre-school annexe for Sadie. She’d just turned three, and was finding everything controversial. ‘Mummy, why can’t I watch videos on your phone?’

  ‘I’m leaving it turned off, darling, to save the battery.’ It was the latest in a list of questions from her that morning; why weren’t pigeons allowed to sit on the windowsill, why did she have to wash her hair every night and then have it brushed every morning? This volley of whys ran all the way through breakfast, and then during the wriggling and writhing routine she pulled every morning as I tried to button up her blouse. That annoyed me, but the constant questioning didn’t.

  Bobby had always been quieter, with darker colouring like James but showing signs he’d take after me. I suspected he was used to getting less attention, something I always felt guilty about. Until he was five I’d kept up my job and he’d spent much of his earliest years in the custody of nannies and nurseries. He seemed happy enough with his games and videos. Sometimes I’d check his search history and be relieved to find nothing untoward. He’d become interested in space; planets, stars, the sun, distant galaxies. He took after his father in that regard. ‘Mummy, if we look out the window tonight at five past seven we can see the space station. It’s going to fly over London.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to hope there’s a clear sky, darling.’

  That morning they were both driven to school in the custody of Anushka, thanks to my cancerous breakfast. This was despairingly normal. I’d always tried to ride with them when I could, and my only testy moments with Anushka came when she diarised too many breakfast functions. The bigger problems came during the school holidays, when the kids had to be occupied all day but Parliament was still sitting. Then they’d roam Downing Street, stressed advisers looking up from their screens to see one of my kids charging down the hallway.

  At about 8 o’clock Anushka came to collect them and off they went down the stairs, Sadie first, Bobby behind her. Sadie was giggling something about Bobby’s school tie being too short, her laughter echoed back up the small staircase. I imagined them trooping down the landing towards the back stairs, oblivious to the officials and advisers passing them in a hurry, desperately trying to make sense of the Palestine situation.

  I had half an hour to kill before my first meeting. I grabbed a quick shower and got changed, flicked the TV over from the cartoon channel to the news. I walked over to the kitchen area with its dated appliances and finishings. One of my predecessors had installed them long ago, back in a time when it was just about possible to spend money on such things. The design would have been considered uber-modern back then, what would they call it now, retro-chic?

  Then the phone rang; not my mobile but the internal Downing Street line. I didn’t like answering it since anyone could be at the other end. There was no chance to prepare.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ellie,’ a woman’s voice, faint. ‘Why don’t you answer your phone?’ Her accent Portuguese.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Carolina, Ellie. I’ve been trying to reach you. I found your number in my father’s things.’ She sounded like she had the most horrendous cold. ‘He’s gone, Ellie. I’m all alone here, I don’t know what to do.’

  I listened as Carolina explained how Luis had been lost at sea scuba diving, ten days previously. When I’d failed to answer my mobile she’d eventually tried to reach me via the Downing Street switchboard; half of the acolytes and staffers downstairs must’ve known about it. How awkward, I thought.

  His body hadn’t been found but his scuba gear had washed up, not in Naviras bay but on a deserted beach five miles north. Endless permutations; maybe his oxygen tank had failed, perhaps he’d been hit by a falling rock from the cliff. There’d be no funeral, no grave. Just a memorial plaque in Naviras churchyard. I envied him for this in some ways; in death he’d at least provided food for the fish. That was something.

  I told Carolina I couldn’t possibly attend the memorial. I blamed it on my workload as the wife of the PM. In truth I didn’t feel comfortable going, in case James wondered why I was rushing out to Portugal for someone I only slightly knew. I told Carolina I’d send her some money, enough to tide her over for a few months. This seemed safer; James would never notice the wire transfer, in fact he hadn’t looked at our bank account for months.

  I promised I’d call Carolina again, now I had her number. I promised she wouldn’t be alone.

  ‘You’re taking this so calmly, Ellie,’ she said at the end of our conversation. Was she accusing me of being callous?

  ‘It’s just a shock, at the moment,’ I said, and that was true. It seemed obvious to me that Carolina didn’t know the whole story, which was problematic; how to gauge how informed someone is, without giving away potentially more than you want to? Better to say nothing.

  After I put the phone down I went to the shelves in the corner of the living room and pulled down an orange decorative box from the topmost shelf. Inside a compendium of nicknacks; a snooker chalk cube, a key on a leather thong, seashells and pebbles, a length of yellow twine with grains of sand stuck in its fibres. An ancient paperback on Portuguese plants underneath. Detritus, that’s how James would’ve viewed these objects, if he’d ever bothered to open the box.

  At the bottom was the postcard, one I’d never sent. The cliffs and the beach had turned sepia, there was a little tear running down the sky from the top left hand corner, the gloss of the print curling down revealing dirt underneath the backing paper. Having a lovely time, such a beautiful little village. Next stop the Algarve. I’d written those words almost a decade before, and since then I’d become not unlike the postcard; something whose purpose had not quite been fulfilled.

  Underneath the postcard the blister pack of tablets, half of them already gone. I’d always made a point of removing the outer box and throwing it away, just in case James or someone else ever decided to rifle through my belongings and wonder what the pills were for. I pushed one of the terracotta tablets through the foil, spun it around in my hand before putting in my mouth.

  It was too large to swallow without water. In the time it took to fill a glass from the sink and rinse it down, the tablet’s acrid coating stuck to my tongue. The taste always lingered for several hours, but that was fine. In fact it was reassuring, reminding me that I’d be safe because I’d taken my pill. Yes, I’d taken possession of them, or them of me. But in the eighteen months I’d been taking them life had got better, or at least no worse. Millions of people survived in similar fashion, I’d often tell myself. So what if Luis was dead; he was the third person in my life to disappear suddenly. I’d become accustomed to this habit of people rudely bowing out without consulting me. Anyway, I’d written him out of the story a year before. I’d deal with it in my own way, silently and slowly. Why rush to grieve?

  As I put the lid back on the box and stowed it on the top shelf once again, I smiled to myself; wondered how the journalists outside would react if they’d known the Prime Minister’s wife was just another happy-tablet drone. Would they feel any sympathy? Not unless they’d known the backdrop, and that was something I’d decided would never be revealed. Not because it would’ve reflected badly on James, but because people would’ve realised quickly that my actions left a lot to be desired, too.

  Beach Bar

  I gaze at the almost-still water, wondering how it would feel to die in it. It’s my ocean, after all, as much as it is Luis’s. The one I’d always swam in, played with my children in. Should I feel animosity towards the sea for killing Luis? Everyone knows it can be dangerous but still we venture into it, because drowning’s the sort of thing that happens to other people’s friends and family, never your own. No, there’s really no point getting angry at the sea for being there. No-one’s ever forced us to swim in it, or sail on it. Anyway, now I really am dead I could swim out for miles and never drown, surely.

  I think about Bo
bby and Sadie and feel guilty, but for what, dying? I know how it feels to lose your mum so young, the anger one feels at them for disappearing like that, permanently with no chance of reversal. Will they hate me for getting myself killed, will they come to realise it wasn’t my fault? Will they find a substitute mother, somehow and in time? Is that how Luis feels about Carolina? Perhaps he’s waiting for her so he can apologise for running off into death like that.

  I stand up, an intriguing experience. There’s none of the mild stiffness I’ve been feeling in recent years as I rise from the chair. For the first time I notice what I’m wearing; cream sandals, a short, floaty green sarong and a pale blue bikini top, all clothes I used to take to Naviras. I must’ve been wearing them when I stepped out of the ocean, for I’ve no memory of putting them on. My boobs are lightly tanned, not burnt as they’d sometimes become during my trips to the village. I’m not wearing my wedding and engagement rings.

  I leave the glass of wine on the table and walk slowly up the sun deck, past the other customers. The older man in his sixties wearing the Panama hat smiles, raises his hand in welcome. I don’t know him but still smile back as I walk past, through the patio doors. The bar’s unchanged; the lampshades made from old lobster pots hanging from the ceiling, the fishing nets draped along the top of the wall above the counter. Luis is sitting halfway down the bar, a cigar resting in a terracotta ashtray in front of him. Pale smoke rises from the tip, but there’s no nutty smell. He beckons me. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  I say I don’t know, staring at the ocean through the large windows. ‘You died out there, Luis. But you look at it all the time.’ I prop my arm against the bar next to him. ‘Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?’

  ‘I don’t think about it much.’ He turns his face slightly away from me and puffs. ‘People don’t, here, they just get over it.’

  'You’ve forgotten what happened.’

  ‘No, I can just about remember. There was a boat coming towards me, I could see the swell on the surface above me. I tried to swim away from it. That’s all.’ His smile’s accepting. ‘The next thing I remember I was coming out of the water, the same way you just did.’

  ‘You look great, Luis.’

  ‘Hey, smoking isn’t bad for you here, the bar never closes. You look good yourself.’ He gestures with his cigar to the long mirror at the end of the bar. ‘Go and see.’

  It’s not that I’m younger which shocks me as I walk up to my reflection, although there’s no denying I am. About ten years younger, in fact. It’s how I’m far more attractive than I’d been, even back then. My breasts are like avocadoes, my skin flawless with no circles under my eyes. My hair’s straight without any hint of waviness, no need for highlights or serums to get it to behave. I look my best, the best I could have possibly ever looked, without makeup or any other adjustment required. It’s extraordinary.

  Delighted with myself I walk back to Luis. ‘I’m so different,’ I say. ‘We both are.’

  ‘It’s how we were meant to be, I suppose.’ Still there’s a distance to him.

  ‘Everyone here’s the same?’

  He takes a long pull on the cigar. ‘It seems like it, everyone looks younger than when they died.’

  ‘I don’t know any of these people.’

  ‘No, they came here a long time before you.’ I notice his cigar’s not burning away. ‘They remember me, though, from when I was a child. Mostly they just sit here and talk.’

  ‘What about the family on the beach?’

  ‘Those four? They’re happy. They haven’t moved once since I got here. I’m pretty sure they know they’re dead.’ He cocks his head towards the beach, grins slightly. ‘When I first got here, I thought I’d wait to see if Carolina would come,’ he looks at me again. I can’t work out what his almond eyes are saying. I ask him how long it feels since he arrived. ‘Maybe an hour? You’ll see, there are no clocks here, no watches.’

  I look around the bar, trying to remember if there’d ever been a clock on the wall. ‘Who owns this place?’

  ‘Nobody,’ Luis rests his cigar on the side of the ashtray. ‘I don’t think anyone owns anything here. There’s no work, either. People don’t really want things, that much. Nobody gets hungry or thirsty, food and drink are just for tasting. Other than that, people just sit and remember things.’

  ‘And Casa Amanhã?’

  ‘Yes, Lottie’s up there, she came down to the beach not long ago.’

  I feel like I’ve been given a present, a get-out. Lottie’s here, and that makes dying almost feel worthwhile. ‘I have to go and see her, Luis.’

  He just looks at me calmly, understanding. ‘I know. She’ll be happy to see you.’

  ‘Have you talked to her much?’

  ‘We’ve said a few words.’ He’s more evasive, looking away from me again. ‘She said most of the people in the village are up at Casa Amanhã, a few more in La Roda.’

  ‘You haven’t been up there?’

  ‘No.’ His top lip curls up slightly. ‘I wanted to wait by the ocean. You know Ellie, Lottie’s much, much younger here. It’s more of a change in her, you’ll see it and you’ll be surprised about it. I was. But it’s fine.’

  Some things don’t change, it seems. He still cannot say what he really wants. Why should someone else always have to say it? Finally I speak. ‘Will you come with me? We can talk some more on the way.’

  He considers it for a moment. ‘It’d be good for the three of us to all be in the same place, but you should see her alone first, I think. And maybe James is up at Casa Amanhã, too.’

  Yes, I think. Far more likely he’d be there than at the beach bar. I ask Luis if he’s sure he won’t join me on the short walk to Casa Amanhã, not surprised when he won’t change his mind.

  ‘I’ll stay here. How’s about you go and see her, and then ask her to come down here for a drink? We can have a chat together. She might come.’

  His manner toward me is confusing, almost as if he sees me as just another patron of the beach bar. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

  He seems to find this funny. ‘Make sure you do. You’ll understand more, then. Probably more than me, you’re that smart, Ellie.’

  I touch him lightly on his forearm. ‘Ciao,’ he says, as I walk past him to the open door at the other side of the bar, walking down the stone steps to the path that runs along the back of the beach to the slipway. I feel excited, I must say.

  There’ve been times in the past when I’ve been drenched by crashing waves on this path. Naviras sits in a sheltered bay, facing south and shielded from the ferocity of the Atlantic. Even so the spring tides could be bracing, and on rough days people crossing the slipway were often doused in spray. Normally it was just funny, but once I’d heard about some tourists whose car ended up bobbing into the sea. The slipway’s designed for fishing boats but over the years I watched them being replaced by hire-cars, and even the boats that remained were for scuba lessons, not fishing.

  This time there aren’t any cars at all, just two small fishing boats hauled halfway up the slipway, attached to iron cleats with thick rope. I’d stubbed my big toe on one of these cleats once, walking up from the beach bar on a moonless night. The next day I couldn’t go into the sea because of the sting of salt.

  The slope’s just as steep as always, but this time it doesn’t make my legs ache as I walk up into the square, which is deserted. La Roda’s open, though. I’m curious to see who might be in there, so I walk up the small steps to the veranda. There’s soft music coming from inside the bar. A man and woman are sitting at one of the small tables on the veranda, looking out to the ocean. They have clear fizzy drinks on the table in front of them, next to two bowls containing green olives and cherries.

  The woman who says hello is English and middle-aged, wearing a red and white spotty maxidress. ‘You’re new,’ she says, with a Yorkshire accent.

  The man’s just finishing eating an olive. He swallows it and welcomes
me. ‘I’m Bill and this is Jean.’ Both of them look a bit older than me, but not aged. Neither have wrinkles, no sagging skin. She’s the kind of lady who might’ve worn dangly earrings, but like me she’s not wearing any jewellery.

  ‘I’m Ellie. I don’t remember seeing you here before.’

  Jean shakes her head slightly. ‘No. You must be from later on,’ she says it with no hint of surprise. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down and have some olives? These cherries are delicious, too.’

  I peer behind them into the bar. The TV screen that used to be suspended in the corner is missing, but the snooker table’s there. In the far corner a Portuguese man’s playing an acoustic guitar and singing softly. I look back at the couple in front of me on the veranda. ‘From later on?’

  Bill picks up a cherry. ‘From what we’ve learned, it seems like twenty years have passed.’

  ‘That would explain why you don’t recognise me,’ I say.

  Jean nods. ‘And how old were you when you came here, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘I came here a lot in my thirties, usually on holiday.’

  Bill raises his hand, ever so slightly. ‘No, love. How old were you, when you came here?’

  ‘Oh. I’m, well, I was, forty-one. But I don’t look it. I look a lot younger.’ Finally I sit down in front of them.

  Jean nods again, knowingly. ‘You look just as you did when you first came?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘But different as well. I saw my reflection in the mirror at the beach bar.’

  Jean picks up her drink from the table and sips it through a small white straw. ‘That’s how it works here,’ she says eventually, explaining how both of them lived into their eighties, but started coming to Naviras thirty years earlier, in the ‘sweet’ years after the revolution.

  ‘Did you come here often?’ I know it’s a ridiculous thing to say and Jean laughs.

  ‘We came out every summer, for fifteen years. We had a cottage here, on the road leading up the hill.’