Almond Treesby : James Blindell, Red Wine, preferably Jumilla

Every morning, Jake and Alice would stroll the untended land that surrounded their new, doer-upper if ever there was one, home.  Their land.  All six dusty hectares of it.  Originally from Manchester, they’d been at high school together, losing touch once they started university in other cities, but then met again one very drunken rum-fuelled night at a house party.  Since then, they had been almost inseparable, taking advantage of online working to travel the world.  Jake had tired of it first, and after a little coaxing, had persuaded Alice that they should buy somewhere.  Land, sun, and cheap were their priorities, and this led them to Murcia in the south of Spain.

‘Let’s patrol the perimeter, keep out the riff-raff,’ Jake joked one morning, the nearest sign of civilisation being ten kilometres away.  The previous weeks had brought little but rain; like bloody Manchester, we must have brought it with us they’d said, but this particular morning, the fierce Murcian sun was back in charge and the contrast couldn’t have been starker.

‘They’re absolutely stunning.  What do you think they are?’ Alice wondered aloud as they stared at the trees that had burst into fluttering islands of pink and white blossom.  Alice and Jake were many things: newly-weds, best friends, digital nomads, sun-seekers, but gardeners they were not.

‘Not got a clue, love.  One sec’.’

As Jake checked his phone, Alice marvelled at the shock of colour the trees had brought to the brown and orange landscape and her eyes landed on a bicycle that was slowly approaching their house on the dirt lane that passed for a road.

‘They’re almond trees, apparently.  Flower in March.’

‘What?  The pink ones and the white ones?’ asked Alice.

‘You’ve got so much to learn, my dear.  It all depends on the...cultivar.  The pink ones are beautiful and give better almonds and the white are...for purely ornamental purposes.’

‘Twat, don’t give me that voice.  You’ve only just read it, yourself.  I think he’s coming here.’

‘Who are...’ Jake paused as his eyes followed Alice’s and saw an elderly man get off his bicycle, prop it against their fence, and start walking towards them.  The man couldn’t have been a day under eighty, but he still had a fine head of grey hair, a drooping moustache, and walked straight with his head held high.  Despite the dust that coated his aged, but well-kept shoes and dark suit trousers, he gave off an air of dignity.  He came to a halt before them.

‘Buenos días. ¿Os importa si me siento un rato entre los árboles?’

Jake and Alice looked blankly at each other. 

‘Did you...’

‘He said good morning.  And something about trees,’ Alice said, anticipating the question.  Learning Spanish was high on their to-do list, and for the moment, Alice, proud titular of GCSE grade B in Spanish, was chief translator.

The man’s face creased into a frown; he pointed at his chest and then extended his arm towards the field of trees. 

‘Erm....sí...go for it,’ Jake stammered.

The man gave a solemn nod and walked towards the trees. 

 

Jake and Alice retreated into their kitchen and stared from the window, confident that the position of the sun would prevent the man from being able to see them.  The man wandered amongst the trees, caressing their trunks with tender touches.  Occasionally, he would pause to snap off a branch, or pull one down, cup the flower in his hand and smell the blossom.

‘WTF!’ Alice whispered.  ‘Do you think we should phone someone?’

‘Nah.  Could just be a Spanish thing,’ Jake shrugged.

‘I’m pretty sure the rights of home ownership extend as far as here.  Christ, what’s he doing now?’

The man removed his suit jacket and sat down under the blossom.   He took out some cured sausages, two glasses, and a bottle of unlabelled red wine from his satchel.  Having removed the cork, he poured some into each glass and began to eat, occasionally sipping from one of the glasses.  After a while, they grew bored of watching and settled down on their laptops to do a spot of work. 

A tapping on the window startled them.  The man waved and said,  ‘Gracias’.  By the time they got to the front door, he had mounted his bicycle and rode away without looking back, leaving a small cloud of dust that eventually settled until all trace of his visit was gone.  He was the main topic of conversation for the next week around the house.   Video-calls with friends back home elicited a range of opinions, from ‘I would’ve told him to do one,’ to the rather more empathetic ‘Maybe he’s losing his mind.. You should have invited him in.’  With time, they forgot about the man as they turned their minds to fixing up the cottage, and handled the stress of dealing with tradespeople in a foreign language.

 

The year passed, the petals floated off the trees, carpeting the land, and almonds grew in their place before they fell to the ground.  Jake and Alice struggled to learn Spanish online, and eventually found that they could just about get by in the local village’s shop and bar.  The next March, heavy rain marked the start of Spring and the almond trees blossomed again.  One morning, as Jake was sweeping the porch, the man reappeared on the same bicycle, wearing the same suit, and carrying the same satchel.  He strode over to Jake and was met with a wave and some just about comprehensible Spanish:

‘Buenos días, señor. ¿Cómo se llama used?’

‘Buenos días.  Soy Paco.’

Paco reached into his satchel and pulled out a bag of oranges, smiled and gave them to Jake.  He then gestured to the trees.  Jake nodded his permission, and Paco began his ritualistic stroll.

‘We should invite him in for coffee, or summat,’ Jake suggested, back in the kitchen with Alice.

‘Yeah great idea. You should always ask strangers into your home.  Is that what you’re gonna teach this one?’ she asked, holding her growing belly.  She was three months gone and starting to show.

‘He’s harmless.  Just an old man.  And he did give us these,’ Jake said, pointing to the oranges he’d placed on the table.

‘Ah, a bag of oranges.  The price of my life.’

But when the tap at the window came, it was Alice who waved him in.  They sat at the table and through mime and broken Spanish, ascertained that Paco had lived there sixty years ago.  In fact, he had built the house with his wife, who had planted the orchard.  Paco clearly loved telling the story, reliving the memories.  They could see the joy in his eyes, but every now and again he would fall silent.  They turned to talking about the present, and he told them that he now lived in Cartagena and had come by bus to the village and then cycled to the house.  After an hour, Paco said that his bus would leave soon.  He refused the offer of a lift to the village and so they waved him off as he cycled down the path.

 

The year passed.  Jake and Alice became more of a fixture in the village, and loved striking up conversation to practise their Spanish in the local bar that functioned as an extended living room and town hall.  One lazy August afternoon, not long before their child was born, they met an old boy sipping his aguardiente.

‘You must mean Paco Fernandez.   He was a lawyer, you know.   Sorted out a problem over land I had with that robbing bastard Alfonso.   The shameless son of a...’

‘He lives in Cartagena now,’ interrupted Jake, trying to refocus the conversation.

‘Of course.  He went there straight after she died.  Sold up, got a terrible price for it if I remember rightly.  Fertile land like that, worth far more.’

‘Who died?’ asked Alice, but she feared she already knew the answer.

The man looked at her as if she was stupid, ‘Isabel, his wife.  She was the one who planted all those almond trees.  She used to joke that the white ones represented him, pretty but useless, whereas she was the pink ones, easy on the eye and productive, too.  Waste of land planting white ones, if you ask me, they could have...’

‘What happened to her?’ asked Jake

‘Childbirth.  Her and the child, God rest their souls.  Anyway, like I was saying, land like that, you could have any number of...’

 

The March showers came and the trees returned to glory.  Jake and Alice began to speculate about when Paco would arrive.  They bought a picnic bench and put it under the trees for him to eat at.  They waited for the bicycle to come.  But it never did.  One early April morning, they sat on the bench together.  Jake held Alice; Alice held their baby boy, Samuel. 

‘I’m sorry, but I’m definitely the pink one,’ Jake said, ‘the job I did putting up that bloody greenhouse.  Top rate.’

‘Oh ye, defo.  It was so good I had to get the instructions out and do half of it again.  You’re the white ones.  Pretty, but useless.’

‘Pretty, eh.  I’ll take it.’

They sat under the sky of blossom and thought about how lucky they were.  Every year, when the rains came and the petals of pink and white perfection returned, they did the same.

about the author 

Jam

mes lives in Murcia, Spain with his wife and unruly toddler. He started writing because it's easier than talking about things

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.  

Endless Loop by Steve Gerson,Venti Black

Endless Loop

She sat in her bed looking at his high school photo. It was 3:27 a.m. Her cat was asleep. Her bedroom ficus was dead, its shriveled leaves brown and dry as the stacks of old newspapers lining her floor.

He'd been their school's quarterback. She'd been second clarinet in the band. They went on one date, during their sophomore year. It didn't go well. Still, she couldn't erase him. He was stuck in her mind like a tune on an endless loop. Now, five years after graduation, she was staring at his photo, again.

Since graduation, she'd seen him twice, though she'd looked for him often. She'd leave her desk job as a secretary primarily tasked with filing overdue loans and look for him in downtown bars or shops. She searched for him in bookstores and boutiques. Once she thought she'd seen him at a corner waiting for a green light, but it was someone else, a mirage of her past.

The first time she actually saw him was at the city's 4th of July parade. He was across the street, with his wife, Julie, a girl from their class, the girl he'd started dating after their one date, the girl he kept dating, the girl he married.

They were smiling like ice cream. He had his right arm around her as she held their toddler, a son, she guessed, wearing a red, white, and blue jumper.

The next time she saw him was in a Starbucks, today. He was five customers in front of her. She stood in line behind a big guy, maybe a construction worker from his neon yellow, high-visibility safety vest and hard hat. Each time the big guy shuffled left or right, she tacked accordingly to stay hidden.

The line moved up one. He'd ordered and walked to the pick-up line. She hid some more.

"Order for Sam. Venti black and small pumpkin spice latte, decaf, light foam," cried the barista.

He got his drinks and left, never looking back.

She followed him and watched as he got into his Volvo SUV with the car seat in back. She almost called out to him, his name crawling from the depths of her throat before ending in a hiss at her tongue. As he drove off, she read the bumper sticker: Child on Board.

"That could have been my life," she mumbled to herself as she stared at his photo. "Enough," she shouted, waking up her cat, as she threw the picture facedown.  Then she picked it up and stared at his photo, again.

about the author

 

teve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; Through Shadows

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.  

Love’s Sweet Song by Michael Barrington,French Martini

 

As if answering his whistle and the sweep of his green flag, the locomotive shuddered back to life. With a blast of steam, its great wheels spun, slipped, then bit the rails and began to pull away from the station. Roderick Halford had done it a thousand times. Always the same sequence. Always exact. He glanced at his pocket watch and allowed himself the smallest of smiles. 7:16 a.m.

But this morning was different.

Before leaving for work, he had stood in the bedroom doorway, watching his wife sleep. She was gravely ill. He had kissed her gently and lingered, troubled by a thought he could not shake. Will this be the last time?

Now, standing on the platform in his usual place, three carriages from the caboose, he tried to steady himself. That was when he noticed her.

A young woman seated by the window. Their eyes met only briefly, yet something in the glance held him. Not a regular passenger. He would have remembered her. There was, too, a disquieting flicker of recognition, though he could not say why. By the time he raised his whistle again, the train had gathered speed and was gone.

A week later, she was there again. Same train. Same seat. This time the glance lingered. Had she smiled?

The question unsettled him. For a man of routine, anything unexpected disturbed him. He nodded almost despite himself and studied her more closely: chestnut hair falling to her shoulders in soft waves, a face not quite clear behind the glass and yet curiously familiar. He could not properly see her eyes but knew, absurdly so, that they were amber.

She raised a white-gloved hand in greeting.

He blew his whistle, waved his green flag at the engineer, and when he looked back, she was gone.

                                                                             ***

“How are you today, my love?” he asked that evening, leaning to kiss his wife’s forehead. “You were sleeping soundly when I left.”

She smiled faintly. Beneath the bandana, the chestnut hair he had once loved had thinned to a few frail grey wisps. “I’ve had a so-so day. I’m exhausted. I can’t even watch television. But I’m all right. How was your day?”

“The same as always,” he said. “Nothing new. Let me get the tea.”

            He moved through their familiar ritual with the care of a surgeon. The kettle on. Tea leaves measured exactly. Five minutes to steep. He helped her sit up and arranged the tray across her lap: salmon sandwiches cut into neat triangles, warm scones, and the special strawberry jam she liked. Then her treasured china cup, the tea carefully poured, one cube of sugar, a measured spoonful of milk.

            Everything for her.

            They had met during the war. He, a painfully shy young airman, uncertain of himself; she, a nurse at RAF Biggin Hill, quick-minded and warm, with a confidence he found both dazzling and alarming. Before her, his life had been almost entirely devoid of women. She had been the first to look at him as though he were worth knowing. He had proposed one evening in Leicester Square after they heard Vera Lynn sing at the Jackpot Nightclub. Courage had come slowly, but at last it had come.

            “Let me put the music on for you,” he said now. “It always helps.”

            In the sitting room he opened the gramophone, chose the record with hands that still, after all these years, treated it tenderly, and lowered the needle.

I’ll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places…

            She closed her eyes and listened.

            Now she was fading.

            Each morning, before leaving for work, he paused in the bedroom doorway and watched the rise and fall of the bedclothes, measuring with dread the frail persistence of her breathing. She had become so light, so diminished, that at times he could scarcely reconcile this ravaged figure with the woman who had once filled every room she entered. Yet even now she would not let him stay home. She insisted on the old routine: on the train, the platform, the watch in his pocket, the tea waiting to be made at day’s end.

            So, he went.

            Once the 7:16 had pulled out and the last carriage slipped from sight, the emptiness would come over him again. It was then he found himself waiting for the glimpse of the girl by the window; the chestnut hair, the gloved hand, the look that held him a heartbeat longer than it should have. He did not ask himself why the sight of her should steady him. He only knew that, for those few seconds before the train pulled away, something in him eased. And when it was gone, he felt bereft all over again.

            She had been a nurse at Dulwich Infirmary after the war. He, because he could type and because she had urged him to do something more with himself, had secured an office post with the railway, and later trained for station work. There had been chances to go farther, take a promotion elsewhere, but they had not wanted to leave London. So, he remained a local assistant and remained content. Or as content as a man like Roderick could ever be without her.

            She managed the practical world: the finances, the small domestic crises before they grew into large ones. He accepted her bossiness as one accepts the weather, sometimes with a sigh, often with gratitude. He never forgot a birthday or an anniversary. At Christmas, he spoiled her. Even now he still left love notes beneath her pillow and tucked into the refrigerator door.

            The chemotherapy had done little except punish a body already exhausted by illness. She had refused hospital care. She wanted to die at home, in their own bed, with his hand in hers at the end.

            “We’ve said our goodbyes,” she had told him. “I don’t want you sitting here all day, watching me disappear. Go to work. Keep to your routine. Just be here at the end and hold my hand.”

            And now, as she lay dying, his mind was doing strange things.

            It was giving her back to him.

            Not as she was, but as she had been. As she might have been. As he wished she could still be.

            The girl on the train began to change.

            Some mornings she seemed younger, almost girlish, smiling at him with bright, conspiratorial confidence. One day, as the train slowed to a halt, he saw she was wearing a red coat. His favorite color on her. Later, sitting alone in the lunchroom with a cup of tea gone cold, he took out his wallet and stared at the photograph he kept there. She was wearing red in that picture too, her hair lifted a little by the wind, her smile alive with some private joke he had long ago forgotten.

            What if they had met when he was sixteen instead of twenty?

            The years loosened.

            At once she was there: not the frail woman in the bed at home, nor even the composed young nurse he had married, but a schoolgirl with the same chestnut hair, the same quick, amused smile, the same unsettling way of making him feel both exposed and safe.

            He was in the library, where he often hid from the playground and from the boys who called him The Brick because of his red hair and thick spectacles. He had been pretending to read, though in truth he was writing in the back of an exercise book.

            “You’re always scribbling,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Read some to me.”

            He stared at her. She was the sort of girl boys turned to watch in corridors: lively, self-possessed, impossible not to notice. Yet it was he she had chosen; he she smiled at as though there was no one else in the room. Before he knew what was happening, she had taken the exercise book from his hand and was reading, her lips moving over his words. Then she looked up.

            “You write beautifully.”

            No one had ever said such a thing to him before.

            The memory or whatever strange province of the mind this was, shifted again. A day of salt-wind and sunlight. Brighton, perhaps, or somewhere very like it. She wore the red coat and drove too fast, laughing when he clutched the door as they rounded a corner. There were gulls overhead, the clang of arcade machines, the taste of melting ice cream, her hand tucked through his arm as though she had every right to be there. All day he moved in a daze of astonishment. That she should choose him. That she should want to be seen with him. That when she smiled at him the whole world seemed to brighten and tilt.

            By evening they were alone in a bedroom he did not know and yet somehow knew. She stood close enough for him to smell her perfume. She loosened her scarf, then her dress, and smiled at the panic rising in him.

            “Roddy,” she whispered, using the name no one else ever used, “what is it you’re afraid of?”

            Everything, he might have said. Her boldness. His own body. The terrible, thrilling fact of being wanted.

            When she touched him, he flinched as though burned. The room seemed to contract around him. His glasses fogged. His hands would not obey him. With a cry of shame, he snatched his blazer and fled, hearing her call after him as he stumbled into the dark.

            Even in imagination, it seemed, she had always been the brave one, and he the one who ran.

I’ll be seeing you
On every lovely summer’s day…

***

Rain came down in torrents the morning the 7:16 arrived swathed in steam and wet light. He sheltered beneath the platform canopy until the train stopped, then went to his place and waited for the last of the passengers to board. Condensation clouded the windows on the inside; rain streaked them on the outside. She wiped the glass with a tissue. He could barely make out her face. Had she cut her hair? What color was her coat today? Red, he hoped. Did she wave? Was there any movement at all, or was he merely daydreaming again?

            It rained all day.

            That evening, timing it as he always did, he climbed to the upper deck of the Number Forty-Seven bus and took his favorite seat at the back. The windows were shut against the weather, filmed with condensation. Damp coats steamed. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like blue gauze. He closed his eyes, intending only a brief doze.

            And then, without warning, the word came to him.

            Sister.

            He opened his eyes at once, frowning, as though someone had spoken it aloud. Sister. Why that word? He turned the word over uneasily, resisting it at first, then sensing beneath its strangeness some deeper truth his mind had reached before he did.

            Not an actual memory. He knew that. Not in an ordinary sense. He had no sisters. He had grown up alone in a narrow, unhappy house with its silences, its sudden storms, its constant sense of having done something wrong. And yet now, in the shifting half-light of grief and exhaustion, his mind gave her to him in that form too: older than he was, already grown, already kind, the one who came between him and the worst of home.

            He was small again, standing in the kitchen with the broken teapot at his feet, hearing his mother’s voice rise sharp as a blade.

            “You clumsy oaf. What will you break next? You’re worthless. Wait until your father gets home.”

            And then she was there beside him, not his wife exactly, not some invented stranger either, but a version of her his longing had fashioned out of need and memory. Chestnut hair falling to her shoulders. The red coat. The calm hand on his sleeve.

            “It’s all right, Roddy,” she whispered. “I’ll explain things to Mum.”

            There had never been such a sister, and yet there she was, as vivid as any memory he possessed: nine years older perhaps, a nurse in a crisp uniform, moving through the house with the same capable assurance his wife had once brought to every room. She was the one who would have heard him crying and come to sit on the edge of his bed. The one who would have stroked his hair, told him not to mind their mother, assuring him he was not foolish or weak or worthless. The one who would have stood between him and the world until he was old enough to bear it.

            On the bus, with rain rattling the windows, he understood at last what his mind was trying to do. It was not merely remembering her as a young woman. It was finding every empty place in his life and putting her there.

            These were not memories.

            Slowly, quietly, he was beginning to understand.

            His mind was reshaping his wife, stretching her across his lifetime.

                                                                       ***

The nurse was waiting for him when he arrived home. She should not have been there at that hour. He knew before she spoke that the news would not be good.

            “She may not last the night.”

            He stood for a moment in the hallway, wet coat in his hands, and felt the old house tilt around him. Then he went upstairs.

            She looked so small in the bed. Thinner now, yes, but still unmistakably herself. He kissed her forehead and then her lips, as gently as if she might break. Afterwards, because routine still held him and because he did not yet know how to do otherwise, he went downstairs, put the kettle on, hung up his uniform, and prepared the tray.

            When he brought it up, she smiled weakly but did not want the tea or the scone.

            “I love you,” she whispered, and squeezed his fingers with what little strength she had left.

            He sat beside her and took her hand in both of his.

            As he looked at her face, memories opened like a vast sunlit landscape. He remembered how she used to walk slightly ahead of him in crowded streets—not out of impatience, but as though she were clearing the path, making sure it was safe. He had followed her into marriage, into laughter, into the small, ordinary rituals of a shared life. She had always been the courageous one, the one who knew what to do next, the one who took his diffidence and awkwardness and made a life around them rather than in spite of them. She was the first person who had accepted him for who he was.

            “You have been my life,” he whispered. “My whole life. Before you, I didn’t know how to be with anyone. I didn’t know how to love. You found me before I had the least notion of what to do with myself, and you never once made me feel foolish for it. You took care of everything. I’ve no idea how to be on my own.”

            Her eyes opened a little, as if she had heard every word. Her lips moved.

            “I love you, darling,” she murmured. “You’ll manage.”

            Then her eyes closed again.

            Throughout the night he sat beside her, holding her hand, listening to the slow, uneven rhythm of her breathing. At some point, without drama and almost without sound, the breath left her body.

            He did not at first believe it.

            He sat on, waiting for the next one, and then the next. When none came, he bent over her hand and wept into the bedclothes until there were no tears left, only a hollow, aching stillness.

            Some hours later his body, faithful to habit, told him it was time for work. Instinctively, he reached for his pocket watch.

            “I’m not leaving you,” he whispered. “I know you won’t be on the train. I’m going to play our song, and I’ll turn it up so you can hear it better.”

I’ll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon
But I’ll be seeing you

Today Roddy would break his routine.

 

About the author 

Michael Barrington, has published 13 books, and more than 60 short stories in the USA, UK and Europe. A former editor at The Brussels Review, he blogs on his website, www.mbwriter.net.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.