himself. He fears it is in his blood. He thinks of Astrid, who fawned on him and Agustín, telling them constantly that she loved them, but who would leave at the drop of a beret. Agustín disappeared, too, until he came back – brought running by death. Their maternal grandfather was dying in a foreign land, and his brother had come running, looking for mummy. That’s not how it should be.
Manolo looks up at his herd. Suki wants to be off, to tend them, but he doesn’t want her up the mountain alone, not with the wild dogs, so he picks her up and holds her tight. In the distance, he thinks he can hear music. Or a siren. Perhaps he is going mad.
*
Harry follows Rubén and the other boys down into the lower barrio. During his special Spanish lessons, when the nun leant over him, supervising the changing of a word and smelling of ham fat, he saw his uncle Will walk past the school and through the Plaza de Iglesia. Now, free, he is intent upon demonstrating to his uncle that he is getting on just fine with the village boys. However, Gracia is standing by the alleyway that leads to his uncle’s house.
Rubén shouts, ‘Arri! Are you going to play dolls with your girlfriend?’
Harry’s Spanish is good enough to get the gist, not quite good enough to make a riposte.
Gracia looks at him with her big, surprised eyes. She has got her hair down and it is sun-kissed by the long summer. Harry feels funny in his stomach when he sees Gracia, especially when she has changed out of her school uniform, wearing her floaty, primrose dress that her mother fashioned from offcuts. The other children poke fun at her for having home-made clothes. This dress comes to her knees and has thin straps that show her shoulders, brown as almond shells.
‘Don’t listen to them, Arri,’ she calls. ‘I was going for a walk, along the Ruta Barrington.’
‘A walk! Maybe today he will kiss her,’ calls Rubén, and the boys run down the hill to the water troughs, laughing.
Beyond the sound of the boys running away, Harry hears a siren from the top of the village – the Guardia or a fire engine, perhaps. There have been fires up in the sierra this summer and he knows from his teachers not to leave bottles when they go into the campo. They magnify the sun and tinder the scorched grass.
He follows the boys down to the troughs, but Gracia runs up to him and tugs at the hem of his shirt. ‘Show me your treasures, Arri.’
‘I showed them last week.’
She giggles, says, ‘I love the way you talk. Say it in English.’
He sits under the walnut tree. If he were to climb it, and were he light enough not to break its bough, he could make his way onto the balcony of his uncle’s bedroom. He says, in English, ‘Let’s go along the ruta .’
Gracia smiles and sits next to him‚ puts her hand into his pocket and pulls out his leather pouch. It used to be a pencil case, but now it is a museum of the life he left behind.
She unzips the pouch and places it in the primrose canopy of her lap. One by one she removes: a fifty-pence piece; a picture of Harry and his best friend, Conor, taken as they plunged into the water on the log flume at Thorpe Park; the ticket from when his uncle took him to see Orient play Arsenal in the FA Cup; his Disneyland pass with its image of Mickey in front of the enchanted castle – that was the treat when his mum and Paolo told him he was going to have a sister. And finally, the item that Gracia likes best and which makes her big eyes go bigger still and her cherub mouth hang open in awe: the folded Polaroid image of his baby sister in shades of black and white within his mother’s belly.
Gracia whispers, ‘Miracle.’
Harry is troubled because he doesn’t like the picture. He knows, for sure, that he should.
The boys shout up to Harry but he can’t understand what they say. Gracia looks up at him and says they should go. She seems sad and holds his hand, tugs him to come the opposite way to the boys, and says,
Manolo looks up at his herd. Suki wants to be off, to tend them, but he doesn’t want her up the mountain alone, not with the wild dogs, so he picks her up and holds her tight. In the distance, he thinks he can hear music. Or a siren. Perhaps he is going mad.
*
Harry follows Rubén and the other boys down into the lower barrio. During his special Spanish lessons, when the nun leant over him, supervising the changing of a word and smelling of ham fat, he saw his uncle Will walk past the school and through the Plaza de Iglesia. Now, free, he is intent upon demonstrating to his uncle that he is getting on just fine with the village boys. However, Gracia is standing by the alleyway that leads to his uncle’s house.
Rubén shouts, ‘Arri! Are you going to play dolls with your girlfriend?’
Harry’s Spanish is good enough to get the gist, not quite good enough to make a riposte.
Gracia looks at him with her big, surprised eyes. She has got her hair down and it is sun-kissed by the long summer. Harry feels funny in his stomach when he sees Gracia, especially when she has changed out of her school uniform, wearing her floaty, primrose dress that her mother fashioned from offcuts. The other children poke fun at her for having home-made clothes. This dress comes to her knees and has thin straps that show her shoulders, brown as almond shells.
‘Don’t listen to them, Arri,’ she calls. ‘I was going for a walk, along the Ruta Barrington.’
‘A walk! Maybe today he will kiss her,’ calls Rubén, and the boys run down the hill to the water troughs, laughing.
Beyond the sound of the boys running away, Harry hears a siren from the top of the village – the Guardia or a fire engine, perhaps. There have been fires up in the sierra this summer and he knows from his teachers not to leave bottles when they go into the campo. They magnify the sun and tinder the scorched grass.
He follows the boys down to the troughs, but Gracia runs up to him and tugs at the hem of his shirt. ‘Show me your treasures, Arri.’
‘I showed them last week.’
She giggles, says, ‘I love the way you talk. Say it in English.’
He sits under the walnut tree. If he were to climb it, and were he light enough not to break its bough, he could make his way onto the balcony of his uncle’s bedroom. He says, in English, ‘Let’s go along the ruta .’
Gracia smiles and sits next to him‚ puts her hand into his pocket and pulls out his leather pouch. It used to be a pencil case, but now it is a museum of the life he left behind.
She unzips the pouch and places it in the primrose canopy of her lap. One by one she removes: a fifty-pence piece; a picture of Harry and his best friend, Conor, taken as they plunged into the water on the log flume at Thorpe Park; the ticket from when his uncle took him to see Orient play Arsenal in the FA Cup; his Disneyland pass with its image of Mickey in front of the enchanted castle – that was the treat when his mum and Paolo told him he was going to have a sister. And finally, the item that Gracia likes best and which makes her big eyes go bigger still and her cherub mouth hang open in awe: the folded Polaroid image of his baby sister in shades of black and white within his mother’s belly.
Gracia whispers, ‘Miracle.’
Harry is troubled because he doesn’t like the picture. He knows, for sure, that he should.
The boys shout up to Harry but he can’t understand what they say. Gracia looks up at him and says they should go. She seems sad and holds his hand, tugs him to come the opposite way to the boys, and says,
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