Canary Islands Mysteries - Books 1-3

2. Paula-1

I repress a moment of irritation, wishing I hadn"t agreed to have Gloria"s party at my parents" house. It was so much larger, they said, and tidier—something else I can"t dispute. Yet it"s the last house on the northern edge of Máguez and although scarcely two kilometres from Haría, no one will want to risk the drive. A tropical storm, a rare event on Lanzarote, has chosen this very afternoon to lambast the island.

All I can do is wait and hope. I"ve no mobile reception and I never thought to give the guests my parents" number.

There were numerous warnings. The weather bureau saw it coming for about a week. The little supermarkets at each end of Haría"s plaza were both busy when I drove past earlier, locals stocking up on essentials before the storm struck. By then it was already raining. The media advised people to stay at home once the storm intensifies, avoid the roads, and if the road to Yé is any indication, so they have.

Perhaps we should have cancelled, or postponed. I considered it, but Celestino questioned the veracity of the warnings, and my parents said they would never cancel a birthday party over a bit of inclement weather.

The guests were due at two and it"s gone half past. I stand at the guest-bedroom window, peering into the grey for cars emerging from down the road. The thickness of the wall, about a yard of basalt, affords some comfort. I lean against it, the stone cold against my skin. An irascible wind funnels through the gaps in the casements. The shutters, open and fastened to the façade, judder and clap. I"m reluctant to venture out to close them. It would be too much like sealing myself in.

Gloria is in the kitchen, oblivious to my concerns. Her ebullient little voice bounces around the farmhouse walls, off the concrete ceilings twelve feet high, fragmenting into a confusion of numerous little voices, her simple bold talk obfuscated by its own echo.

Angela and Bill are keeping her entertained.

I should join them and make the best of things, but I can"t help holding fast to my post at the window in the absence of Celestino.

He usually keeps good time, although when I went to the studio I understood he wanted to complete the island landscape on his easel, a commission for a Swedish doctor who owns a villa in Mancha Blanca. Finding him crouched over the work, I arranged my face into something I hoped appeared accommodating, but he didn"t look up. It"s a complex piece, a dance of earthy tones in the style of Matisse"s fauvist period, Celestino yet again shunning as a source of inspiration the Picasso-inspired works of Lanzarote"s beloved César Manrique in favour of Picasso"s rival. Even then, behind his back I observed the work with grudging admiration. When he said, "Quiero terminar esta esquina," and pointed at the bottom left corner, adding a polite but firm, "¿Vale?" I knew it would have to be okay, the Swede is keen to take possession and we need the cash, even though I also knew he"d be late for his only daughter"s birthday party. Leaving the studio, I struggled to hold back my displeasure.

The storm intensifies as I watch. The soft branches of the shrubs in the front garden, normally sheltered from the prevailing wind by arcs of stone wall, are receiving a lashing. In the field across the road some newly planted maize is already flattened. It"s a harsh irony that a storm, with its deluge of rain, damages the island more than the long dry spells. All that rainwater lost to the sea. Taking in the thick cloud hanging low, the volcanoes shrouded in grey, it"s a scene anathema to the bright blocks of sunny colour found in those depictions of the island in paint and photograph alike, depictions coveted by the tourists. I fold my arms across my chest, shove my hands up the sleeves of my dress and pinch my flesh. Cheap and cheerful, isn"t that what the world wants? A cheeriness reflected in Manrique"s abstract artworks. But not in Celestino"s. Instead there"s a brutal truth in his paintings; he refuses to sweeten the pill. Celestino, where the hell are you? I stare into the grey harbouring a vain wish that the sun will shine for my little girl"s birthday.

Gloria comes bounding into the room in the pretty dress Angela insisted on buying, holding up her drawing gripped in two hands. "Look, Mummy! Look!" I make my lips stretch wide. "How gorgeous! Aren"t you clever." I ruffle her hair. She"s a bright and animated child. She has her father"s thick dark hair and proud face atop the fine-bone frame she inherited from me. Her eyes are large and inquisitive, yet she"s as content in her own company and in that of her family, as she is playing with the other toddlers in the neighbourhood.

Gloria gives me the painting then takes my hand and tugs. I allow myself to be led away. Satisfied her mother is following, Gloria lets go and runs back to join her grandparents.

"I don"t suppose …" Angela says upon my entry into the kitchen.

"Nobody is going to drive up here in this, Mum." I gesture past my father and the windowed doors, to the patio where the rainwater pools, repressing my annoyance that my earlier misgivings over the wisdom of holding a party in a tropical storm were overridden.

"But Celestino should be here. It isn"t like him to be late."

"He"s finishing the commission," I say flatly. "I imagine it"s taking longer than he thought."

Angela smooths her hands down her apron and turns away to the sink. She"s a petite woman, a little stooped, her short grey hair thinning around the crown. Beyond her, the depths of the kitchen look gloomy. An unusually long room lined with flat pack shelving units and makeshift benches, the challenges of installing a modern fitted kitchen too much for the previous owner. Maybe it"s her way of proving to the world she"s assimilating to local ways by choosing not to renovate. The only change she"s made is the acquisition of a large dresser with cupboards top and bottom, positioned at the table end of the room. The landline is perched at the end beside a silver-plated letter holder.

Angela follows my gaze. "Have you tried his mobile?"

"Last time I tried it went straight to message bank."

I survey the table, strewn with paper and crayons. Bill has drawn up his chair close to Gloria"s, her chair"s height raised by a plump cushion. Gloria leans forward and reaches across for the bowl of potato crisps. I push the bowl closer and watch the grabbing hand, the mouth opening wide, turning away at the crunch and chomp.

Angela goes to the fridge. "What should we do?" she says, more to the contents than to me.

"Wait, I guess."

Out on the patio, the rain sloshes down; the drain in the far corner failing to cope, the water around that end already ankle deep.

"You did tell them all two o"clock?" Bill says.

"They"re not coming." Exasperation rises. "I know I wouldn"t be. Not in a deluge like this."

I picture Kathy and Pedro and their three daughters battling it up the hill from Tabayesco. Pilar and Miguel and their two boys have even further to come. They won"t make it out of Los Valles, the rain surely falling most heavily on the mountain.

Gloria reaches for more crisps. I catch the anticipation in her eyes. I"ll have to explain somehow. Promise we"ll do something special on a different day. Tell my parents they might as well make the most of the afternoon and start on all that food. There are the presents to open, the cake to cut. And Celestino is bound to turn up eventually.

"Shall we…?"

"Shouldn"t we wait a bit longer?" Angela says. "For Celestino?"

Her gaze slides away from my face and settles on the phone. As though summoned, I go to the dresser and press the receiver to my ear. Silence. I put a finger in my other ear to make sure.

"The line"s dead."

The word catches in my throat. I glance at my watch. Bill does the same. It"s three.

"Put the radio on, Angela," he says. "We"ll catch the news."

"What for? It"s in Spanish."

"Paula will understand."

The broadcaster speaks rapidly. I snatch at words. I wait until the report comes to an end then gesture to my mother to turn it off.

"It isn"t good. Haría is the worst hit. The barrancos are raging torrents. Roads have become rivers, many impassable. There are reports of rock falls and landslides. A few cars swept away."

"My word," Bill says beneath his breath.

"Thankfully, no injuries reported, so far. And all flights since midday have been diverted to Fuerteventura."

"It"s sure to pass over," Angela says.

"Until it does, Celestino will be stuck where he is." Wherever that might be.

We fall into silence, gazes settling on Gloria"s painstaking attempt to solve a jigsaw puzzle.

Bill leaves his seat and stands by the patio doors. "I thought when we moved here we"d gotten away from all the flooding."

"It"s rare and it never lasts long. Things will soon dry out." My hopes of forestalling a tirade are dashed at the full stop.

"Not like those poor buggers back home," he says, turning back to the room. "Can"t imagine how they"ll get those houses dry. Sodden they are. Think of the mould. We got out just in time, Angela."

"Oh, Dad."

Since his retirement, he"s become prone to grumbling over "the dismal state of the world" as he calls it. The recent floods that inundated villages and towns in England alarmed him more than almost anyone we know. I share with my mother a wish that he would switch off sometimes and relax. So much negative passion can"t be good for his blood pressure.

I hoped my parents" move to Máguez would bring them both peace of mind; that the warm sunny climate and the invigorating ocean breeze would enliven their spirits.

In the months after Brexit, Bill and Angela sold their Suffolk home and bought the old farmhouse, moving in time for Gloria"s second birthday, my persuasive efforts of the previous two years at last paying off. It was the mild climate that swayed them. Plenty of opportunity to be outdoors. They were holidaying on the island one time and they had taken a walk around the village. A retired high school teacher, Bill began to see in Lanzarote the tranquil lifestyle he craved. Although I suspect the climate was just the catalyst, the deeper reason his attachment to his only granddaughter.

I thought the new climate would help Angela move out from beneath the shadow of her depression that took hold when she was retrenched from her job as school secretary in her early sixties. The move has certainly lifted her spirits, but not in the way I anticipated. It is a fascination for gardening in a dry and windy climate that absorbs Angela. She marvels over the ease with which dracaenas and succulents grow and she"s developed an avid affection for cacti.

Much to my dismay, although not to my surprise, she hasn"t developed a similar adoration of Gloria. For Angela is as indifferent as she was with me when I was young, consumed by guilt that she should be doing more, yet steadfastly not acting on that guilt.

It is Bill who has taken to Gloria, and Gloria to Bill. Watching him help his granddaughter insert the last puzzle piece, watching him take her hand and lead her to the main room, I can"t help feeling warm inside. The way he bends down and points at the long table filled with fare, the way Gloria responds with a look of awe, the lifting of her face to his as if for approval. The way his face lights up at her smile. Gloria has taken years off him. He is a large man, with a tendency to carry too much weight, his serious nature showing on his face in downward curving lines and in the furrows on his brow. Around Gloria, there"s a bounce in his step and an enthusiasm for life"s small adventures, for sharing with Gloria every single detail of the day, myriad little observances. Gloria mellows his heart. Although he will always rail against the injustices of the world. In that, he shares with his son-in-law, Celestino, something meaningful and important.