‘Thank you, my dear,’ he replied. ‘I could say the same about you, but it would be an understatement. Who’s putting the bloom in your cheeks these days?’
‘He is,’ I told him, ruffling Tom’s hair. ‘He’s all I need to get by.’
‘Nearly a Marvin Gaye lyric,’ he chuckled. (Mac has an encyclopaedic knowledge of sixties music; his heroes are Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and Marvin Gaye. ‘Who’s the odd man out?’ he asked me once, then answered before I could. . not that I knew. ‘Otis. He died in a plane crash, the other two were shot dead.’)
‘Fine,’ I grinned, ‘but don’t sing it.’
‘Not even in the shower,’ he promised.
His grandson looked around the concourse. ‘Where’s Grandma Mary?’ he asked.
‘Not coming this trip,’ Mac replied, ‘but she sends her love.’
I led the way back to the car park, and we loaded the Jeep, sticking his clubs through the split back seat. As we got moving, Tom unzipped the bag and took an admiring look. He and I play, but not very often in the heat of the summer. ‘New Callaways,’ Mac told him. ‘At my age, I need all the help I can get. I get embarrassed these days when I play with your cousin Jonny; he hits it further than I can see, and that’s only with his irons. He’s doing very well at college in the States. I think your Aunt Ellie had better get used to the idea that he’s going to be a pro.’
‘I’d like to be a pro,’ his grandson exclaimed, then paused. ‘That’s if I’m not an actor, like my dad, or a manager, like my mum.’
‘And what’s your mum managing?’ he asked.
‘Ben’s wine fair.’
Mac looked at me. ‘Long story,’ I told him. ‘I’ll fill you in later.’
Rather than go back up the autopista I took the quieter cross-country road, so that the two guys could talk along the way. And talk they did. Mac quizzed Tom about his school work, and his language skills. . Mac speaks English, period. . and was questioned in his turn about Scotland, about his cousins, Jonny and Colin, and of course about his dad. Every time Tom meets somebody who knew his father, he gets round to asking about him, and usually sooner rather than later. I don’t mind; it gives me serious pangs of missing him from time to time, but it’s his right to know, even if there are a few things I will always keep to myself.
We were just coming into Verges when Tom tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Mum, I’m hungry. Where are we going to eat?’
I’d thought about that myself, and made arrangements. ‘Esculapi. Outside, if it stays warm.’
‘Can Gerard come?’
I must have reacted, for a broad grin spread across Mac’s face. ‘Oh aye?’ he exclaimed. ‘And who would Gerard be then? I thought there was another reason for your cheerful demeanour, young lady. You’re like. . like you used to be, and I’m pleased.’
‘Then don’t get too pleased, for Gerard is a friend of the family, no more, no less.’
‘He’s a priest,’ Tom volunteered, ‘and I help him in his church.’
If the old dentist had been a pipe smoker, he’d have bitten clean through the stem.
Twenty-three
I’d never even thought about inviting Gerard to join us on Mac’s first night there, so for once I said ‘No’ to Tom. . it’s good for his soul. In fact he wasn’t all that bothered; when he had time to give it a second thought, he realised that another presence at the table could only come between him and his grandpa.
The evening did stay warm, so, after Mac had installed himself in the guest suite and freshened up from his journey, I stuck to Plan A and chose one of the pizzeria’s outside tables. . close to a space heater, just in case. Maybe I should tell you, or remind you if you’ve been here, that Plaça Major in St Martí is a sloping square, bounded by the church, and my house, at its highest point and on the other three sides by old stone buildings, which house a total of five cafés, bars and restaurants. Three of them are seasonal, and closed in the winter months, but the other two stay open all year round, apart from a month or so, rarely overlapping, when their owners take their holidays, and carry out their annual maintenance.
Mac smiled contentedly as he settled into his chair, and looked around at the maze of tables. Little more than half of them were occupied, but that’s not bad for a Tuesday at that time of year. All the parasols were deployed. As well as providing shade during the day, they hold the heat in the evening. ‘God, you’re lucky,’ he exclaimed, his thick arms folded across a blue short-sleeved shirt that might as well have had M amp;S embroidered on the pocket. ‘When I think of what I left in Scotland. It chucked it down all the way to the airport.’
‘It rains here too, Grandpa,’ Tom told him. It was almost a protest; he’s very defensive of Catalunya and doesn’t believe there’s a single place on the planet that can improve on any aspect of its beaches, its food or its climate, good and bad. ‘Last month we measured three centimetres on Mum’s terrace in one night. There was thunder and lightning and everything.’
‘Didn’t it flood your mum’s bedroom?’
‘No, the terrace slopes and there’s a hole in the wall for the water to get out.’
‘So how did you know there was three centimetres? Did you measure them a millimetre at a time as the rain fell, with a tape?’
My son sighed at his grandfather’s apparent stupidity. ‘I’ve got a measuring box,’ he said. ‘Mum lets me keep it on her terrace because it’s the best place. I’ve got a wind gauge too, fastened to the chimney.’
‘Do you have to climb up there to read it?’
Tom laughed. ‘No. I’ve got a weather station in my room, it tells me everything. It tells me about wind speed, how much rain we’ve had, what the temperature is, what the humidity is, what the weather’s going to be like next. It’s great, Grandpa. Uncle Miles gave me it for my birthday. When he was young he worked on a weather station in Australia. I might be a weather man when I grow up, if I’m not a golfer, or a manager. . or an actor, or have a wine shop like Ben.’
‘Yes. .’ Mac began, just as the tall Antonio approached, bearing menus. He asked if we wanted drinks. Grandpa Blackstone said he could murder a beer, I said I could put one out of its misery too, and Tom pushed his luck by asking for a glass of sangria. There’s a non-alcoholic version that I make at home sometimes, but it’s not found in bars, so he settled for a squeezed orange juice.
‘As I was saying,’ Mac resumed, ‘who’s Ben?’ There was a raised eyebrow along with the question. Although they never say it straight out, I know that he and my dad would both like to see me with, shall we say, a man about the house. They don’t realise that’s something I’ll never do just for the sake of it.
‘Ben’s your friend Matthew’s stepson,’ I told him. ‘He’s settled in St Martí, and he runs a wee wine shop just down the hill there. He’s come up with an idea for a village wine fair; I’m involved with it, on the operational side.’
‘What does “operational side” mean?’
‘Helping to put all the bits together, sorting out town hall permissions, sales and marketing and stuff.’
‘Hah,’ he chuckled, ‘the ubiquitous “stuff” meaning all the things that everyone’s forgotten to do until the last minute. When’s this event going to happen?’
‘September. All the producers are signed up for it; all that we need at any rate.’
‘And you’ve got your permission sorted out?’
‘Yes, after some serious roadblocks, but don’t let’s dwell on them.’ I steered him away from the subject; Tom didn’t know anything about it, and I didn’t want him to, least of all about the death of Planas. I wasn’t worried that he might learn at school; homicide isn’t a playground topic in the third year of primary. . well, not in L’Escala at any rate.
Antonio came back with the drinks and took our orders, one big tomato and mozzarella salad to be shared three ways, followed by steak for Mac, pinxo (kebab) for Tom, and spaghetti carbonara for me. . I’d had a busy day, and found that my body was screaming ‘Carbohydrates!’