Image: © Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester
A scramble of hairpins, then a wedge of smooth sea. Down the coast, the Costa del something. High-rise hotels, Dan said, and street fights. But out here, he said, it was a different world. No bars, not on this trip, eating in and he’d cook, and anyway, everyone had such good things to say about the apartment. Paradise, they reckoned, a huge terrace and the sea, the golden pebbles of five-star reviews.
The gate was open; the key poked from the front-door lock. The flat was airy and larger than it had looked online. The bathroom stank of drains. She made jasmine tea which they drank on the terrace while Dan went through the laminated information sheet. A couple of small boats slid the fold between sea and sky. Across the gulley, a villa with battered shutters; flaking hoardings on the scrub land behind promising new housing. Bertie lolled on the tiles and Dan said it looked as though everything was in order and he couldn’t see why they wouldn’t have a good time at this one. She’d done well, he said, considering, and it was nice, that kind of praise for a change.
Then a car scrunched to a halt in the gravelly pull-in and there was a girl hustling down the steps and then, behind, a woman who was waving and she must be the host, Daisy. Taller than expected, graceful rather than chintzy.
Daisy paused to make a fuss of Bertie. Her English was good. She also had a dog and two cats, she said; food waste needed to go in the yellow tub and she was happy to help if they needed anything.
When Daisy had gone, Keri collected the teacups. ‘She seems a good host,’ she said. And she’d make a good friend, too, definitely a good friend; the connection, momentary, was a loss when it was gone. ‘It’s an idyllic life for the children. I think they’re German.’
‘Daisy’s not a German name.’
No, well, that’s what the reviews had said, she was sure, German definitely, but not worth pushing, and something about scuba diving which had obviously reminded her of that week in France and all the trouble but she wasn’t going to rake that up either.
‘About our age, wouldn’t you think, Dan?’
Kids, though, which was nice. Two of them it said in the blurb.
‘A hundred odd quid a night, what is it, a hundred and twenty – of course it’s idyllic,’ Dan said.
And a great complexion. Fresh, the word that came to mind. Fresh as a Daisy, which was corny and made her smile. Bright cheeks, though, an easy relaxed air: all that would come with the lifestyle.
The following morning, she laid breakfast on the terrace and Dan did one of his platters. Slithers of ham and a gnarly goat’s cheese, bread, olive oil, a pink jam, oranges and almonds, sweet biscuits and it was all very well, but it hadn’t brightened his mood, not one bit.
‘The gas rings are a joke. The weediest flame ever. And the coffee machine’s broken.’
‘I saw that. Don’t worry – I’ll put it in the review.’
The sea spangled, little boats blinking.
‘Well make sure you mention the pillows. It’s not our disappointment that matters, Ker, so much as other people’s expectations. Transactions on these platforms rely on honesty and ̶ ’
She had to hush him. Daisy was climbing the steps, wearing a red woolly hat with a pompom and a thick brown coat, stylish even so, and close enough to hear them. Bertie sprang up, his paws on the terrace wall. Daisy’s dog stopped and stared. It was called Faustus, Daisy said. No sign that she’d heard them discussing disappointments.
After breakfast, Dan proposed a walk into town.
‘We should get some fish,’ he said. ‘There’s a decent frying pan, at least.’
She didn’t much fancy fish. She’d sit here instead, much better, and watch the sea and wait for Daisy to come home from her walk, and they might chat for a while, and then the morning would just pass and be quietly gone.
Dan handed her the dog lead and called Bertie. There was a stony path, mostly the sea again and the scratchy hills, a disused windmill, one or two elegant villas. She looked for Daisy, or for Faustus scampering, but they must have taken a different direction and it was only birds making the scrub shiver. Dan’s shoe was nipping, he said, how could it be nipping and he showed her the rub of raw toe.
They returned to the flat with two large squid. She laid the table on the terrace. The sun was strong; the morning breeze had died. Dan was hobbling on account of the blisters. She should have packed the salve, he said; he couldn’t believe she hadn’t packed the salve. It would be better if she learnt from her mistakes, he said, rather than repeating them. Daisy came up from below as they were eating. She’d tied her hair up and looked chic in black jeans.
The afternoon clouded, turning chilly. They’d been promised a fireplace and a supply of logs but the hearth was musty with soot and cobwebs; there was no sign of any wood. Dan said she’d fallen for marketing hype and it would have to go in the review.
‘Puffery,’ he said. ‘Honestly, all this place has is location. The terrace and the sea, that’s all, the view obviously. Otherwise it’s just smelly. Things falling apart or stuck together. Like that shower head, Keri – I showed you.’
So instead of the log fire, they used the gas heater, which wheezed fumes.
After dinner, they took what remained of the wine onto the terrace. It was a cloud-free night, the moon a low yellow scoop in a starry sky. She kicked off her slippers and lay back on the sofa with her feet on the low wall. The tide washed quietly on the rocks.
At some point, late, she saw Daisy head out in the dark. Faustus was wearing a sparkling lime-green night collar which scudded back and forth across the headland. She traced the spit of it like a blip of radar as they dipped across the gulley and in front of the empty villa, moving without a sound.
Next thing was a man, striding away from Daisy’s place early next morning, just as she came back with Bertie. Stamping through the scrub towards the empty building site, he hardly glanced at her, but she felt uneasy, couldn’t help it, and then Dan said:
‘I saw the husband while you were out.’ He was peeling an orange. ‘Well, heard him mostly. There was an argument. Then he stormed off.’
‘Shortish and a bit stocky? Overalls and work boots?’
‘Yes, that’s him. It was all, you know, voices down, don’t scare the natives, but definitely an argument. Just below the terrace. Not the kind of thing we want.’
‘Is he German then? Did they speak German?’
‘I don’t know. It didn’t sound German. Spanish, I think. But it was all hush-hush and whispers.’ Sighing. ‘I think you’ve missed the point, Keri.’
So then, the husband wasn’t at home, obviously, she’d worked that out, and that was one thing, him taking a job elsewhere, especially during the winter when things were dead, or visiting family, a sick mother, in Germany, say. But this new guy, out of the blue, not even the husband and angry, and a storming off at dawn, that was a bad sign. Daisy caught unawares most likely, Faustus whining for his walk and this man bearing down on her, shouting. Or whispering, like Dan had said, and that was worse, spitting through closed teeth. She swept her hand through her hair the way Daisy had done, her fingers stiff with the cold.
‘That man this morning,’ she said to Dan later, as they were walking down to one of the coves.
‘Which man?’
‘You know, you said, the argument. He’s not the husband. You were right about them speaking Spanish. He’s doing some work for her, odd jobs, that sort of thing. And builders, you know – no wonder there’s a row.’
‘We can do without that kind of atmosphere first thing in the morning.’ Dan let Bertie off the lead to run down the gravelly path to the sea.
‘But most likely he’s not doing what he said he would. What they’d agreed. He’s trying it on.’
They picked through the stony foreshore and spent a while throwing sticks. At least she’d settled the issue with the Spanish builder. That outhouse round the back wasn’t even half finished, his tools lying around, bags of cement. He needed badgering.
They took the path towards town but the views were disappointing; a misty cloud had slunk in from the sea like a silence. She kept an eye out for Daisy, just in case, and again, later, around the time of the school run, but the terrace, the house and garden, the sea, the entire place, was hushed and grey. Frankly, she wasn’t surprised. Early morning arguments had that effect. Look at the way Dan was wound up now, tense and snarky. They couldn’t discuss supper plans with any civility, picking at an uninspiring cold plate in the end, pulling up the stools to the kitchen counter and tending their phones, much like that time in Italy which had soured the hilltop monastery the next day.
And that was when the music started, a piano, just a few notes and hesitant. Clear enough, close by, but only a snatch of tune, and then again, the same phrase repeated with greater confidence but then breaking up and everything falling quiet. Perhaps the sea pleating against the rocks at the end of the garden but that was all.
Dan said nothing, so probably it didn’t matter. She finished wiping the sink and settled on the flabby couch.
But next time, it couldn’t be ignored. A long loud refrain, fluent and catchy; then another, a tune now, definitely, which meant there’d be questions and some kind of accusation, best headed off if she could. She sat up.
‘Behind that door,’ she said. ‘There.’
Dan didn’t move.
‘I hadn’t noticed it before. There, in the corner of the kitchen. Padlocked.’
It was recessed from the bank of kitchen units and painted the same dusty beige as the walls, the cluster of recycling bins stacked in front. She went over and ran her fingers down the frame, as if she might feel the notes vibrating. Directly into the top floor of Daisy’s place, she reckoned; it must be.
Dan didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word. Which must have taken some doing.
A minute or so, that was all, and then silence. She didn’t know about music and Dan said she was tone deaf but still, the tune had stopped in the wrong place, surely, like a switch had been flicked by mistake. She waited for it to start again but the usual compact quiet held out. That was something. The trouble was, she was expecting noise, a bar or two, couldn’t help it, all the time she was sorting Bertie and cleaning her teeth, and Dan would be mad about the music even if he still hadn’t said anything, especially because he hadn’t said anything and for the rest of the night she lay stiffly on her back without sleeping.
Next day, no visitors or arguments; nothing from the other side of the door. Just Daisy passing a couple of times to walk Faustus or take the daughter to school. They strolled on the headland, bought a coffee in town and returned to eat on the terrace overlooking the sea. Dan cooked something with olives.
Then, in the middle of the night she woke to a skitter of notes and Dan scrambling out of the flat. She caught up with him on the terrace, the tiles stinging cold through her socks.
‘It’s OK, Dan, it’s the piano.’
She took a step back. He had that look about him.
‘Like before. It’s OK, Dan, really. It’s just behind that door.’
Half a moon sloped above the sea. The night was calm and quiet. Only the music reached them, but softer here, already distant.
He growled the sleep from his throat. ‘It’s a bloody nuisance, Ker, that’s what. A bloody nuisance. We need to tell them. Tell them: it’s not acceptable, no way acceptable. It’s nearly two in the morning.’
The piano fell silent again leaving his voice clattering in the dark. About five minutes, that was all the music had been, in all the hours they’d spent there. A few bars and ill-judged timing more than anything.
‘Put it in the review,’ he was saying. ‘It needs to go in. The woman, what’s she called, giving recitals at all hours. God, can’t you ever get these bookings right, Keri? I’ve been through it with you. And every time –’
‘Daisy. Her name’s Daisy.’
But it wasn’t Daisy playing. Daisy was cleaning or catching up on admin, even at this hour, no, not admin; getting ahead with meal prep for the following day, that would be it, peeling and slicing carrots.
Eventually, he went inside. She stood looking out on the black rippling sea, wrapped in the earthy scent of chopped vegetables.
The packing was still to be done, but she took her book onto the terrace, lying on the sofa in the sun with her trousers rolled to her knees and her blouse unbuttoned. A car drew up and then the gate squeaked open. It wasn’t Daisy’s usual time.
She swung her legs round in time to see a boy making his way stiffly down the steps. Gaunt, bald, eyes too big and pained.
Inside, Dan was packing the box of dog treats.
‘I’ve seen the son; he’s got cancer.’
He straightened. ‘Have you found Bertie’s green bone?’
‘It’s been him playing the piano.’
He threw a screwed wrapper towards the bin. ‘Bone, Ker? We need to find it, you know. And you’re going to make sure you mention the noise in the review?’
‘How can I, if he’s got cancer?’
‘Quite easily. We’re reviewing our visit completely objectively for the benefit of other travellers. We can’t go speculating on other stuff. Does the boy’s illness change our experience?’
‘Surely it makes a difference.’
‘Why? What would happen if ratings were dependent on how tough a time the host’s having? Think about it. Recently bereaved? Oh, that’ll be five stars – best overlook the drive-by shooting. Tricky divorce? That’s five stars, too; ignore the filthy bathroom and the oven catching fire. Nasty headache? Better be four stars. You understand where that leads us, don’t you?’
‘But if you’d seen him, Dan. I’ve never seen a boy look so sick. Imagine what it’s like for her, poor Daisy.’
‘OK. Fine. So consider this – what if he’s not even the son? What if he doesn’t live here at all? We have absolutely no proof. Think about it – what if it’s someone she’s drafted in? It’s a bit of a coincidence: we have a disturbed night, noise at all hours, obvious consequences for our rating, and low and behold, some boy raises his sickly head just as we’re logging into the review page. If he’s not some stooge then where’s he been all week?’
Lying in bed next door, right next door, while they were messing about. Wasn’t it obvious? It was all obvious. Everything Daisy had on her plate, her husband out of the picture, the son too much for him most likely, too hard, and the builder causing trouble and trying to keep the holiday flat going and this cancer, the worst, but she’d do the review anyway, the pillows and the cooking facilities and the noise, everything, that would be enough to knock it down to three stars and she’d leave the boy out of it.
Supper (light), a draft of the review, packing, washing, sorting photos, everything ready to be off in the morning and he was probably there, all this time, slumped on the piano stool just the other side of the door, his hands heavy on the keys. She felt him there, his presence anyway. She’d have touched him on the shoulder and it would be all right, she’d have said. Honestly, it would be all right. And he’d be hardly more than bones beneath her hand, just bones.
That was when Dan said she was moping, why was she moping.
‘Just tired,’ she said. Which was true enough.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Up half the night on account of the piano party. I’m not surprised you’re tired.’
And still three more places to come on this trip, a couple more countries, Dan’s blisters again, all the things she’d struggle to get right.
The light was fading. She had to take Faustus for a quick stroll before bed. The dog hauled himself from the sofa so she could attach the lead. What he needed for their late walks was one of those luminous collars. She had one somewhere, didn’t she?
They went down the steps, walking across the headland to the soft beat of the sea. Looking back, she could make out the lights in the house; the holiday flat was dark but she’d have to find guests again soon, there was no choice the way the bills were. She pressed on through the still night, her steps soundless on the dry ground and then she heard her boy at the piano again, the notes slipping by like someone else’s wish and then the music faltered and stopped.
____
Jacqueline Yallop is the author of three works of literary fiction, including Obedience (Atlantic Books) which was nominated for the Man Booker Prize. Jacqueline also writes creative non-fiction: she published a personal exploration of darkness in November 2023 with Icon Books, called Into the Dark. Her short fiction has so far appeared in Stand Magazine and Short Fiction; another of her stories was shortlisted for the V.S Pritchett Short Story Award.