The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,120
appropriation of it, but she was glad that Bex had had somewhere safe and comfortable to stay. She replied with Any time and was surprised to realise that she meant it. Then she replied to Gavin saying that she’d let him know as soon as possible about the insurance, and answered Tillie’s messages by saying that her friend would be pleased to hear that she’d gone to an out-of-the-way wellness centre to heal her spirit.
Did it work? asked Tillie.
Maybe not in the way I expected, responded Deira. But it was worth it.
She didn’t bother with Karen at Solas. It was Saturday, after all.
The road south from El Pozo de la Señora was less hair-raising than the road up to it had been, although there were still plenty of twists and turns and spectacular views across the mountains and valleys.
‘It would’ve been nice doing this in the convertible,’ commented Deira. ‘Though obviously if it hadn’t burnt to a crisp I’d have ended up somewhere in France, so I wouldn’t be here.’
Grace grinned at her and then turned on the audio. She selected a classical guitar playlist that Ken had compiled the first year they’d driven to their apartment. The route had been different, because they hadn’t needed to come through the heart of Spain. But the music suited the dusty fields of olive trees as much as the gently sloping vineyards. Then, suddenly, they were on the outskirts of the city and she turned off the music so that she could listen to the satnav’s instructions.
Their hotel was near the old quarter, which meant, like in Pamplona, they were driving through streets that were ill equipped for cars. But Grace kept her nerve and didn’t panic even when driving down a road so narrow that there was barely an inch either side of the wing mirrors. Although when it widened into a plaza and they saw the hotel, both women were relieved.
‘Well done,’ said Deira.
‘Thanks.’ Grace turned off the engine and got out. A warm blast of air engulfed them. ‘Let’s check in and go treasure-hunting,’ she said.
Chapter 31
Granada, Spain: 37.1773°N 3.5986°W
Although their plan had been to go looking for Lorca’s statue straight away, it was far too hot to be out in the afternoon sun. Instead they sat in the hotel’s sheltered colonnade and sipped iced water beneath ceiling fans that turned languidly above them. Grace opened the laptop and did some research, discovering that Lorca had been part of an influential group of Spanish poets during the 1920s, and that he had been executed by nationalists at the start of the Spanish Civil War.
‘Europe was a cauldron back then,’ remarked Deira, as they scrolled through the information. ‘Nationalists, socialists, Bolsheviks, fascists . . . and then, of course, the Nazis came along. Lorca was a year younger than me when he was shot. It’s hard to take in.’
‘I can’t help feeling that the world is always on a knife edge,’ said Grace. ‘It’s like whack-a-mole. War stops somewhere but it breaks out somewhere else. People’s capacity to exploit each other, or hate each other, or refuse to negotiate with each other is endless. It’s so crazy and yet there’s a part of me that understands not being able to forgive and forget.’
‘Who are you telling?’ Deira made a note on a piece of paper. ‘Look at me, for heaven’s sake. Forgiving and forgetting hasn’t been high on my agenda. Gavin hurt me and all I wanted to do was hurt him back.’
‘One of the hardest things about what Ken did was that he hurt us and we couldn’t hurt him back,’ said Grace. ‘He might have thought he was sparing us the harder times to come with his illness, but we were ready for that. We weren’t ready for what he did. And much as I’ve come to accept why he did it, I’m still struggling with my anger.’
‘I’d be angry too,’ Deira said. ‘Whichever way you look at it, you’ve had a lot to deal with. And you know what – you’re doing great!’
Grace smiled faintly. ‘I’d like to think I’m understanding his decision more. Maybe by the time we finish the treasure hunt, I really will.’
Deira nodded and pushed the paper towards her. ‘Look. Lorca wrote six Galician poems. So our last three numbers are 638. We need to find the statue and upload the photo to get the first number, and then we can be on our way.’