The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,93

picture of his most famous character. That’s what it says.’

‘You’re right.’ Deira gave her head an annoyed shake. ‘I was rushing into things. There must be a statue of Don Quixote somewhere in the town.’

‘In that case, let’s find it,’ said Grace.

They walked to the end of the plaza, where they turned onto a pedestrianised street of traditional family-owned shops. Despite Grace’s desire to solve the clue as quickly as possible, she was distracted by displays of organic soaps and skincare, home-made ice cream and artisan jewellery, as well as tourist shops with any number of T-shirts, caps and bags emblazoned with images of either Cervantes or Don Quixote. Much to their bemusement, there were also lots of items embossed with images of storks, as well as figures of the birds themselves in a variety of materials.

‘Storks weren’t a big part of Don Quixote, were they?’ asked Grace as she replaced a pewter version on a shelf and instead decided to buy a Cervantes snow globe for her grandson, to go along with the soap and pretty necklace she’d already bought for Aline.

‘Not that I remember,’ replied Deira. ‘Then again, I read it in my second year of college and I might have forgotten a stork incident.’

They continued weaving in and out of shops until they reached the end of the street, where clusters of people were gathered outside a restored house. It had the same light-red and cream brickwork as all the other buildings in the town, with the same terracotta roof, and there was a small flowered garden in front. More importantly, from their point of view, a sign informed them that it was the Cervantes Museum, and outside was a bronze bench where the tourists were snapping photos of themselves sitting between sculptures of Don Quixote and his sidekick, Sancho Panza.

‘Bingo.’ Deira’s mood lifted. ‘I’m glad you read the clue properly, Grace. It would’ve been infuriating to have missed this.’

‘Now all we have to do is wait till we can get a photo of him without a million other people,’ said Grace.

It was a long wait. But eventually she managed to take a picture of Quixote. Then she asked Deira to take one of her sitting beside him, to send to her children.

‘Do you want one of both of you?’ asked an English tourist, waiting for her own opportunity to take a snap.

‘Do we?’ Grace looked at Deira.

Deira nodded, and they sat together on the bronze bench.

‘Another one for the children,’ said Grace.

‘You’re in touch with them every single day?’

‘They worry about me,’ Grace said. ‘Sending the photos keeps them happy. All this concern will pass in time, but they honestly don’t need to fret, because I’m absolutely fine.’

‘Makes two of us,’ said Deira as she stood up and brushed dust off the denim skirt she was wearing.

Although she only half believed it.

Chapter 25

Alcalá de Henares, Spain: 40.4820°N 3.3635°W

Even though her annoyance with Grace hadn’t completely dissipated, and she was still furious with Gavin, there was something about the atmosphere of Alcalá de Henares that soothed Deira in a way that Pamplona hadn’t. The beautifully restored buildings – the monasteries, convents, churches and universities – seemed to reconnect her to the old books and paintings she’d always loved, evoking a different, slower way of life. And a way of life in which you didn’t automatically think you were entitled to everything you wanted. The thought came to her as she and Grace strolled silently through the streets. Back in the time of Cervantes, there was little talk about your entitlement to happiness. It was all about surviving. Surviving life, surviving unhappy arranged marriages, surviving multiple pregnancies, surviving being a husband’s possession. She wouldn’t have had a choice not to get married or have children, she thought. The only way of avoiding it would have been to become a nun. And that wouldn’t have been the sort of life that would have led to personal fulfilment.

She remembered a book she’d read back in her college days (and college was something else that wouldn’t have been a choice for her in the sixteenth century, she reminded herself). It had been about a woman who’d become a nun and gone mad. Many of the nuns in the convent had practised ‘self-mortification’, which meant beating themselves with ropes and chains. Their wounds had turned septic and the women themselves – all younger than Deira was now – had suffered terribly. Some had claimed to see angels and saints around their beds;