The Fiesta Of Saint Joan

I met Angie Percival in the bar of our Menorca hotel on the first evening of our holiday. My husband had already infuriated me. While I altered my watch to local time the moment we touched down, he, as usual, kept his to GMT. He could never quite trust our daughter, efficient as she was, to run our fancy goods shop while we were away. I knew that he would call her practically every day during our fortnight’s holiday. The pattern repeated itself wherever we were in the world and my patience was wearing thin. That’s why, out of character because I’m usually shy, I went down to the bar alone. 

I saw Angie immediately. She was no spring chicken but somehow her low cut dress in a tropical print didn’t look ridiculous. She oozed confidence and money, a combination that had the barman fawning over her so that I had difficulty in attracting his attention to order a bitter lemon. 

I imagined how the barman saw me: mousey in a nondescript dress but Angie appeared to brush this aside.

‘On your own, are you, dear?’ She asked.  ‘Why don’t you join me? Don’t like to see a woman sitting by herself.’ She laughed huskily,  ‘unlike me, eh Marco? Part of the furniture, wouldn’t you say?’

The barman smiled obsequiously. ‘Oh yes. Mrs Perceval, she is our favourite guest.’

She winked at me.  ‘I’m Angie by the way, Angie Percival.’

‘Emily,’ I said. ‘Emily Slark.’ I loathed my married name but I was stuck with it.

Having failed to introduce a ‘little something’ into my bitter lemon, Angie seemed to find my life a bit mediocre in contrast to the three husbands who, in dying, she told me, had left her very comfortably well off.

I protested that there was a big demand for fancy goods and our shop provided us with a good living. Birthdays, of course were our profitable all year rounder.

Angie declared she’d stopped having birthdays at forty. It was at that point Peter arrived. My husband’s disapproval of Angie Percival was obvious as he whisked me away. But I’d relished this unusual act of rebellion.

Over breakfast, Peter related the latest news of the shop. A Mrs Spencer had not come in for her picnic set put by for her, two weeks ago.

He said: ‘I told Jane, give her another couple of days then put it back in stock. I reminded her to…’

     I interrupted this litany: ‘there’s a welcome meeting this morning to tell us about things to do here.’

He was busy scoffing his second helping of hash browns. ‘You go, love. I must put in a quick call Jane to after I’ve finished this.’ 

As I sat in the reception area waiting for the travel rep to arrive, the lift doors opened and Angie appeared. She was off to do some shopping in the main town of Ciutadella. It was market day and there’d be some great bargains. Would I like to come?

I hesitated. ‘I’d like to…but Peter…’

‘Blow Peter! What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know. I thought the rep would have some suggestions.’

Angie looked scornful. They were just out was to fleece you for money, these reps. ‘Organise your own trips,’ she advised.

‘Peter usually does that.’

‘Emily, I can see I am going to have to take you in hand!’

And she did, helping me buy tickets for Ciutadella and recommending a little restaurant where she often ate.

‘What about our meal here? Peter objected. ‘We’ve paid for it. There’s something about that woman that gives me the willies. Listen to me, Em. I wouldn’t have too much to do with her if I were you.’

I felt my hackles rise. At least she had been company while he made his interminable phone calls. Buying me drinks…

  ‘Buying your company, more like, your friend Angie’s had a chequered past, if you want my opinion.’

Later as the starlings gathered twittering for the night and we sat in the restaurant Angie had recommended, Peter had to admit it was pleasant, particularly as they knew how to cook chips properly.

‘It’s not very adventurous, is it? I think it’s nice to try something a bit different.’ I suggested although I had to admit my seafood dish had left a lot to be desired.

‘You know where you are with chips,’ my husband countered.

I changed the subject and asked the waiter why the nearby fountain was covered up.

‘Is preparations for the Fiesta, madam,’ he told me. ‘Every year we celebrate the Fiesta of San Joan. Next week the streets will be full of many people eating the avellana…er… the hazelnut, and throwing the shells away. Mountains of shells and the people making a big noise.’

  ‘Next week! Oh Peter, we’ll still be here.’    

He grunted. ‘I think we’ll give it a miss, Em. Sounds a bit rough to me.’

I was not to be put off. ‘It’d be fun. You know how I like joining in? Angie 

said …’

  ‘Em, can we enjoy the evening without bringing your friend, Angie, into it?  She’s becoming an unwelcome third on this holiday.’ 

****

That evening the bar was empty. Angie had popped out for cigarettes. I quizzed the barman about the Fiesta.

  ‘Oh, la Fiesta!  Very interesting and very old. There is music and medieval games and then there is the horse ride and the drinking of Pomada…very nice, very nice.’

It sounded just the kind of thing I liked. ‘I must go,’ I said. ‘If my husband doesn’t want to I‘ll go by myself.’

  The barman looked dubious. Just then Angie arrived.

‘He means it’s noisy and very crowded and the horses can get a bit nervy.’

‘Definitely not Peter’s thing!                         

‘Funny kind of chap, your husband.’ Angie commented. ‘Can’t seem to relax and enjoy himself.’

I had to agree. ‘Sometimes I’ve wished Peter would…disappear. I imagine what it would be like to be... you know…free. Give me the chance to...oh, I don’t know.’

Angie looked thoughtful. ‘Mussels at the Arcadia are pretty lethal. Three cases of severe food poisoning last season.  It would lay him up for a few days. Time to let your hair down.’ 

 ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘This is not a rehearsal, Emily.’

The Arcadia was low lit and romantic but the plan failed. Peter declared he would stick to fish and  chips. Foreign muck didn’t agree with him. I pushed my food about my plate then took up my glass.

‘Peter, we only live once. We need to take risks.’

He laughed. ‘What’s got into you, Em, you’ve never spoken like 

this before. The sun must have gone to your head.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Angie…’ 

’Angie, Angie, Angie!’ he let his fork fall with a clatter. ‘That woman is at the bottom of all this. She’s a witch. I wouldn’t be surprised if she murdered those three husbands. You’re a fool to trust her.’

I saw red. ‘All these years, no matter where we’ve been: at the top of the Eiffel Tower, in the Alhambra Gardens, cruising down the Rhine, you cannever ever let go of that blessed shop. I suppose I should be grateful we’re in Europe. At least it’s only one hour’s difference. Remember the year we went to New York?  The alarm clock went off at three and you told me it was time 

to get up.’ 

’Emily, shh!’

There was no shushing me now. ‘And then there’s your food. We come to Menorca, home of paella, tapas and what do you order? Egg and chips. You’re terrified of taking a risk, of losing control.’

He resumed eating, thoughtful. He met my gaze. ‘Yes, you’re right. I don’tlike taking risks. You’ve always known that. So why did you marry me?’

  That evening decided me. Whatever Peter said. I would go to the Fiesta with Angie.  

It was exhilarating. I’d never seen so many people, there must have been thousands there. We managed to grab a table and sat there drinking the local Pomada, which tasted like lemonade but packed a punch. I wondered what Peter would say if he could see me but Angie told me not to give him another thought. The balmy air was full of chanting and then the horses arrived, huge, magnificent animals dressed in ribbons and rosettes. They felt dangerously close as thy reared up on the narrow cobbled street but I put on a brave smile. The Pomada was going to my head and as I listened to Angie describing the deaths of her trio of husbands, I began to see her in a different light.

I heard myself say: ‘It just seems so strange, all three of your husbands dying like that.’

Angie laughed. ‘You think I bumped then off? Whatever happened they all deserved it.’

There was a cold expression in her eyes and I shuddered. ‘Whatever I think of Peter, I wouldn’t wish that  on him. He’s a good man, Angie. Not in the looks department maybe but…’

‘Plain, I’d call him,’ she said. 

‘He’s taken care of Jane and me. We’ve never gone short of anything although I know it’s been a struggle sometimes. And I’ve tried to be a loving wife.’

Angie began to laugh. It was a cruel heartless sound. 

‘I don’t know what’s so funny.’  I said.

‘People like you, pathetic little mice.’

Suddenly I lost my temper. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Never done an honest day’s work in your life. Just lived on the spoils of your husbands. I’ll tell you something, I feel sorry for them:  Ted, Jonathan, and Oscar being married to a viper like you! I bet you didn’t make their lives worth living.’

   I couldn’t stay there a moment longer. I rose and ran out into he crowds pushing my way through, blindly wanting to escape. I was sobbing by now and in my present state the faces looked menacing, closing in on me. I turned to plunge into a side street and was lost. It was a part of the city I’d never see before. Then I heard loud whinnying and the clatter of hooves. I felt paralysed, staring at the huge creatures bearing down, their riders apparently unaware of me.

A voice said: ‘Emily, take my hand

It was Peter but what was he doing here?                     

‘Never mind about that! Let’s get you out of here’. 

My brush with death had left me shaky and I leaned on Peter as he steered me to a café table at a safe distance from the festivities. As my heartbeat slackened I realised he had be right about Angie Percival and reached over to give him a kiss.  ‘You’re a good husband, Peter.’

‘Not a very romantic one, eh?’

‘But that’s you, feet on the ground, a born worrier.’

Everyone was dancing. We joined them, weaving and whirling to the wild, spirited music of The Fiesta until I couldn’t take another step. Peter suggested we stayed out and had another drink.

 I gazed at him, startled. This wasn’t the cautious man I thought I knew.

‘But Peter, it must be very late!’

My husband winked.  ‘Not by my watch it isn’t.’  ENDS.

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