Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (40 page)

Chiquita and Miguel had been aware of every outing with Dr Maraldi. They had sat up in bed at night discussing the romance. Chiquita prayed every night before she went to bed that he would look after her little girl and make her forget the horrendous Facundo. She prayed so hard that sometimes she would wake up with her hands still firmly pressed together. When they announced their engagement at the end of the summer Chiquita muttered a silent word of thanks before embracing her daughter tearfully.

‘Mama, I don’t know why I deserve this,’ Maria said later when she was alone with her mother. ‘He’s everything I could possibly want. He’s kind, and funny, and eccentric. I love him because of the way his hands shake when he handles fragile things, because of the way he stammers when he’s nervous, because of his humility. I’m so lucky. So, so lucky. I only wish Sofia were here to see me. She’d be happy for me, I know she would. I miss her, Mama.’

‘We all miss her, dearest. We all miss her terribly.’

London, 1974

Sofia arrived in London in mid-November 1974 with a flagging spirit. She took one look at the grey sky and drizzle and yearned for her homeland. Her cousin had made a booking for her at Claridges. ‘It’s just next to Bond Street,’ she had said brightly, ‘the most glamorous shopping street in Europe.’

But Sofia didn’t want to shop. She sat on her bed staring out of the window at the relentless rain that seemed to float down from the sky. It was cold and damp. She didn’t want to go out. She didn’t know quite what to do, so she called Dominique to tell her that she had arrived safely. She could hear little Santiguito crying in the background and her heart ached with longing for him. She recalled his little fingers and perfect toes. When she put down the receiver she went over to her suitcase and rummaged inside. She pulled out a piece of white muslin and pressed it against her nose. It smelt of Santiguito. She curled into a ball on her bed and cried herself to sleep.

The hotel was very grand, with tall ceilings and beautiful plasterwork on the walls. The staff were charming and looked after her every need as Dominique had said they would. ‘Just ask for Claude, he will take care of you,’ she advised. Sofia had found Claude, a small, portly man with a shiny bald head that resembled a table-tennis ball. When she had mentioned her cousin Dominique’s name, Claude’s head had swelled red, right to the shiny plateau on top. Dabbing his forehead with a white hanky he had told her that if she needed anything, anything at all, she must not hesitate to ask. Her cousin was a very good client of the hotel, the most charming client, in fact. It would give him great pleasure to do her the favour.

She knew she should look for a flat, a job, but she hadn’t the energy. So she went for long walks around Hyde Park, getting to know this new city. If her heart hadn’t felt so heavy she would have enjoyed the freedom of exploring London without a parent or bodyguard shadowing her everywhere she went. She was able to go anywhere, talk to anyone, without suspicion. She wandered up the streets, peering into shop windows that glittered with Christmas decorations, she even visited a few galleries and exhibitions. She bought an umbrella from a small shop in Piccadilly; it would become her most useful purchase.

London was so unlike Buenos Aires. It didn’t really feel like a city at all, more of a large town. The houses were low and the roads lined with trees and

perfect, smooth pavements, twisted and turned so one had no idea where one was going to end up. Buenos Aires was constructed on a grid system of blocks; one always knew where one was going to end up. To Sofia, London was as shiny and neat as a polished pearl. Her own city looked grubby and crumbling by comparison. But Buenos Aires was home and she missed it.

After a couple of days she began to look for a flat. On Claude’s advice she spoke to a lady called Mathilda at a rental agency in Fulham who found her a small, one-bedroom apartment in Queen’s Gate. Pleased with her new flat, Sofia went out shopping for things to put in it. It was fully furnished but she wanted to make it her own, her little fortress in this foreign land. So she bought a bedcover, rugs, china, vases, coffee-table books, cushions and pictures.

Shopping made her feel better and she ventured out in spite of the frightening wave of bombs that hit London at that time. One actually went off in Harrods and one outside Selfridges. But Sofia didn’t have a television and didn’t bother to buy the papers - she heard all the news she needed from the taxi drivers who were the jolliest group of men she had ever met. London taxis were shiny and spacious and the buses were adorable, like models from a toy

town.

‘Foreign, are you?’ asked one taxi driver in an accent that made it hard for her to understand what he was saying. ‘Not a good time to come to London, luv. Don’t you get the news where you come from? Those bloody Unions seem to be runnin’ the country. There’s no proper leadership, that’s the problem. The country’s in free-fall. I told my wife, I said, “The country’s going to the dogs. What we need is a good sharp shock.” ’ Sofia nodded blindly. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

Sofia gradually warmed to London with its handsome policemen in funny hats, the guards outside St James’s Palace who never moved, and the little townhouses and mews; it was like nothing she had ever seen before. A doll’s city full of doll’s houses, she thought, remembering her mother’s book on England with all those quaint photographs. She hung around outside Buckingham Palace only because she wanted to know what everyone else was doing there with their noses pressed to the iron gates. She discovered the Changing of the Guard, which so enthralled her she had to return the following day for a second viewing. She starved her heart of thoughts of Santi and Argentina and of little Santiguito until it gave up the fight and numbed itself into submission.

She wouldn’t torment herself any longer.

When her money began to run out she embarked reluctantly on the search for a job. Unqualified, she started by trawling around the shops. They all wanted someone with experience and as she had none they simply shook their heads and saw her to the door. ‘There’s so much unemployment,’ they sighed, ‘you’ll be lucky if anyone wants you.’ After three long weeks of looking without success, Sofia became desperate. Her money was disappearing and she had to pay the rent. She didn’t want to call Dominique. She had been kind enough and Sofia couldn’t bear to be reminded of her son.

One day, feeling downhearted, she wandered into a bookshop on the Fulham Road. A kind-looking man wearing glasses was sitting behind a pile of books, humming along to the radio. She told him she was looking for work but everywhere she had tried needed people with experience and she had none. She imagined things were busy, as it was the Christmas season. The man shook his head, said he was sorry, but they didn’t need any more staff. ‘It’s only a small shop, you see,’ he explained. ‘However, they do need help next door at Maggie’s. You could try there. You see, they’re not looking for experience.’

She wandered back out in the cold. It was getting dark. She looked at her watch. It still surprised her how early it got dark in England. It was only three-thirty. Maggie’s, it turned out, was a hair salon. Sofia recoiled. She certainly wasn’t desperate enough to stoop to
that
level. So after looking in through the foggy window she walked on by, bought herself a hot chocolate at a cafe and sat gazing into her cup. After a while she watched the other people around her. Some had been out Christmas shopping; their bags brimmed with shiny packages. They all chatted away, oblivious to her. She placed her hands around the mug to warm them and hunched over the table. She suddenly felt very alone. She didn’t have a single friend in this country.

Oh, how she missed Santi - and she missed Maria, too. Maria had been her best and most treasured friend. She longed to talk to her and communicate what she was going through. She regretted never having written to her. She regretted never having confided in her. She imagined Maria must be as sad and as lonely as she was. She knew her friend. But it was too late now. If only she had written a year ago. But if she hadn’t known how to begin a letter then she certainly wouldn’t know how to begin one now. No, she had missed her moment. She had not only lost her lover, but the woman who, albeit of a more gentle and timid nature than herself, had understood her and supported her

through everything. They had spent their whole lives together, and now it was over. A fat tear plopped into her hot chocolate.

Outside, the street bustled with people; everyone had somewhere to go. A tea party perhaps, a job, friends to see, family to drop in on. She had no one. No one cared about her here. She could die on one of these cold, unfamiliar pavements and no one would notice. She wondered how long it would be before someone found out who she was in order to notify her family of her death. Probably weeks, months, that is if they would bother at all. She possessed a British passport thanks to her grandfather, but she didn’t belong in this place.

She paid the bill and left. On her way down the street she passed Maggie’s again, and decided to turn back and take another look. She pressed her face up to the window and peered in. A tall, lanky man was cutting a woman’s hair, stopping every now and then to use his hands to illustrate his story. A young blonde girl sat at the desk answering the telephone. She had to control her laughter in order to take the bookings. Just then the door opened, sending out into the street the strong smell of shampoo and perfume.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a redheaded woman of about fifty, poking her head out into the street. She wore scarlet lipstick like Dominique and had painted

the most hideous shade of lime green above her eyes with an unsteady hand.

‘I hear you’re looking for someone to help?’ replied Sofia tentatively.

‘Jolly good. Come on in. I’m Maggie,’ she said once Sofia had stepped into the warm interior of the salon.

‘Sofia Solanas,’ she replied. The man had stopped telling his story and turned to look at her. His snake-like eyes traced her features, taking in her clothes, mentally scrutinizing her from top to toe. He sniffed his approval.

‘Very nice, Sofia.
Very
nice. I’m Anton. Anthony really, but Anton sounds more exotic, don’t you think?’ he said and then laughed before mincing over to the cupboard to pull out a large pot of gel.

‘Anton’s a real character, Sofia. Just laugh at his jokes and he’ll love you, sweetie. Daisy does, don’t you, dear? And he loves her.’ Daisy smiled warmly and extended her hand from behind the desk. ‘Now, it’s ten till six, sweetie, helping out. That’s sweeping, washing hair and keeping the place tidy. I can’t pay you any more than eight pounds a week, tips on top. Is that all right? I think it’s fair. Don’t you, Anton?’

‘Very generous, Maggie,’ he gushed, filling his palm with what looked like green slime.

‘But my rent is eight pounds a week,’ Sofia protested.

‘That’s all I can do. Take it or leave it,’ said Maggie, folding her arms in front of her large bosom.

‘I rent too. What if we pooled our resources. I mean, if we shared?’ suggested Daisy eagerly. She lived in a rundown flat in Hammersmith, and it took her ages to get into work in the morning. ‘Do you live locally?’

‘Queen’s Gate.’

‘No wonder your rent’s so high. Where are you from, darling?’ asked Maggie, who couldn’t quite place her accent.

‘Argentina,’ she replied, and her throat tightened. She hadn’t heard that word spoken aloud for so long.

‘Lovely,’ said Anton, who didn’t know where in the world it was.

‘Well, if you want a flatmate, I’d be happy to share.’

Sofia didn’t like the idea of sharing. She had never had to share anything. But she was desperate and this Daisy had a nice face. So she agreed.

‘Right - your first job can be to go and buy a bottle of good cheap wine, Sofia!’ laughed Maggie, opening the till and pulling out some change. ‘This is indeed cause for celebration - isn’t that right, Anton?’

‘A cause for celebration, Maggie,’ he repeated, his hand flopping over on its wrist revealing well-manicured nails.

After a couple of weeks, this small salon became Sofia’s new home, and Maggie, Anton and Daisy her new family. Maggie had left her husband and had started her own business to make ends meet. ‘Silly girl,’ said Anton, when she was out of earshot. ‘He was very rich and
very
well-connected.’ Anton lived with his boyfriend, Marcello, a dark, handsome, hairy-chested Italian, who occasionally came into the salon to drape himself over the leopard-print sofa and listen to Anton’s stories. Maggie would open a bottle of wine and join him. But however much she fluttered those false lashes at him he had eyes only for Anton. Maggie flirted with the clients too. Most of them loved the attention. ‘I sprinkle them with Maggie dust, sweetie, then send them back to their wives,’ she’d say. Daisy and Sofia would laugh all the way home at her delusions.

Daisy was bright and witty, but most importantly she was warm. With a shock of thick blonde hair that fanned out behind her in tight, shiny curls and a chin that went into a cheeky point, giving her face the definition of a love heart, she was exuberant as well as kind. They shared the flat, small as it was, and everything that it contained. At first Sofia found it hard to share her space, but

little by little she began to rely on her new friend. She needed her. The other girl took away the loneliness and filled the hollow space that had once belonged to Maria.