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25 | 2016
Robin sees her daughter everywhere. In crowds, in bars, on the harbour wall, at the ends of alleyways. And when she pants up to where she has seen her, she is always gone. Melted away into the heaving mass of humanity. Or, of course, never there in the first place.
She bumps into St James being carried on a palanquin on the way up the Calle de las Conchas towards the market square and hurries ahead. She’s been trying to avoid the procession, for the noise and the dancing make it impossible to engage people’s attention. But the market square seems to be a focal point, with its little funfair, the stalls that sell pan-Mediterranean ‘local crafts’, the buzzing food and drink stalls and the stage and speakers for the bands who will entertain the crowds until the midnight fireworks.
A knot of English people stands nearby, studying a guidebook. She approaches and lurks and waits for her moment.
‘It all used to be completely segregated, of course,’ says one of the men, authoritatively. ‘Men down here and women in the church square. The women went to church all day and the men partied.’
‘How Islamic,’ says a woman, disapprovingly.
‘Not sure about that,’ he replies. ‘They were profoundly Catholic. I mean, look at what the whole event’s actually celebrating. I think it was just a Thing.’
‘You know how slowly these isolated places change,’ says another. ‘For all we know, it was a leftover from the Neolithic.’
‘Or the Romans,’ says another. ‘The Romans were pretty funny about women.’
‘Well, I’m bloody glad they’ve stopped now,’ says the first woman. ‘Though this whole Queen of the Mermaids thing is a bit ghastly. I mean, really. Surely there’s a happy medium between beating women for being whores and dressing them up in bikinis?’
‘Chill yer boots, Germaine,’ says another man. ‘It’s just a local tradition. It’s not like they’re burning witches or anything.’
‘Not any more,’ she says darkly. ‘Now they’re just dressing teenage girls up in Wonderbras. A marvellous example of progress. Talk about objectification … ’
‘Shall we get some drinks in before the Saint gets here?’ interrupts the other woman, hurriedly. ‘I think they have to close up while he’s in the square.’
They stop talking as they look around for a beer stall, and Robin pounces.
‘Excuse me!’ she says.
They swivel. She plasters a smile on her face. See me smile. I am not a threat.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she says. ‘Can I just – I don’t suppose you’ve seen this girl, have you?’
She holds out a flyer. They look down at it as though she’s trying to sell them lucky heather.
‘My daughter,’ she says. ‘She’s seventeen now. This picture’s from last year.’
Silence.
‘She’s missing,’ she adds. In case they haven’t understood.
The woman who was complaining about sexism gingerly takes the paper and studies Gemma’s face. Shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’
She hands it to her companions. One by one, they also shake their heads. The last of the men tries to hand the flyer back.
‘No, no.’ Robin shows him the stack in her hand. ‘Keep it. Please. In case you see her. It has my mobile number on it, look.’
‘Sure,’ says the woman who first took it. She takes it from the man’s hand and folds it into the front pocket of her urban backpack. ‘Sorry,’ she adds. ‘I hope you find her.’
‘Yes, good luck,’ says someone else, and they hurry away, their minds already turned to beating the twenty-minute beer drought.
‘Poor woman,’ she hears as they walk away. ‘Imagine.’
‘Yes,’ says another. ‘Pretty girl, too.’ And Robin’s eyes fill with tears. Every time she’s thought she’d shed her last, she finds that she’s only scraped the surface.
Please, Gemma. Please. Be here. Don’t be gone forever.
‘We’re going to have to get out and walk,’ says Tatiana. ‘It’ll be midnight before we get there otherwise.’
