Page 30 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Chapter Twenty-Two

A t Casablanca, a charming server showed them to a table overlooking the beach. It was perfect, and Atticus was pleased that he’d phoned ahead and made a reservation.

‘This is lovely,’ Britta smiled as she placed a napkin on her knee and picked up a menu. ‘I might have the mussels. They’re harvested locally and should be good,’ she said as she studied the choice of seafood, salads, and pasta.

Atticus was struggling not to stare. Britta’s eyes were the most captivating shade of blue, and he almost had to pinch himself as he decided what he’d have to eat.

They ordered a jug of sangria, and it arrived with a basket of oven-warm rolls, sides of aioli, and finely chopped tomatoes marinated with herbs.

‘The food is delicious,’ Atticus said as he copied Britta, spreading aioli on the bread and topping it with a spoonful of tomato. ‘What is it?’

‘Aioli is garlic, olive oil, and egg yolks. I often make it,’ she explained. ‘A Mediterranean diet is simple.’

‘It’s certainly very different from the stodge we eat at home,’ Atticus remarked, thinking of the thick stews and pies he’d grown up with.

‘In Holland, we eat a lot of dairy and bread, with cheese and meat,’ Britta explained and sipped her sangria. ‘Stamppot is popular too.’

‘Stamppot?’

‘It’s made with mashed potato, vegetables, and smoked sausage.’

‘Stamppot sounds delicious,’ Atticus smiled. ‘Your English is excellent. Did you learn it at school?’

‘Yes, English is taught as a second language, and we are exposed to English media, with music, TV, and movies.’ Britta’s voice was soft, and Atticus liked that there was a trace of an accent.

‘It makes me feel inadequate.’ Atticus shook his head. ‘I’ve never had any reason to learn languages, but I’m trying to learn a little Spanish.’

‘I speak some Spanish. It’s not too hard.’

Their appetisers arrived, and as they shared a dish of warm mussels in a white wine sauce, Atticus told Britta about his home and family.

‘I never wanted the farm to change,’ he said, ‘but I lost all interest after Clara died, and Mungo seemed to take over.’

‘Tell me about your wife.’

Atticus spoke of Clara, their happy marriage, and how he’d been in a rut for a long time after her death .

‘You loved each other very much,’ Britta smiled.

‘Yes… we did.’ Atticus suddenly felt guilty. He was discussing his marriage with a stranger and hoped that Clara would approve of his actions.

‘But your son – he has done something good?’ Britta asked. ‘The farm is successful with all the changes, and this is best for the family?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is, but I struggle with change.’

‘But you are here. You have changed your life, and embarked on a great adventure by coming to the sunshine in another country. Was this such a hard thing to do?’

‘No, when you put it like that, I suppose not, once I’d set my mind to it.’

‘So, your family are happy now, and all is well.’

‘Well, not all my family.’ Atticus sighed and pushed his empty plate to one side. ‘Mungo thinks I’m mad and have lost my marbles.’

‘Your marbles are missing?’ Britta looked puzzled. ‘Is this a game?’

‘No, sorry,’ Atticus laughed. ‘It’s a silly English expression that means I’ve lost my mind.’

‘Mungo is cross?’

‘Yes, he thinks I am behaving badly here.’

‘And are you?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Atticus shook his head. ‘I’m enjoying meeting new people and seeing different places. At the site, everyone is very friendly, and they ask me to their pitches for drinks and food.’

‘That is good, but how does Mungo know what you do here? ’

‘Oh, he’s seen my Instagram account.’ Atticus reached out and poured more sangria into their glasses.

Britta thanked the server as the dishes were cleared. ‘I don’t have Instagram,’ she said, ‘but I know what it is. Please explain what you have done.’

‘I foolishly thought that only my grandson Jake and my best friend Arthur had access to the account,’ Atticus began. ‘Jake set it up for me and called my account ‘The Travelling Grandad’. Now, I realise that anyone can see my posts, and I seem to have gathered many followers.’

‘What fun!’ Britta clapped her hands. ‘You have a collection of cyber friends!’

‘Aye, something like that.’

Their main course arrived, and Britta spooned colourful salad, prawns, and spicy potatoes onto their plates, alongside lightly grilled halibut in a buttery sauce.

Deciding that he was talking too much, Atticus asked Britta about her life.

She told him she had worked at the café for almost a year since arriving in Spain and finding the cottage.

It suited her to have a modest income from the café, which allowed her time to paint on the rare occasion that inspiration struck.

‘Have you family?’ Atticus asked as he munched on the last of the potatoes.

‘I was married,’ she replied. ‘I have no children.’

‘You’re a free spirit. Were you married for long?’

‘Yes, too long. My husband wasn’t a good man, and he…’ Britta had finished her meal and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She thanked the server as the table wa s cleared. ‘Let me say that he dominated me, and I had to get away.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Atticus said, not wanting to pry too deeply. ‘Tell me about your art. Have you always painted?’

‘I hadn’t painted for years before I came here,’ Britta said. ‘It was a passion when I was younger, but life got in the way.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Well, there’s not much to tell.’ Britta dismissed an offer of dessert and nodded when Atticus ordered coffee before continuing.

‘I grew up on a farm in the countryside around Utrecht. We farmed wheat, barley, and maize. It was a smallholding, and, as an only child, my parents wanted me to marry a boy from a neighbouring farm.’

‘But you wanted to paint?’

‘Yes, and I worked hard to gain a place at the Rijksakademie, a renowned institution in Amsterdam that supports emerging artists through a residency program.’ Their coffee arrived, and Britta smiled when she tasted the café Belmonte. ‘I like this.’

‘Me too,’ Atticus agreed. ‘But what did you do when you finished the program?’

‘I was told I had talent and was even offered studio space in Amsterdam, close to the gallery where I’d managed to get a job.

’ Britta sighed. ‘My parents objected; they didn’t want me to work in the big city and they asked me to come home.

’ She continued, ‘I went against them, and I loved my job and being with creatives, immersed in the art world. Every day was exciting, and I had the freedom to paint alongside others in the studio. But when my mother announced that she was dying, I had no choice but to return.’

‘So, your mother died?’

‘Oh no.’ Britta shook her head and gazed thoughtfully out to the sea. ‘Not for a long time, but she took to her bed to keep me there.’

Atticus struggled to fathom why a young, talented girl would stay in an environment she disliked when her dreams lay elsewhere.

He thought of Mary and knew that wild horses would never have prevented his daughter from following her dream when she decided to stay in Ireland and marry Conor.

As a parent, he would never have stopped her from doing so.

‘You wonder why I stayed?’ Britta asked, and when Atticus nodded, she continued. ‘The boy on the neighbouring farm began to call, and soon we were dating. He said that if we married, he would let me paint to my heart’s content.’

‘So that pleased both you and your parents?’

‘Not exactly. My mother had anxiety, an illness. She was, how do you say… hypo…chond…?’

‘Hypochondriac,’ Atticus helped.

‘Yes, that. Then she really did become ill, and I nursed her until she died. My father seemed to give up on life. He died not long after.’ Britta shrugged.

Atticus thought of his own circumstances and how he’d given up when Clara died.

Listening to Britta, he silently thanked Mary, Jake, and Arthur for shaking him out of his self-imposed shell.

Remembering his earlier guilt, he began to feel that Clara would approve of Britta now that he was getting to know her.

‘I’m so sorry for the loss of your parents, but if you married, were you happy?’

Britta smiled. ‘Well, I married the boy, and our farms became one.’

‘Ah, and there wasn’t a happy ending?’ Atticus was anxious to hear about her husband.

Britta looked away and stared out at the sea again with a slight tilt of her head. Her gaze was unwavering, as though she was weighing up her answer. In the silence that enveloped them, neither spoke.

But suddenly, her expression softened, and her eyes swivelled to meet his own. She reached out, and her warm fingers stroked his. ‘The happy ending?’ she repeated, a gentle smile playing on her lips. ‘That’s a story for another day.’

Helping Britta into the car and securing Ness in the back seat, Atticus began the drive back to Britta’s cottage.

‘It’s not too late,’ Britta said as Atticus parked carefully. ‘Would you like a nightcap before you return to the campsite?’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ he hesitated. ‘That would be great.’

The evening air was warm as they walked toward the cottage. Britta removed her sandals as they stepped onto the beach, and Ness ran ahead. On the terrace, she lit the candles in the lanterns, and their light reflected pretty patterns on the whitewashed walls.

‘Take a seat.’ Britta smiled and pointed to the swing.

As they nestled into the soft cushions, they watched the moon, low in the sky, shimmer over the calm sea.

‘I love sitting here, watching the beach at night,’ Britta said as she sipped brandy and gazed out at a fishing boat, its distant light twinkling like a star against the backdrop of the oncoming darkness.

‘It feels like time has stood still,’ Atticus whispered. He felt like he hadn’t a care in the world as he gently swayed with Britta beside him. Sated by excellent food and conversation, the effects of the brandy were mellowing.

‘I wish I could bottle this moment,’ he said, and as Britta lifted his arm and snuggled close, a tear welled in his eye and slid slowly down his cheek.

‘What’s wrong?’ Britta whispered, placing a finger on the tear. ‘Are you upset?’

Suddenly, feeling brave, Atticus kissed the top of her head.

‘I haven’t felt this happy for a very long time,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps I’m just a foolish old man.’

He turned to stare into her eyes, and when her lips touched his own, the kiss spoke volumes without a single word. Britta’s touch was a light caress – intimate yet tender. When their eyes locked, Atticus felt as if he’d discovered a hidden treasure.

Was this the beginning of something beautiful? he asked himself.

Was it possible for him to feel such emotion later in life?

When they parted, Atticus stood up, reluctant to go but unwilling to outstay his welcome. His mind raced, but he smiled with relief when he felt Britta slip a note into his pocket.

‘Take this,’ she said. ‘Call me.’

Britta watched as the man and dog descended the steps, their figures swallowed by the night.

The evening had been easy in a way she hadn’t known in years. Being in the company of Atticus – talking and laughing – had been the most enjoyable few hours she could remember. For once, she hadn’t felt like she was always glancing over her shoulder, waiting for something to go wrong.

As she turned to gather the empty glasses and blow out the candles, her heart gave a little lurch.

Could she really feel this way about someone she’d just met?

And more importantly, could she allow herself to?

She’d given Atticus her number, hoping he would call, but a familiar unease hung thick in the air, as though the devil was dancing in the shadows at her door.

‘Stop it!’ she admonished as she secured the bolts into place. ‘You’re safe now. Don’t let the past spoil the future.’

But as Britta climbed the stairs, the shadows stretched long across the whitewashed walls. No matter how much she told herself otherwise, she couldn’t shake the feeling that some doors, once opened, never truly closed.