ArrivalOne early morning in March, I was seated in the departure lounge at Gatwick airport, all smug and pleased to be leaving the murk that was British weather. Dressed as though for an appointment in plain trousers and a loose-fitting blouse, I was squashed beside a rotund man garbed in shorts and a large white T-shirt, and a fake-tanned and wiry woman smelling strongly of coconut oil. She was decked out in a tight skirt barely reaching her mid-thigh and a matching, bosom-revealing top. Both characters were stark reminders of the holiday destination I was heading for. They seemed to know each other, too, and held a conversation across me. I leaned back further in my seat to let them have it, each informing the other of their preferred island locale, the man heading for Gran Tarajal, the woman Morro Jable – both seaside towns in the south. They were the sorts of holidaymakers I had never minded being amongst on previous flights. This time, I felt set apart. With my newly acquired wealth, I had no need to travel economy, but the only upmarket flights to Fuerteventura involved changing planes in Madrid. Still, considering the conditions the budget airlines forced passengers to endure, that hassle might be worth it.
The departure lounge, an enclosure with a deceptively large feel upon first entry, had become claustrophobic as passengers filled all the available seating and crowded around the perimeter of the space. The door to the walkway was closed and there was a marked absence of staff. People were getting restless. The woman next to me on my right was fidgety and the armpits of the man on my left, if my olfactory system was serving me well, had started to hum.
The room breathed a sigh when a woman in a neat suit appeared, and behind her a clean-cut man. They each took their position behind a computer screen and stared blankly into the crowd. People stood up and a queue formed. The woman received a phone call, made eye contact with the person at the front of the queue and boarding began. I sat back. I was assured of my spot on the plane and I decided the least amount of time spent squashed into a narrow, vinyl-covered affair with no leg room the better.
The flow stalled when a woman in ludicrously high heels tried to carry through a shoulder bag the size of a large suitcase. An argument broke out, the woman insisting she take it aboard, the young man insisting it go in the hold. Then others piped up, irritated, and the whole fiasco had the makings of a pub brawl. I felt sorry for the staff. Any job that meant dealing with the public came with its down side.
When the departure area—it could hardly be called a lounge—had all but emptied, I stood and took my place at the end of the queue.
I was travelling with a lightweight canvas tote containing my purse, keys, iPod and wireless headphones along with various official documents permitting me to reside in Fuerteventura, safely ensconced in a thick plastic wallet: my future.
It was hard to know whether the aisle or the window seat was the preferable option. It was certainly not the middle seat, as the airline was determined to cram in as many passengers on the aircraft as was humanly possible, basing the calculation on the general proportions of a slender child of ten. I had plumped for the aisle, despite having to lean aside whenever anyone went by.
How the carrier could justify packing holidaymakers into their aircraft in such a fashion was a matter for considerable speculation but most were happy with the cheap fares and were prepared to put up with it.
I buckled up and extracted my headphones. A four-and a half hour flight meant I could listen to a fair slap of my Cocteau Twins' playlist.
I hadn't always enjoyed the Cocteau Twins. I had never heard of them when my mother had died. Aunt Clarissa told me in my early teens that Ingrid used to listen to the band on her Walkman. She let slip in a wistful moment that a refrain of their single, 'Pearly Dewdrops' Drops', was the last thing my mother heard before she slipped from her mortal coil. Her Walkman had stopped as Elizabeth Fraser was halfway through the first verse.
My mother, Ingrid Wilkinson, was a lot like Aunt Clarissa. Although she had been much more than a dabbler when it came to the mystical side of life. The sisters came from a long line of psychics, scryers and occultists. One of their great grandfathers was a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. One of their grandmothers a Theosophist. The Wilkinson's were of good social stock, among them could be found bankers and wealthy businessmen. How did a woman of Ingrid's background come to marry a used-car salesman from Clapton-on-Sea? The answer lay in my father's exceptional looks and natural magnetism coupled with a compatibility chart indicating they were soul mates. Besides, they met in the flower power years when idealism formed an illusory mist in the minds of the susceptible and my mother believed him when he told her he was an actor. Which, in a fashion, he was.
Clarissa never took to my dad. In a candid moment, she expressed her view that men like Herb Bennett belonged behind bars for all the conning they did. She had never been one to mince her words and had always held the conviction that he had railroaded me into a mediocre career in banking when I was capable of much, much more.
Ingrid had been the dreamy one in the family. Born in 1950, her musical tastes moved from The Beatles' White Album and trippy Grace Slick to the vocal acrobatics of the Cocteau Twins' Elizabeth Fraser via the likes of Tangerine Dream, favouring the electronic side of the 1980s' post-punk era. After her death, my dad was quick to clear out her things, but Aunt Clarissa stepped in to salvage mum's record collection, photos and a scrap book of musical memorabilia.
After discovering the close association between the band and my mother's passing, I wouldn't listen to the Cocteau Twins, even when my dream-pop loving friends at school were raving about the band's latest release. By then I had heard the track my mother had been enjoying at that fated moment and I rejected all the band's output on a point of principle, as though their music in its entirety had caused her demise. I went through my twenties and much of my thirties deaf as a post to the sounds emanating from the band. It took the thirtieth anniversary of my mother's passing to trigger an interest, thanks to a record store assistant who had chosen my entry to put on the offending track, 'Pearly Dewdrops' Drops'.
I stopped, and for the first time in my life actually listened, opening myself up and letting in the sound, and in seconds I was mesmerized. It was a kind of awakening. I used the birthday gift voucher given to me by my aunt and made up the rest to buy everything they had by the Cocteau Twins. Thirty years, and I was cured of my stubborn resistance and I felt closer to my mother than I had in all that time, as though she were with me, bobbing her head beside me, enthralled.
From that moment, the only band my mother and I both appreciated was the Cocteau Twins, and their music was the only way I felt connected to my mother.
The plane taxied then took off, and there I sat, content in my little world of sound, filled with anticipation. I had no idea what sort of life I was flying into.
Liz Fraser accompanied me all the way to Fuerteventura, the mellifluous tones of her voice on 'Aikea Guinea' soaring as the plane descended. We were coasting along the runway as the song ended and I turned off the iPod and returned the headphones to my tote.
I sat up straight with my bag on my lap, keen to disembark before the throng. The moment the plane came to a stop and others shifted and stood, I bolted to the nearest exit, fighting by men pulling cabin luggage from overhead compartments and women pointing their butts into the aisle as they attended to their bits and pieces on their seats.
The runway runs parallel to the ocean and the airport building runs with it. Designed to resemble a hanger, the building is elongated with an elegantly curved roof, walls of glass and lots of skylights. It is an open, light and airy space that gives an impression to the first-time visitor of a climate accustomed to endless sunshine.
Back among the throng, I collected my luggage—two suitcases of modest proportions—and checked in at the car hire booth.
Freedom greeted me as I crossed to the car park. I located my car sheltered under its own corrugated iron awning and I was away on that bright and sunny day in March, heading north on the highway to the capital, Puerto del Rosario, where I had booked an apartment for a month.
Everything appeared as it always had, but I felt markedly different, as though behind me the airport were folding itself up like a deck chair and carrying itself off into storage.
The drive was pleasant enough, the ocean coming into view, and then the capital, a distant sprawl of white cutting into the dry and rugged plain. To my left, on the high side of the highway, I passed a sprawl of unimaginative, cheek-by-jowl dwellings—developers, residents and holidaymakers alike enamoured with the ocean view and the beach, a short distance away. Although the trek with thongs and a towel was made ludicrously difficult by the obstructive presence of the highway. It seemed to me development on the island was in dire need of strict regulation and town planning. Otherwise every square inch of land would be given over to greed and the result would assault the senses.
I was familiar with Puerto del Rosario, enough to know the best areas to stay in. I chose to rent in the capital as the shops, banks, industrial areas, car yards and trades were all close to hand.
My apartment was in a side street off Avenida Juan de Bethencort, named after the Norman knight who had first conquered the islands. A supermarket was a few blocks away and the port itself was about a fifteen-minute stroll; downhill there meant uphill back so I would choose my moment. Calle Barcelona was one of the more established streets, but development in the city had been sporadic, and even here vacant blocks still waited to be filled.
The streets are narrow, the traffic one way, the pavements lacking room for street planting. Buildings are mostly two-storey. The combination hems in the citizenry, somewhat like the streets of Colchester. In all, there are too few trees, a paucity of green, although the council has taken the trouble to squeeze in some foliage here and there, demonstrating an awareness of the need for shade in such a hot and dry climate.
Taking in the city streets, I made a mental note to set to work establishing a proper garden on my property, a garden filled with natives and palm trees, whatever was hardy and drought and wind tolerant.
On impulse, I stocked up at a supermarket I passed, and arrived at my apartment in the middle of the afternoon, pulling up in the designated car space out front. The woman next door was expecting me.
Dolores must have seen me pull up for she came out and greeted me in the street, proffering my keys. Her Spanish was rapid and her accent thick but over the years of visiting the island I had come to anticipate the hurried flow, the nasal tone, the lack of fully enunciated consonants. A brief exchange and Dolores left me to ferry inside my suitcases and groceries.
The apartment was on the ground floor and comprised an open plan living room with a small kitchen tucked in a corner, a double bedroom and bathroom. The furnishings were basic and clean. Once the perishables were in the fridge, I sat back on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. I was about to take possession of my stately old ruin. The sense of triumph made me swell to twice my size.
I had no idea what lay ahead of me, other than what I had learned from Kevin McCloud. I had no idea what I would do with my life on the island either, now I was a lady of leisure, but I felt confident some activity would present itself. All that mattered to me was I had arrived and I was brimming with anticipation.
Gazing at the bare white walls of the apartment soon invoked a listless feeling and I was eager to drive to Tiscamanita. I downed a glass of orange juice and made a sandwich of the local cheese and ham and headed out the door.
Aksara