I said yes without thinking. Which is rare for me these days. Mercedes was halfway through describing the bus—“old, but with air con, sometimes”—and I just nodded like someone who joins in with things. She blinked and said, “I’ll tell Elena to save you a seat.”
Max watched me pack a sandwich and three plums the night before, tail flat on the floor. He knows the signs. I told him I’d be back by five, maybe six if the driver liked roundabouts.
The bus pulled up outside the pharmacy at 8:10. Pale yellow with flaking paint and a radio that only worked if you hit the dash. Mercedes waved from the third row. Elena sat beside her, fanning herself with a Lidl leaflet. There were fifteen of us, give or take. Mostly women. One man with a clipboard who everyone called Paco but I’m fairly sure wasn’t.
The ride was loud. A mix of Spanish, Valencian, and the slow, careful English people use when they’ve learned from YouTube and don’t trust themselves. I just listened. Someone passed around biscuits with an expiry date from 2022. Nobody died.
We went to a coastal garden outside Villajoyosa. Big place, overgrown in that curated way that makes you think, “Oh, I could do this,” until you realise someone waters it professionally at 5 a.m. It was hot. And uphill. And smelled like sage and cigarette ash.
There was a woman guiding us round—white hair in a tight bun, voice like a headmistress who doesn’t believe in fun. I lost track of her halfway through and ended up beside a low stone wall with a plant I didn’t recognise. Not Irish, not something I’d tried.
Thin leaves, almost papery. Purple centre like bruised skin.
No label. No map. Just growing, confidently.
I crouched to look closer and scuffed my knee on the wall. Blood, of course. Elena gave me a plaster and a boiled sweet like I was five.
Paco-not-Paco sat beside me at lunch. He smelled like varnish and was eating sardines straight from the tin. Told me he used to be a tiler. Asked if I’d ever considered doing a grafting course. I said no, but it lodged in my brain like wet string.
The ride back was quieter. Mercedes fell asleep with her mouth open. The driver missed a turn and blamed “Google’s lies.” I got home at 6:12. Max hadn’t moved from his mat. His water bowl was empty, but he looked smug, so I suspect the neighbour kid gave him sausage.
I wrote down a description of the mystery plant. Purple centre. Papery leaf. Low to the ground. Might be a type of echium. Might be something entirely different. I don’t know yet. But I want to.
That’s the bit that surprised me.
Not the garden, or the lunch, or the moment I forgot Brian would’ve hated every second.
It was the wanting to know.
That’s coming back. Slowly. Like something under soil.
Might not bloom for a while. But it’s there.