"Peaches and Figs" July Edition of The Simple Things Magazine
“It’s the coolness of marble under your feet isn’t it, or maybe the way your feet look when they turn brown?”
We are always busy at work but squeeze in a chat when we can. As the days grow hotter, our chats have been turning to fairytale villas in the sun, far, far, far from here.
“Look at this one!” I swivel the screen around so that she can see the image of the crumbling sun-baked cottage on the cliff.
“Heavenly,” she says, “but the front door has to be the colour of the sea, swamped in pink flowers. The blue just drenched in pink.
“Have I told you about the fig tree?” I offer it as a gambit, testing the water, wondering if she has enough time to dream with me. This is our game.
“No. Definitely not. Tell me now, ” Nella demands. She grins, leans in, ready to listen.
“Well, of course there’s a sunny courtyard filled with huge terracotta pots with an ancient fig tree. The figs will be ripening to perfection in the sun right now, brown and shrivelled on the exterior but succulent, soft and,” I stop, maybe I’ve lost her. “Do you even like figs?” I ask.
“ Who doesn’t? But what about peaches?” she requests
“ Hang on, a sec, I’m thinking about the kitchen now. Of course it is the coolest place in the house. The marble tiles help, and the long wooden slatted shutters keep out the strongest heat of the day.” Now I have started, I can’t stop. “I always get up early when I’m at the villa. I collect lemons each with their own little green leaf attached and pick sweet yellow peaches,” she’s right, peaches are important, “whatever we need. Sometimes, very early, I take a cool shower, put on a white cotton dress, slip on my sandals, and walk to the village to buy bread from the market. Back in the kitchen, I eat the sticky sweet peaches with the fresh bread and make a pot of very strong coffee which I drink as I listen to the others just getting up.”
“Do you drink your coffee black on holiday?”
“Yes. I think I do.”
“Me too. Funny that. “
We pause and contemplate our holiday selves and how they differ from our regular, at home and work selves, for a moment. Then she nods and continues for me,
“In the afternoons, after we have swum and taken a siesta, the neighbours pop by. I would slice one of those fat lemons you picked, collect ice from the cellar and we would all sit around the table, drink homemade limoncello and laugh. Maybe have the radio on. They would bring their dog, a golden, scruffy little thing, Miele, I think”.
I can’t hear Nella. I can hear Miele barking, the radio, Zuzu in a coral skirt, tapping her matching fingernails on the table along to the music. Glasses of limoncello and a painted pottery bowl of black bitter olives sit on the table. I feel a familiar flood of joy seep through me. I look down at my tanned toes, cool on the marble tiles. Here I am. I think. This is really me.
The music on the radio sounds like ringing.
“Lucy!” Nella is laughing, calling me, pointing at my phone.I finish the call and look over at Nella. She is looking at me expectantly.
“Let’s do it.” I say. “I’ll book tonight.”
Harriet Derioz @somewhereinsomerset is a writer from Somerset. Her simple thing is to swim at the local
Love the West Country but always dreaming of Italy…
Illustration @simplethingsmagazine
