The Lemon Grove by Helen Walsh

by chunky towels. Jenn pays up, giggling out loud at the crone’s disdain for the tip she leaves. She follows the man inside the shop.
    The smell hits her in one delirious flush as she crosses the threshold into the little shop: burnt caramel and spice, then a salty, fish-infused aroma. If she could begin each morning with that rather than the choke of half-burnt toast wafting out from the kitchen, then she could withstand whatever trials the day might throw at her.
    The young boy is hefting the pastries off the trays with a plastic spatula and carefully arranging them in the glass cabinet in front of the till. He indicates with ashort, sharp glare that the diez minutos has not yet elapsed. Jenn shrugs; prises a copy of the Sunday Times out of the display and bustles to the back of the tiny shop. Absentmindedly, she fills a basket with things they might need for the walk: crisps and nuts and water. She picks up a small bottle of olive oil and snorts at the price. This is the only grocery store in Deià and she wonders how the locals feel about the prices. Maybe they operate a two-tier system, with one price for residents and one for green, middle-class tourists like herself, ineffably beguiled by labels announcing their goods’ ‘artisan provenance’, all proudly – and expensively – ‘ cultivada en Mallorca ’. She retraces her steps along the aisles, matching the prices on the shelves with the things in her basket. Confounded at each turn, she returns each item until all that remains is the newspaper. She stows her red plastic basket, tucks the paper under her arm and makes her way to the till. A small crowd has now gathered by the glass cabinet, ogling the tartlets and pastries. She chides herself for letting her mind wander. Nathan will be dry and dressed now, no doubt waking Emma with orange juice and coffee, sweet-talking her round from whatever quarrel they had last night.

    Outside, the village has shifted up a gear. Through the open door, Jenn can see the noses of two huge tourist coaches, sizing each other up from opposite ends of the village. Each steadily crawls towards the other. An impasse is inevitable – the buses are already creating a major backlog either way – but neither driver will back down. A man is hanging down from the café terrace where Jenn sat only minutes ago, capturing the face-off on his phone. Shit! Her car is stuck right in the middle of this fiasco. Her plans of zipping up to the village and returning with breakfast are already in tatters – now she’ll be lucky to get back before lunch. She’s about to drop the paper and run when, finally, the kid favours her with the slightest nod of his head. She orders in Spanish – he replies in English. His blank face gives off an aloof insouciance: please don’t bother trying to interact, lady tourist. This is business. Give me money, then go. She’s pleasantly surprised that it all comes to so little, and steps out with a paper bag laden with pastries and breads and tarts, their greasy warmth already soaking the paper with an oily sheen. She scurries back to the car; feels a momentary stab of relief that there’s no parking ticket. The coaches have sorted out their differences and gone their separate ways. The village is busy but calm. She sets the pastry bag down firmly in the footwell of the car and places the newspaper on the passenger seat. Only nowdoes she realise she hasn’t paid for it. It stayed tucked under her arm throughout the transaction and the uppity young lad didn’t deign to enquire; and only now does she acknowledge that she knew exactly what she was doing. If he challenged her, she’d pay; if not – serve them right, the surly bastards! She starts the car, puts it in gear, heads off down the hill before indicating left and doubling back on herself; her heart is still thumping as she passes the little shop again. It’s only as she turns off the main road and dips back down the beach track, back towards the