Officially Endorsed Website  -ANTHONY JAMES BARNETT-   Author

Without Reproach

....."Why jump to the conclusion that I had an affair with him? If you think I’ve been handling wrinkly old testicles you must be mad. It’s repulsive. I’d never even heard of him until Maria told me.".....

.....Maria pushed some of the confusion to one side, dug out a photograph and offered it to her. Jenny leaned forward very carefully. Her shoulder was painful if she moved too quickly. It didn’t stop her doing things, though. They said the scar on her face would fade, but six months hadn’t been enough. She studied the photograph and her eyes widened. “Is that it? But it’s wonderful!”

        The picture showed La Finca Piedra lying in the folds of a limestone outcrop. Pine trees swept down from the sierra. In that light, it looked astonishing. High walls surrounded the Finca; palms curved over the wrought-iron gates. On the slopes behind the buildings were terraces of almonds and olives. Further away, promontories became fused in haze. The view seemed to roll onwards into infinity....

....."I don’t know why men get so worked up about it. I’ve never understood their preoccupation with breasts and nipples. As far as I’m concerned they get in the way; especially when you’re running upstairs, or when you’re hot and want to strip off.” She took a long drink “So, Jenny from England, what business are you on?”.....

.....Jenny passed the old yellow stone church. Iron railings separated it from the cobbled street. There were flowers in pots in front of it, some wilted, needing water. She’d looked inside earlier. It had been empty, but would be filled come evening.

She edged through the cemetery, looked at headstones. How many of her ancestors were buried here? She found it eventually, a small headstone; the name of her Papá inscribed. Nothing else. No reason for his death, no mention of his life. A name, nothing else. Not a lot to be remembered by.

She placed a bunch of flowers into a vase, poured in the water from the bottle she’d brought with her, and tried to arrange a bit of shade on the vase to help the flowers last longer. She stared at it for an age, scraped at weeds, expecting to feel some emotion, then felt badly because she didn’t. She resigned herself to it after a while. After all, she hadn’t known him, she was standing over the grave of a stranger. She’d done it though, had found it, placed flowers on it, tidied around, would tell Mum about it sometime; would say she’d cried so that Mum would feel better. That was what it was about, wasn’t it? Making the living feel better? .....

               “But it isn’t,” he said softly, “And you haven’t.” .....

Anthony James Barnett. Copyright © 2007 

WITHOUT REPROACH Published by Libros International. All rights reserved.

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Last modified: November 20, 2008