The Retreat

by Mark Edwards

My parents moved to Spain ten years ago, shortly after they retired. A lovely whitewashed villa in Alicante, a short walk from the Mediterranean. Mum was always telling me I should go out there, spend some time in the sun – after all, it wasn’t as if I had an office job – and I thought about it often. The problem was, Britain’s gloom suited my writing, and hot weather made me torpid and lazy. I had been out there only once since my dad’s funeral. I’d been shocked when Mum told me the cremation was going to take place in Spain, but she insisted it was where he was happiest. Dad wanted his ashes scattered over a warm sea, somewhere beautiful. It made sense, even if it meant the ceremony was sparsely attended – just immediate family and a few of their ex-pat mates. I was less surprised when Mum told me she was staying in Spain. ‘Why would I come back to rainy Britain? I intend to stay here till I’m too old to look after myself. At which point I’ll chuck myself off a cliff.’ She was like that, my mum. These days, we mostly spoke via Skype. Unlike the stereotype of people in their seventies, she was au fait with technology. She ran a group on Facebook for crafting enthusiasts, knitters and embroiderers, and was on Instagram and Twitter. She was always Instagramming photos of her latest creations. The night before, I had gone to sleep thinking about Julia and Lily, along with what Zara had told me about the local legend. Now, as sunlight filled the room, I opened Skype and saw t...