Free Bay of Secrets by Rosanna Ley Page A

depiction of a hawk swooping on its prey; single-focused – from its outstretched talons to its curved cruel beak and flinty eye. Beside the boat, Andrés drew a netful of glittering silver fish and standing by this a leathery-skinned old fisherman who might or might not be Guillermo, wearing his blue fishing overalls and canvas boat shoes. In the distance the sea was boisterous. The waves were shattering on to El Toston, the spray a thousand droplets in the wind.
    His father trudged past, collecting the cup of coffee Mama had prepared for him. He lit another cheroot, muttered something that Andrés could not hear.
    Andrés hesitated, his hand holding the brush poised above the fish. He waited for the criticism.
Too many fish, the sea is too still, error in the skin tone.
    But his father was quiet.
    Andrés looked up. His father was stroking the stubble of his chin. His dark eyes had glazed over. He looked angry. ‘What?’ Andrés whispered. What was so bad?
    His father turned to his mother. ‘The boy can paint,’ he said. And then he stomped back to his studio.
    Just that.
The boy can paint
. But Andrés was dazzled by it. The words crept into his soul and exploded like a firework into sparks of delight. He felt as if he had been acknowledged. Recognised. For the first time, Andrés knew what he was, who he was. The son of his father. An artist. Painting would be his life.
    But he had been wrong. He had been a fool. An idiot.
Zurriago.
    Annoyed with himself now, Andrés bundled his things back into the canvas bag at his feet. That was enough for now. He was too unfocused. He had let Enrique Marin get to him, the way he had always let him get to him. And when Andrés couldn’t get them out of his mind – his mother, his sister, his father, for whom he would never be good enough – he couldn’t work. He had to shake himself out of it before he could go on.
    Because Enrique Marin had not taken his son into his studio and encouraged him to paint. He had not passed down any words of wisdom or tips from the great master. Oh, no. On the contrary. Enrique Marin had become more and more enraged with Andrés for following in his footsteps – for daring to think that he could compete with him, that hecould even live in the same house as the great man. His own son …
    ‘Have you got nothing better to do, boy?’ he would shout, when he came across him hard at work on a drawing. ‘Who do you think you are? Do you think the world will ever want what you do? Look at it!’ And he would stomp over, stab at Andrés’s work with his finger or with the cheroot, criticising, jeering, pulling his work to pieces – literally sometimes. Until Andrés would run away, tears in his eyes, unable – as they all were – to speak, to stand up to him. Why did his father hate him so much? What had he done? Why would nothing ever be good enough for the man Andrés so admired?
    Or used to admire, he thought now. Now, he knew better. He had known for seventeen years that there was nothing to admire in a man like him.
    But back then … It didn’t matter that his mother and his sister had encouraged him in his painting. What did they know? It didn’t matter that his art teacher at school said, ‘We can all tell whose son you are, Andrés.’ None of this mattered. Because the one voice that did matter was always raised against him.
    *
    Andrés first noticed the woman when she was up on the cliff path walking towards Hide Beach. She walked with a sense of purpose, short blonde hair swept back in the wind, shoulders hunched, hands thrust into the pockets of her jacket. He noticed her because she was a solitary figure – which wasunusual; most people at least had a dog. And because he had the feeling he’d seen her somewhere before.
    Since he’d left his home on the island, since that day when he did what he’d never thought he’d do, Andrés had kept in touch with his mother and sister, even though he knew they didn’t tell