Saturday. The market day.
You could feel Patricia twitching with anticipation by 8:42am. She didn’t say it outright, but she hovered near the door like someone expecting a parcel—or a sign from the gods.
She had her little woven basket. The one with the fraying handle she insists adds “character.” Bertie had already been walked and shamed into relative cleanliness. I had my marching orders: try not to buy another ceramic plate we don’t need, don’t comment on fish smells, and—above all—don’t mention Brexit.
Fair.
We parked just outside the old square, and the smells hit first. Churros. Chorizo. Old men with coffee breath arguing about football. Damp fish scales on the tiles. I love it here and I also want to run. Patricia, on the other hand, thrives in this mess. She’s got that market swagger. Elbows tucked in. Eyes sharp. Unstoppable.
Until she wasn’t.
“She’s Not Here.”
Three stalls in and she slowed.
Five stalls in and she stopped.
At stall seven—the cheese stall—she looked like she’d been winded.
Maruxa’s place was… there. Technically. Same wooden table, same red-and-white cloth, but no Maruxa. Just a bored teenager with a nose ring and a Bluetooth speaker playing something rhythmic and deeply un-Galician.
Patricia tilted her head like a confused hawk.
I cleared my throat.
The teenager looked up.
“No hay Maruxa hoy?” Patricia asked, gently.
The girl shrugged. “Está enferma, creo. Pero no sé.”
Just sick. But not sure.
That was it.
No more.
Patricia nodded, polite, and walked away.
But the tone had shifted.
Rosemary Cheese and Regret
We sat on a bench with two bags of random greens we didn’t need and no cheese. I offered her a sip of my orange juice. She waved it away like I was offering cyanide.
“She’s never missed a Saturday,” she muttered.
I said, “Maybe she’s just got a cold.”
She said, “Maybe she’s in hospital.”
I said, “Maybe she’s gone on holiday.”
She said, “She’s 84, James.”
I shut up.
The truth is, this is what happens when you live part-time somewhere. You attach yourself to routines, faces, tiny anchors. Then they vanish. No grand announcements. No context. Just gone.
Patricia looked tired all of a sudden. Not in a dramatic way. Just in a you-can’t-plan-for-this sort of way.
We went home with no cheese.
Later That Afternoon
She phoned Carmen. Our Carmen. The neighbour with six chickens, three sons, and a permanently suspicious expression. Carmen knows everything. Including how to make you feel small just by raising an eyebrow.
Patricia asked casually about Maruxa.
I say “casually.” It was casual like a spy slipping a note across the table.
Carmen paused.
“Está con su sobrina. No está muy bien.”
With her niece. Not doing very well.
That was all we got. No details. But enough.
Patricia hung up, then did something unexpected. She pulled out her little sketch pad—the one she hadn’t touched in months—and started sketching the rosemary cheese stall from memory. No commentary. No explanation.
Bertie curled at her feet. I made us both tea and didn’t talk.
We don’t know what comes next. But the niece might show up next week.
And if she does?
Patricia plans to talk to her.
And if she doesn’t?
We might just find out what happens when an 84-year-old cheese seller quietly exits stage left—and the quiet isn’t so quiet after all.
