It was cosy under the covers, apart from the smoke making her cough, and she started to feel very mellow. She did make the best of things, and that was partly because she had grown up in a culture of complaint that went against her nature. While they did have some good times singing in the car, most evenings her parents had sat in front of the television bickering with each other and grumbling about the world and those responsible for it not being the way they wanted. The government, politicians, dole bludgers, migrants and corrupt cops all had their role to play.
In the early days, they had drunk flagon wine or beer. Later they migrated to casks, taking turns to get up and squirt a glassful for each other. Rose hated the sound of the liquid jetting into the glass, like someone having a pee. After a few drinks the arguments would start and sometimes they’d go for days pointedly not speaking to each other. Now that he had dementia, her father’s defences were down and good cheer leaked out of him all day long. He was unaccountably popular with the staff and residents at the nursing home but still up for a few bouts of contradicting and arguing with his wife.
Rose extinguished the half-smoked joint. It was enough – more than enough. Desperately in need of fresh air, she felt thoroughly stoned and her tinnitus was going berserk, practically drowning out Carole, who wasn’t the only one feeling the earth move under her feet right now.
Keeping the cover sealed as tightly as possible, she squeezed her head out and onto the pillow. Now she realised that it wasn’t tinnitus but the smoke detector siren. And someone was pounding on the door. She staggered out of bed, but before she could reach the door, a man in uniform opened it and activated the room lights. They stood there gaping at each other and the siren thankfully ceased shrilling.
Rose decided to brave it out. ‘Hello, can I help you? I was just asleep.’ She pointed to the bed over her shoulder, to indicate where this fiction had taken place.
‘Good evening, madam. So were many other guests.’ His English was perfect with only a hint of a German accent. He sniffed the air and raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Has your “cigarette” now been extinguished, madam?’
Rose weighed up the options and decided to cooperate. ‘Yes, it has. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you, madam. A charge of one hundred and fifty euros which relates to this incident will appear on your bill when you check out. Have a good night.’
He left, closing the door behind him. Rose turned off the lights, threw herself into bed and fell asleep as her head hit the pillow.
She woke feeling thirsty and famished, dragged herself out of bed and opened the curtains. Finally blue sky and sunshine! Next, breakfast and more breakfast. A walk in the city. Lunch. Maybe a gallery. She had to admit that, so far, this trip was so organised and contained, it lacked that spark or sense of adventure – so unlike their shambolic expedition of the seventies as to be utterly irrelevant. The plans, the bookings, the hotels, the meals in nice restaurants; this was just a tour for old people. Another day, another city. How could it have ever been otherwise?
The buffet breakfast table was laden with tarts and breads, cheeses and cold meats – a dream come true – and Rose piled several plates high and carried them to the table where Fran and Maggie were already seated.
‘Did you hear the fire alarm going off last night?’ asked Fran, looking at Rose’s breakfast selection. ‘Bit peckish, Rose?’
‘I reckon, what a racket!’ said Rose, wolfing down a slice of raspberry tart.
‘Probably some idiot smoking in their room,’ suggested Maggie.
‘Probably,’ agreed Rose. ‘What an idiot.’
When breakfast was over, she hung around until Maggie and Fran went back up to their rooms, then rushed to the reception desk and asked the young woman on duty to put the smoking fee on her credit card, and not show it on the final bill. Rose’s friendly overtures met with a frosty response. No one was amused by the incident.
As agreed, they regrouped in the lobby half an hour later and took the tram into the city centre. Apart from the addition of a few phone shops, Mariahilfer Straße didn’t seem to have changed much. That was the beauty of old cities, thought Rose, the history and architecture were preserved and not at the mercy of developers who were constantly pulling buildings down to make room for luxury flats. In Vienna, every public building seemed grander and more extravagant than the last. It was a city punctuated by statues of angels and lions, mythological creatures wrestling with gods, and princes on horseback wearing impractical hats.
When Rose had first walked down Mariahilfer Straße all those years ago, she had thought of Fran’s mother, Mrs Fisher, and how at home she would look here among these well-dressed people and elegant shops. Mrs Fisher was long gone now. Fran was only in her thirties when her mother died of some aggressive cancer – Rose couldn’t remember which one, and it seemed insensitive and pointless to ask now. It was unfortunate that, after so many years of being single, Mrs Fisher had remarried a few years before she died and it still remained to be seen if Fran would inherit anything when her stepfather died.
Rose’s memories of Mrs Fisher were of her intimidating manner and interesting accent. She wore large clip-on gold earrings and high heels; her hair in a chignon at a time when every mother wore her hair short and permed. She ran her own business, which seemed exciting and glamorous, but Fran said her mother complained that her clients had no idea how to display their wares and no taste. It was only then that Rose had become aware there was such a thing as taste, and wondered how to acquire it.
Fran was the only person Rose knew who lived in a flat, which seemed interesting in itself. It was more spacious than she would have expected and it had a particular style, not jumbled bits and pieces. The furnishings, paintings and thick rugs had been chosen with care and attention. The lounge suite was emerald green with a gold stripe in a silky fabric. Rose remembered trying to convince her mother to buy some silky curtains to cultivate a more luxurious mood in the house. Her mother had laughed and said she was happy with their mismatched floral curtains; they only faded anyway. Rose began to suspect that her mother was one of those people with no taste.
Mrs Fisher was often away for days at a time and Rose found it thrilling that during these trips, Fran, at the age of fourteen, would live entirely on her own. The possibilities for misbehaviour seemed limitless but Fran had no imagination in that department. A couple of times they used the phone to call random numbers and give whoever answered cheek, but Fran wasn’t much good at that either. She was too polite.
When she was in the house alone, Fran was not allowed to use the stove. Her mother left her large jars of cold vegetables preserved in oil and stewed tomatoes that Fran would eat straight out of the jar. Sometimes there was a bowl containing small pieces of something crumbed that Fran said was sweetbread but tasted more like musty meat than cake – none of which gave Rose much confidence in Austrian cuisine.
Hopefully that would change today, as Rose had booked lunch for them at Café Central, a famous old restaurant in the centre of Vienna that had been operating for a hundred and fifty years. Last century, it had been a political hotbed, with Freud, Trotsky, Stalin and Hitler all being regulars.
When they were here in 1978, she and Maggie and Fran had stood outside the restaurant and gazed in through the window at the palatial interior, too intimidated and cash-strapped to even step inside.
The interior of the restaurant turned out to be even more glorious than Rose remembered. She loved the scale of the sweeping cathedral ceilings and the formality of the waiters flitting about in their black waistcoats and long white aprons. The whiff of old-world glamour.
As they were seated, Fran chatted with the waiter in German, and Rose noticed how different she seemed: less hesitant and reserved; more confident. ‘So, here we are. Only took forty years to get in the door,’ said Rose as they studied the menu.
‘Let’s order champagne,’ suggested Maggie.
‘Are you sure? It’s going to be horribly expensive,�
�� said Fran, scanning the menu. ‘I wish I could make a contribution.’
Rose agreed with Maggie about the champagne and the two of them would be splitting the bill.
When it arrived, they toasted each other and the trip and then Maggie said, ‘I have been thinking.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, but this is just not working for me.’
Fran’s smile faded. ‘The lunch? Or the whole thing?’
‘We’re just going from one city to another. They’re all starting to look the same.’
‘You could hardly mistake Vienna for somewhere else,’ said Rose.
‘Last time we drove all through the countryside in Austria. What I remember are those timber chalets with flower boxes and cows with bells and rolling hills —’
‘Alive with the sound of music?’ interrupted Rose. ‘Unless we want to hire a car, it’s pretty difficult to recapture that.’
‘I feel as though everything is accelerating – I’m accelerating,’ said Maggie. ‘As soon as we arrive somewhere I wish we were leaving already. It’s the momentum of moving. I can’t seem to care about these places. It just seems pointless. I need something more restful.’
‘What are you saying, Maggie?’ asked Fran. ‘You think we should give up?’
‘I just can’t see the point in what we’re doing,’ Maggie continued. ‘Next thing we’ll be in Italy and then we’ll be home and wondering what the hell that was all about.’
Rose considered whether she had an objection to giving up. Would she be happier to head off on her own and have less responsibility for making this project work?
‘I agree it’s not really working,’ she said. ‘And we’re getting on each other’s wicks. I was unrealistic, overly optimistic … as usual.’
‘Oh, Rose. It was a wonderful idea. I’ve been enjoying it, but I understand …’ said Fran.
‘After that siren went off, I was awake for hours thinking about everything. I’m sorry, but this lunch will be my last hurrah,’ said Maggie.
Rose shrugged. ‘Okay, if that’s what you want.’ It was so sudden and final, she felt like bursting into tears.
Maggie gave them both an apologetic smile. ‘I can fly from Vienna to Rome, change my flight and go home early.’
‘What happened to “I don’t want to go home at all” only a few days ago?’ asked Rose.
‘Kristo needs me there. Looks like Auntie Agnes might lose her house. Nico’s gone AWOL. I feel guilty leaving Kris to handle everything.’
‘Hang on. Aren’t these all other people’s problems, the very things you needed a break from?’ argued Rose.
‘I’m not having a good time, Rose. It’s not going anywhere.’
‘Maggie, you haven’t made any effort to have a good time. You’ve effectively sabotaged the whole thing, and now you’re bailing.’
Fran tapped Rose on the arm. ‘Rose. Keep your voice down, people are looking.’
Rose sat back, silently fuming. Hostilities were paused for a few minutes while the waiter took their order. As soon as he had gone, Maggie leaned towards Rose. ‘I did not want to do this in the first place. I knew it was pointless —’
‘I rest my case,’ said Rose. ‘Your whole agenda has been to prove it’s pointless. You’ve put all your energy into that, instead of making a modicum of effort to make it work.’
‘How can it work? Three old biddies swanning around Europe reminiscing about the past … literally a wild goose chase.’
‘Why don’t we all just calm down a bit and enjoy our champagne?’ suggested Fran.
Maggie picked up her champagne and sculled it. ‘At least at home I can have a drink without getting the death stare.’ She filled her glass and sat glowering at Rose.
‘Is that what you really want, Maggie?’
‘Why do you need to dramatise everything, for God’s sake?’
Fran glanced around, smiling apologetically at other diners. Rose couldn’t care less. As it sank in that everything was actually falling apart, she felt desperate to save it. If Maggie left now, there would be no coming back from it, but there wasn’t a single thing she could say that hadn’t already been said.
‘Is that your phone buzzing, Mag?’ asked Fran.
Maggie leant down and picked up her handbag off the floor. ‘Oh, God. It’s the middle of the night at home.’ She looked at the caller and went quite pale.
Rose instinctively leaned across to see the caller: Nico.
Maggie put the phone face down on the table, as if she didn’t know what to do with it. They watched it pulsate and stop. She slipped it back into her bag and avoided Rose’s gaze.
‘What’s going on, Mag?’ asked Rose. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
Maggie glanced furtively around the restaurant. ‘I think he might be here.’
‘Here in the restaurant?’ asked Fran in disbelief. ‘How could he possibly know we’re here?’
‘Was it on the itinerary, Rose?’ asked Maggie.
‘No, I only booked it a couple of days ago. What is going on? Why on earth would he be here?’
Maggie picked up her champagne and attempted a smile. ‘I’m being ridiculous. He wouldn’t be here. You’re right. No one knows we’re here. It’s fine. Sorry.’
Rose had met Nico many times over the years at various family events. He was a man’s man, not interested in anything women had to say. Maggie had occasionally mentioned his rivalry with Kristo, but that seemed to be related to the family business.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Fran asked gently. ‘We’re just worried about you.’
Maggie paused and took a deep breath. ‘It’s a long, complicated story. I don’t want to ruin this lunch talking about it now.’
‘You can always block him,’ suggested Rose. ‘If you don’t want to speak to him. Why —’
Maggie shook her head. ‘No. It’s fine. Please. Just leave it.’
Rose hated leaving things. She wanted things out in the open – most things, not everything. Not her secrets, but certainly other people’s. Why was Maggie so rattled? Her speculations were interrupted by the waiter delivering their meals and, for a few minutes, Rose was distracted by a very large Wiener schnitzel. A thought occurred. ‘You said you’d been stalked. Is it him?’
Maggie went very still, hunched over her plate. Without looking up, she nodded.
‘Shit!’ said Rose through a mouthful of schnitzel.
Fran looked horrified. ‘Oh, Maggie, how dreadful!’
‘Why on earth haven’t you mentioned it before? When did it start? Does Kristo know? Obviously not.’ Rose laid down her knife and fork and put a comforting hand on Maggie’s arm. She wanted to know everything, but Maggie looked so ill, she had to wait. ‘I’m sorry, Mag. I’m so sorry, I’ve been a pain in the arse.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I know you’ve done your best. It’s all just overwhelming. Kristo said Nico’s gone away somewhere, and so I got it in my head that … anyway, I’m just being paranoid.’
‘That’s why you wanted to change the accommodation?’ said Fran.
Maggie nodded. She looked pale.
‘We’re here for you, Mag. Don’t leave us just yet. Please,’ said Fran. ‘We’ll be on our best behaviour.’ She shot Rose a meaningful look.
‘Yes,’ agreed Rose. ‘We will. You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to. Stay a bit longer. Then, if you decide to go, so be it. You can easily fly out of Verona.’
Maggie sat back and thought about this for a long moment. She looked so vulnerable, it was heartbreaking. Finally, she gave a small, silent nod of agreement.
Chapter Thirteen
The tiny shred of optimism Fran had felt when Maggie agreed to push on faltered as they boarded the train from Vienna to Verona. Maggie wasn’t the best with early starts and, as they settled into their compartment, she muttered under her breath, ‘Eight hours on a train feels like a prison sentence with views.’
Rose was determinedly upbeat. ‘Yeah, but with good behaviour you�
��ll be out on parole at the end of the day.’
‘And the views through the Alps will be spectacular,’ added Fran. ‘We’ll be in Italy for a late lunch.’
‘I know, something to look forward to.’ Maggie gave them a wan smile. She folded up her coat against the window, leaned her head on it and closed her eyes.
Rose pursed her lips the way she did when she was forcing herself not to speak, announced she was going to the bathroom and went out, letting the sliding door slam as she stalked off down the corridor. While she was gone, they were joined by another woman of a similar age.
Fran greeted the woman in German and she responded with a greeting and a pleasant smile. Casually well-dressed, she had dark shoulder-length hair and olive skin. She brought with her the faintest hint of honeysuckle, the first sign of summer, and Fran hoped it was a good omen.
A few minutes later, the door slid open and Rose said, ‘Maggie, there’s an empty compartment next door. You can stretch out on the seat and rest for a while.’
Maggie opened her eyes and looked up.
‘Come on,’ urged Rose. ‘I’ll keep you company.’
It was touching to see Rose make such a concerted effort on Maggie’s behalf. Fran nodded. ‘Yes, you go. I’m fine here with the bags.’
Maggie roused herself, gathered her coat and followed Rose out of the compartment. Left alone, Fran and the woman exchanged smiles. ‘Are you British?’ asked the woman in German.
‘Australian. I live in London now, but originally Australian. And you?’
‘Similar situation. I’m Italian but have lived in Munich for many years.’
They lapsed into silence, both looking out the window, although it was barely light and there was nothing to see but grim industrial buildings sliding past.
‘My name is Sofia. While your friends are next door, perhaps we can pass the time with a little conversation, if you don’t mind conversing in German. But don’t feel obliged.’
Sixty Summers Page 18