Fran leapt at the idea of someone new to talk to and agreed readily. Sofia asked where they were headed, and Fran explained the background to the trip.
‘It seems a wonderful idea, but I’m not sure how it would work in practice. It wouldn’t be easy to travel with friends for an extended time.’
‘Are you familiar with Samuel Beckett, the playwright?’ asked Fran.
Sofia smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s a bit like being in a Beckett play. We’re trapped in the same conversations and, sometimes, the same conflicts we had forty years ago, with only slightly different subjects.’
‘So a tragicomedy?’ suggested Sofia with a smile.
‘Exactly!’
‘But instead of “Waiting for Godot”, you’re searching for him. Or her?’
They both laughed and Fran added, ‘I was never a Beckett fan and, to be honest, the whole trip has been exhausting for me. My role is the peacekeeper. I have to be the diplomat, because … well, I’m not really in a financial position to do this; I’m here as a guest.’
‘I’m sure you add some sweetness to make the combination of flavours more palatable.’
Fran smiled modestly. ‘I don’t know about that. They are both wonderful friends, something I value more and more – so many people come into our lives and then disappear.’
Sofia agreed. ‘It’s very easy to get caught up in nostalgia and regret. I’ve fallen into that trap recently, dwelling on happier times in the past. It’s not very helpful.’
Fran knew she too was guilty of this. Constantly drawn back to wondering how things might have been different. She glanced out the window, momentarily lost in thought. The sun had risen and now stretched across undulating green fields dotted with red-roofed chalets.
Sofia explained that her father had died recently and she had decided to retire early and come back to live in the empty family home, which was located in a small village outside Verona. She had come by train this time, to prepare the house for the move in a few days’ time.
‘Every time I came to Verona to visit my father, I felt very happy and relaxed. So, I thought, why not? The house is probably too large for me but there is room for my children and grandchildren when they visit.’
‘What will you do with yourself there?’ asked Fran, genuinely interested.
Sofia thought for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I’m interested in art and ceramics. I’d like to open a small gallery in Verona and sell beautiful pieces – contemporary collectables. Does that seem too crazy?’
‘Not at all!’
‘I’ve been so practical and industrious all my life, this seems like exactly the sort of thing my husband and my father, if they were alive, would have thought silly and frivolous.’
‘I think beautiful things are good for the soul. It sounds wonderful. I recently met the ceramicist Isabella Manchini. Do you know her?’
‘Yes, of course. I love her work.’
‘I’d just seen her exhibition at the Tate and she came into the bookshop where I work. She’s interested in antiquarian books,’ said Fran.
‘Antiquarian books? That does sound interesting.’
‘Not really. It’s sort of sad these days; a dying business. My true passion was for theatre. I somehow thought I’d find a career on the production side but now I’m just a theatre-goer.’
‘What a shame you’re not here later in the season to see a performance in Arena di Verona. It’s not dramatic theatre – mostly opera or sometimes rock concerts – but it’s a wonderful experience to enjoy in a Roman colosseum.’
Fran laughed. ‘I would not get Maggie or Rose to the opera. Right now, I just want to survive this trip with my sanity intact.’
‘I’m sure there will be a new direction for you after this trip. Have courage. This is why they call it the “third age”. Being reborn will always be difficult. But this time around, everything has to be our own choice, not that of our parent or partner – or our children.’
‘Unfortunately I don’t have the excuse of trying to please others. I just haven’t planned my life very well,’ admitted Fran.
‘But don’t you think that women of our generation were trained to please others?’
Fran agreed and, as they talked over the next few hours, she found herself opening up to Sofia about her job, Gigi and even the Louis dilemma. And in return, Fran heard more about Sofia’s life and what had led to her decision to move back to Italy.
Children ran along the corridor of the train, people walked past with cups of coffee from the dining car, but no one disturbed them. They sat opposite each other, as relaxed as if they were old friends using the opportunity to catch up. And Fran had a moment of regret that, in a few hours, they would part and she would most likely never see this new friend again.
Occasionally, Sofia drew Fran’s attention to the passing landscape as it changed from glittering distant lakes to fields with snow-capped mountains in the distance. As the train rushed into a valley pass through the Alps, the view changed again to craggy rock faces, bright-green patches of grass and wildflowers.
They crossed the border into Italy and, when the train stopped in Bolzano, Rose and Maggie reappeared. ‘Sorry for leaving you alone,’ said Maggie, sitting down. ‘I had the most wonderful sleep. Feel so much better.’
Rose yawned so widely she needed both hands to cover her mouth. ‘Maybe we should be taking the night train everywhere. Did we miss anything?’
‘Not really,’ said Fran, exchanging a smile with Sofia. ‘It’s been very quiet in here.’
Fran said goodbye to Sofia at Verona Porta Nuova. They embraced and exchanged contact details, and Fran tucked the note into her purse, even though she knew it was pointless.
She joined Maggie and Rose outside the station, where they discussed whether to take a taxi or walk into the city centre. They decided that, despite the suitcases, a walk was desirable, and Fran went back inside the station to use the bathroom. On her return a few minutes later, she noticed Maggie was at the cash machine, and went outside to join Rose, who had been left guarding the three suitcases.
‘You are really not going to believe this!’ Rose pointed out a white Transit van parked across the street. It had British plates and a handwritten sign taped on the window: Urgent Sale. Any Offer Considered. ‘She’s bought it,’ said Rose in disbelief. ‘She’s bought that heap. What the fuck?!’
‘What? I’ve only been gone ten minutes!’ said Fran. ‘What’s she doing now?’
‘Getting cash out of the machine for the guy!’
Fran stared at the vehicle across the road. The sliding door was wide open and a young man dressed in a crumpled Manchester United T-shirt was rapidly stuffing his belongings into a sports bag. As they watched, he closed the door and hurried across the road towards them. He grinned as he passed them. ‘Cheers!’
Maggie came out of the station and spoke to the young man for a few minutes. They made an exchange and he dashed off to where the airport shuttle bus was parked and got onboard.
Maggie grabbed her suitcase and said brightly, ‘Okay, let’s go!’
Fran and Rose followed her across the road in a daze. She opened the sliding door of the van and slung her bag inside. They both did the same and Rose pulled it shut. In the front was a single seat for the driver, and a double for two passengers. The back was almost entirely filled by a mattress, bedding and debris left behind by the previous owner.
Fran climbed into the centre seat and almost gagged at the ripe odour of melted cheese and sweaty sex. Maggie settled herself behind the wheel and put the destination of their B&B into her phone. Rose slammed the passenger door repeatedly, trying to convince it to stay shut. She was surprisingly calm. ‘Okay, what is going on? How did this happen?’
As she indicated and pulled out into the street, Maggie explained that the young man and his girlfriend had been travelling for a month. The girlfriend left after an argument and caught the shuttle b
us to the airport this morning, to fly back to London. He was desperate to follow her. ‘He wanted a thousand euros. I offered him five hundred and he took it. He probably would have just left it somewhere if we hadn’t come along.’
Rose was sceptical. ‘Sounds like a bit of a story to me. Why would he take half?’
‘He could have driven home, instead of being so impatient,’ said Fran.
‘He said he didn’t want to drive all that way on his own.’
‘Really? You don’t think that’s odd?’ Rose was interrupted by an angry driver who overtook them, leaning on his horn. She shook her fist at him. ‘Bastardo!’
Maggie’s handbag was on the floor. Rose pulled out the registration documents and read them. ‘Did you even look at these? The rego expired yesterday!’
Maggie flushed bright red; a film of sweat glowed on her face. ‘Rose! Let me concentrate! I’m trying to listen to the GPS.’
Rose and Fran exchanged sidelong glances but remained silent as they continued down the wide streets and crossed the river into a quieter residential area where the GPS confirmed they had reached their destination.
Maggie found a parking space near the pensione but it was too difficult to reverse-park the right-hand-drive van into the space. They drove around the block until Fran spotted an easier space in the street behind. Maggie parked and switched off the ignition. The engine gave a series of shudders followed by a long gasp, as though relieved to have made it this far.
As they sat shoulder to shoulder in the front of the van, Fran’s expectation was that Maggie would launch into one of her persuasive arguments of earlier days. There was no doubt that she was now back at the helm, which was in itself cause for celebration – despite the strange and surprising turn of events.
Maggie stared out the windscreen for a long minute, then began to bang her forehead on the steering wheel. The horn let out a croak as though in tune with her pain. ‘What have I done? Why did I do that? What’s wrong with me?’ She sat up and stared past Fran to Rose. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you stop me?!’
Fran opened her mouth to defend Rose but was drowned out by Rose herself shouting, ‘Are you kidding me? We didn’t even know what was happening! Fran was in the bloody toilet! You have lost it. Completely lost it!’
Fran felt as though she was being teleported back forty years into another stinky van, listening to another shouting match. This was what she had dreaded all along. ‘Okay, okay, both of you, calm down! Maggie, please just explain your thinking.’
Maggie put her face in her hands. After a moment, she straightened up and turned to them. ‘I just felt desperate to escape the bloody timetable. The trains. Dragging ourselves through cities with suitcases like a bunch of middle-aged tourists. We didn’t come here to look at the architecture. We came to find something. We haven’t even caught a glimpse of it. We’ve gone out of our way to make sure nothing unexpected ever happens. I saw this and I went for it.’
‘Well, this is certainly very unexpected,’ said Rose. ‘Now we have a clapped-out … shaggin’ wagon that probably won’t even make it out of Verona! Now what?’
Fran could feel a headache coming on. ‘Rose, please … just stop shouting.’
They sat in silence, looking anywhere but at each other. After a while Maggie squinted at the dials and asked, ‘Do you think it takes diesel or petrol?’
Rose flipped open the glove box. She took out a filthy ripped handbook and flicked through it. ‘Diesel.’ She put it back and slammed the lid closed. ‘Let’s get out of here. It stinks.’
The pensione that Maggie had booked was owned by a cheerful, helpful man called Vincenzo, who spoke good English but managed to make himself less understandable by adding an extra vowel to every word. Ordinarily, Rose would have made some cheeky aside, but she took her key and they each went to their rooms without a word being spoken.
It was early afternoon and Fran was keen to go out on her own. She tucked her money belt under her jacket and set off to explore the city. She picked up a complimentary local map and was guided through quiet tree-lined streets to the Ponte Garibaldi and across the bridge, under a bright blue sky, into the centre of Verona.
She had loved the grand sophistication of Vienna, but this smaller city was more her style, with narrow cobbled laneways and café-lined piazzas. She reached the Piazza delle Erbe, busy with market stalls. Some sold fruit and vegetables, fresh fish and hams, and others had belts and handbags made of soft Italian leather. The piazza was surrounded by ancient buildings in yellow ochre, burnt umber and sienna, which reflected the afternoon light. She followed the map down a laneway off the piazza and through a stone archway to view the most famous balcony in the world in the courtyard of Casa di Giulietta.
The courtyard was crowded with a tour group of thirty or so Chinese people, all highly excited, having photographs taken with the bronze statue of Juliet and using their selfie-sticks as pointers. Thankfully, the tour leader soon ushered them out and there was only Fran and a young Asian couple left in the courtyard. Fran turned to smile at them, wondering if they were honeymooners. They smiled back and she asked them if the balcony was as they expected.
The young woman said they had come because it was famous and romantic; they didn’t know what to expect. ‘Do you think the story of Romeo and Juliet is true?’ she asked.
Fran deliberated, like a parent asked about Santa or the tooth fairy. ‘I don’t really know. Maybe it was inspired by a story that Shakespeare heard. Or someone he knew.’
The couple seemed satisfied with this idea of fiction based on truth. Fran’s experience of working in bookshops was that many people were uncomfortable with the idea of a story being a complete fiction, happier to know it was underpinned by truth.
She was struck by the idea that, far-fetched as it was, people wanted to believe this dramatic and tragic tale, proof that romantic love – love worth dying for – does exist. If she had ever believed that, it was a very long time ago. She had been involved in some passionate love affairs but none worth dying for. There was Tony, who went to prison; the writer who turned out to be married; the barrister who became sour and abusive; and many in between. Leading to Louis, the last gasp. He was no Romeo, but perhaps she was guilty of clinging to the fiction of the man she wanted him to be.
She left the courtyard and wandered the streets aimlessly, enjoying being surrounded by the music and rhythm of Italian, a language she had always loved but never learned. She felt more carefree being out on her own. The whole episode with the van was only going to add more stress to the situation. It occurred to her that Verona could be a fitting place to end her trip. It might be perceived as ungrateful for her to leave, but it would be easier for them to carry on in the van without her. Mr Elcombe would be pleased to have her back at work earlier. Louis would probably be glad to have her home, and Gigi certainly would. She could get on a flight in the next couple of days and be in London an hour later. The idea was unexpectedly appealing and she knew that it was the right decision.
Impressed by her decisiveness, she hurried back to the pensione to get the deed done. As she turned into their street, Maggie walked out of the laundromat, carrying a pile of linen, and headed down the side street towards where the van was parked. Fran hurried to catch up with her.
‘Oh, there you are,’ said Maggie. ‘We thought you were having a long nap. We’re washing everything. There’s a couple of sleeping bags, pillows – and we can buy some extra bits tomorrow.’
‘Well … where are we going?’ It seemed a lot had happened in her absence.
‘To be decided,’ Maggie replied. ‘We’ll talk about it this evening.’
All the doors of the van were open. The mattress, which took up most of the floorspace, now leaned against the outside of the vehicle. Beside it was a plastic rubbish bag full of discarded clothes and takeaway containers.
Maggie dumped the linen on the front seat. ‘I’ve got some other stuff in the dryer. Should be finished shortly.’ She went
back to the laundromat and Fran poked her head in the van to talk to Rose, who was sweeping out the plywood floor.
But before Fran had the chance to speak, Rose said, ‘There’s a box of plates and cutlery there needing washing. Vincenzo said we can use the kitchen off the breakfast room at the top of the stairs.’
Fran didn’t say a word. She took the box back to the pensione and up the winding staircase to the attic. From the kitchen window, she could see the van on the street below and Rose climbing awkwardly into the back of it with a bucket and mop. An old man stopped and watched, leaning on his walking frame, then walked on. Two young men on a scooter passed and slowed to stare, and Fran had a nice sense of being a part of the place with this unexpected endeavour.
When she next looked up from the sink, Fran noticed that the scooter had stopped further up the street, and the passenger was walking towards the van. The driver’s door and sliding door were open on the pavement side. She saw him have a good look inside as he passed, and she was seized by a pre monition. She opened the window and shouted Rose’s name but it was hopeless. She ran down the stairs and out onto the street in time to hear the throaty sound of the scooter as it took off.
When she reached the van, Rose was singing to herself as she wiped down the walls.
Fran’s sprint downstairs had left her panting. ‘Rose! Did you see that guy?’
Rose looked up. ‘What guy?’
‘Did you leave anything in the front? Where’s your bag?’
‘Tucked under the seat. Why?’ Rose turned and stared at the empty space. ‘Oh, shit! Oh, no!’
‘I saw them from upstairs, two guys …’ began Fran.
Maggie arrived, carrying pillows and towels. ‘That’s everything.’ She caught sight of their expressions. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘Both our bags – gone! Stolen,’ said Rose.
It took a moment for Maggie to register the catastrophe.
She spun around, looking in all directions. ‘Did you see who took them?’
Sixty Summers Page 19