by Rosanna Ley
‘I’ve got to work,’ she said.
‘Can I give you a lift?’
Ginny hesitated. A lift meant close proximity and she wasn’t sure she was ready. She felt her grandmother take a step towards her and knew that she would support whatever decision Ginny made.
Then he grinned. ‘I bought something pretty gorgeous on the way over,’ he said. ‘Take a look.’
‘What is it?’ She followed him to the window.
He twitched open Nonna’s net curtain. Nonna just kept her arms folded and suspicion on her face. Outside the house a bright orange VW camper van was parked – a classic.
‘Wow.’ Ginny couldn’t help it. He was right. It was gorgeous. ‘You’re on.’ She glanced at her grandmother once more. ‘All right, Nonna?’
Her grandmother nodded. ‘All right, my dear. If that’s what you want.’
He drove the van with an easy confidence. She could see why her mother had fallen for him.
‘Can I pick you up after work?’ he asked, when they got to the Bull and Bear. He had scored more Brownie points for not commenting on the fact that she worked in a pub, and not mentioning college or the fact that her mother was in Sicily. ‘Maybe we can go for a coffee or something, yeah?’
‘OK,’ she said. She slid open the door and jumped down. ‘Cool. I finish at three,’ she told him. ‘And thanks for the lift.’
In the loo at work, she sent Becca a text. ‘Negative, thank Buddha. My dad turned up 2day. Weird or wot?’
CHAPTER 48
Tess’s mobile rang just as she was about to go for a dive. The best cure for a hangover was a swim. A dive – well, maybe not, but Tess had already made up her mind to explore the rock islands and marine life west of Cetaria Bay a little further.
It was her mother. She picked up. ‘Hello, Muma.’
‘Tess.’ Her mother’s voice sounded shakier than usual.
‘Is everything all right?’ She had spoken to Ginny only last night, but she felt the usual flutter of panic. She supposed for mothers it never quite went away.
‘Fine, fine.’ Her mother was quick to reassure. ‘But something has happened, my dear. Or perhaps I should say someone.’
Tess frowned. ‘You’re not making any sense. Is it something to do with Ginny? Is she OK?’
She could almost hear her mother taking deep breaths. ‘I don’t know quite how to tell you this, my dear,’ she said. ‘It is David.’
‘David?’
‘Yes. He turned up here this lunchtime. He’s come to see Ginny.’
David. Ginny. Eighteen years ago and yet it could have been yesterday …
When Tess had imagined this moment during her pregnancy, it had always been David who had handed her their baby.
But it wasn’t. It was her mother. She handed Tess her baby and she said. ‘It is a girl, my darling. It is a girl.’
Tess looked down at the tiny wrinkled face, shrouded and swathed in white cotton; felt the soft down of her hair, saw the unfocused eyes of her daughter.
‘She is beautiful,’ her mother said.
Tess held her to her breast, felt the first pull somewhere deep inside her as she rooted for the nipple. She had imagined it, yes, but she had never dreamed of what this moment would really be like. She wanted to hold her daughter to her breast for ever, she wanted to protect her with her own life; she knew she would always love her, no matter what.
‘Yes.’ Tess looked up at her own mother and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. She had known it too, this moment. Of course, she had known it too.
Tess reached for her mother’s hand and held it in her own. Hands and gazes locked in mutual recognition; mother and daughter. This was what it was all about, she thought. ‘Thanks, Muma,’ said Tess.
After her mother rang off, Tess tried calling Ginny – OK, she knew she was at work, but she had to try. And then she decided to go for that dive anyway. She needed to think. Why on earth would David turn up after all these years? What did he want from her? And more to the point – what did he want with Ginny?
According to her dive map of the area, the natural reserve began just west of the beach, right here. She had been further into the Reserve before, of course, with Tonino in the boat. But one perfect afternoon which had now gone horribly wrong, was not going to stop her going that way again. This was her life and she was in control of it. She was not going to let the Robins, the Davids nor the Toninos of this world fuck it up. Whatever the reason. She would go for this dive and then she would speak with Ginny. And then …? She would see.
As she got her stuff together she thought of Tonino’s reaction if he saw her going into the water to dive again alone. Should she forego the beach dive and maybe drive along the coast a bit, hire a boat? And then she thought – bugger it. It was his problem. She wanted to do a beach dive from here. It was safer anyway and less hassle than going out in a boat alone. He could rant and rave all he liked – her welfare was not his concern.
It was another sunny day and there were a few tourists in the baglio when Tess made her way down to the bay; one family clustered around Tonino as he bent over the mosaiced surface of a round table outside his studio, using a sponge to press grout between some tiles. They were admiring the mosaics, including some candle holders made of slate and sea glass, and two more tables with mosaiced surfaces that Tonino had brought outside.
They were asking him about one of the tables and he was giving them his full attention. At least it meant she didn’t have to speak to him. Love, she thought. Had he really said that?
Tess trudged by in her wetsuit, scuba tank on her back, fins in hand. He gave her a long, hard look and then turned back to the German tourists.
What did she expect? He had told her what had happened to his friend, he had told her what had happened to the girl he loved and also to his parents. And now he had told her what had occurred between their grandparents. It was a lot of baggage for one man to carry.
And now there was David …
The sea felt warmer than yesterday. Tess went in a little way, adjusted the mask, pulled on her fins and did the usual checks. There were a couple of swimmers out by the rocks today. She wondered if Tonino had warned them about the jellyfish.
She swam towards the rocks, floating down smoothly when the water got deep; staying relaxed, using the minimum of energy to conserve her air supply. By the rocks she could see some anthias feeding. The other swimmers had gone in now and Tess let herself enjoy the sensation of being alone in the ocean, with only the fish for company.
She let her mind wander as she poked around the crevices of the rock, lifting boulders to reveal sea urchins and starfish and even some brightly coloured red mullet. It was so peaceful down here, so still.
So … David – for whatever reason – had turned up in Pridehaven. He had got hold of her mother’s address, spinning some yarn to Lisa – and Ginny had agreed to see him.
Well, she couldn’t blame her. He was her father, whether he’d always been there or not. She wasn’t a child – though hardly yet an adult, Tess had to admit. She could make her own choices. Still …
The water in places was a bright luminous green, the plant life and sponges varying shades of orange and purple. Tess let some weeds trail through her fingers. Neptune grass. It was magical down here. An underwater wonderland. Down here everything seemed so simple. Problems like Tonino and age-old family rivalry and all the other family stuff just didn’t exist. And that was part of the attraction.
Tess kicked herself gently through a wide gap in the rock islands. On the other side, the difference was noticeable; the water lighter and greener, the sponges more vibrantly coloured, the fish more plentiful.
She continued to explore, gradually letting all the anxieties drift away with the current. ‘Don’t do anything silly,’ her mother had told her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
But as Tess checked her gauges and began to make her way back to shore, decompressing slowly and naturally as the water g
rew shallower, she knew she had to return to England. Her first instinct was to protect her child – that was what motherhood was all about. Even if it was from Ginny’s own father.
CHAPTER 49
Flavia spoke to Lenny about David when he came home from doing some gardening for one of their neighbours. Edna was fit as a sparrow; privately Flavia considered her neighbour just liked having a man around – which was fine; Flavia was more than happy for Lenny to be out of the house for an hour or two every now and then.
‘You shouldn’t have invited him in,’ Lenny growled. ‘I wouldn’t have.’
‘Whatever he has done, he is still her father.’ Flavia sat down on the chair on the patio and watched Lenny. The man still had so much energy. Now, he was digging over a flower bed. Always digging, that man. She had never quite understood the English and their gardens. If you were growing fruit and vegetables, then fine, that all went into the pot. But they went to an awful lot of trouble for their spring and summer planting. Still, she had to admit that the garden looked glorious for it – there were asters, antirrhinums, purple trailing lobelia …
‘He’s never been her father.’ Lenny lined up the spade and made his first slit in the moist brown earth.
‘Biologically he is.’ Flavia knew what it was. David had left Tess when she was expecting Ginny, and Lenny had never forgiven him for leaving his daughter high and dry; a single mother with a baby to care for.
‘Biologically, bollocks,’ said Lenny. He put his boot hard down on the top of the spade and it sliced through the earth like butter. He kicked it up with the blade, made a chopping motion. He’d go round the whole flower bed like that, then again with a fork to crumble up the heavy sods. He didn’t seem to find it hard work either.
Flavia felt weary just watching him. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know how you feel.’ She sighed. ‘But Ginny is eighteen and the girl knows her own mind. Have you considered that she might need him?’
‘What the blazes for?’ Lenny retorted.
Of course, he’d tried his best to be father and grandfather to Tess’s girl, but no one could be everything. ‘Recognition?’ Flavia suggested. ‘A sense of identity? To be acknowledged?’
Lenny snorted. ‘Sounds like a load of claptrap to me,’ he said.
Well, as far as Tess and David were concerned, he had a blind spot. But Flavia had often wondered how it might have affected Ginny – having a father who had never given her the time of day.
‘Up to Ginny, even so,’ she said firmly. ‘Not up to us.’ She would not take anyone’s right to choose away from them – this, after all, was what her father had done to her.
Lenny met her steady gaze. ‘Better tell Tessie though,’ he said.
‘Oh, I have done.’
‘And what did she have to say?’
‘Not much – yet.’ Flavia knew her daughter. She was shell-shocked. And God alone knew what else was happening over there. She could hear all of Cetaria in Tess’s voice, it seemed. The sadnesses and the beauty; the past.
‘Is she coming back home?’ Lenny looked excited at this prospect. Bless him, he was a simple soul. Flavia too would like to haul her daughter back to England. But there were two reasons why she held back. One was that Tess clearly hadn’t resolved whatever she needed to resolve. And number two was Ginny.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. It might be a good idea to give David a chance. He wasn’t a bad person, just irresponsible. And he was a lot older now. She had a feeling that for her granddaughter, he wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Flavia turned to the back of her book. It could be said that Sicilian recipes were imprecise. They rarely bothered with exact weights and Flavia was used to thinking in terms of ‘a few (alcuni)’, ‘a touch of (un tocco di)’ or ‘a lot (assai)’. It was a matter of instinct. And yet, in typical contradictory nature, precision – for example in the use of basil or oil or the relationship between a pasta and its sauce – was what could transform the ordinary into the special.
She carefully wrote out the next recipe – melanzane alla parmigiana; her granddaughter’s favourite – hers too when she was young. And so …
* * *
Flavia remembered the journey to Exeter very well. She got herself comfortable in the chair and stared out into the garden, unseeing, reliving every detail. She turned to the beginning of her notebook and found her place. She picked up the pen …
A week later, hurtling to Exeter on the train, sitting rigid and erect with nerves, Peter’s address written on the piece of paper clutched in her hand – memorised in her heart – Flavia reflected back on the past eventful week.
Compared to home in Sicily, her duties were light and easily fulfilled. As there, it was a question of ritual. First, she must light the fires to warm the house. Her instructions were precise. She must build each one in the grate in layers, comprising thinly chopped wood, crushed paper doused in paraffin, pieces of coal on top. It was not difficult. The fire caught easily. And the smell of coal smoke was always there in your nostrils – from early morning to last thing at night. Not dry, sweet and fragrant like olive wood, but itchy and sulphurous, seeming to permeate your very skin. There was cleaning to do too, but mostly food preparation, and it was this duty which Flavia enjoyed the most – though the ingredients left much to be desired. She was accustomed to making do with little – but it was the procuring of the freshest ingredients that was the hardest part.
She had time off too – time in which to talk to Signorina Westerman (‘Please, please call me Bea.’) and learn about England, and time in which to walk around London, get her bearings; ‘become accustomed to this country,’ as Bea put it.
There was much to learn. Flavia stared out of the train’s grimy window on to equally grimy terraces of cottages with squares of garden and oblong allotments of vegetables; on to roads and rivers, trees and fields of green. English people, she concluded, were very fond of putting things into compartments. And English people were so different. It wasn’t just the language and the currency that were hard to get to grips with. It was the customs – what to say to who, how to behave.
She sat back in her seat and a puff of dust rose into the air. She was also learning how to be free. Because, yes, here you could wander around without restrictions. But Bea had told her: ‘There are places you don’t go, that are unsuitable for a young girl, there are people you don’t talk to’ (most people according to Bea). ‘There are still – even in England – rules that must be obeyed.’ So … so far Flavia had not ventured very far from West Dulwich. But she had already seen the Rag and Bone man and heard his strange cry, she had spoken to the butcher’s boy who rode a bicycle with a small wheel at the front to accommodate his tray of meat, and she was accustomed already to being woken each morning by the comforting clippety-clop of horse’s hooves and the chink of glass as the milk was delivered to the houses of the neighbourhood. This seemed very grand indeed.
Flavia shivered and swayed to the rhythm of the train. The window was closed but the train was draughty. It hissed and rolled; smelt of steam, coal and hot oil; despite all this, for Flavia, this train was a carriage from paradise – taking her where she most yearned to be.
The worst thing about England was the weather. It was always chilly and at night she often wrapped herself in her coat for warmth. The sun had not emerged all week, and that, Bea said, was quite usual for November. Madonna save us … But … Peter was here. Peter, Peter, Peter, the train seemed to echo his name.
‘What exactly do you plan to do, my dear?’ Bea had asked. She was all for telephoning the family, if they had a telephone number which could be obtained. But Flavia had no intention of doing such a thing.
‘I see him face to face,’ she said. ‘It is the only way. I go to house.’
‘To the house,’ Bea said distractedly. ‘Just like that? With no warning? Do you honestly think—?’
‘Yes.’ Flavia nodded.
Bea had regarded her with what looked like admiration. ‘You’re a
plucky little thing, I’ll give you that,’ she said. And then, ‘should I come with you, I wonder?’
‘No.’ Flavia shook her dark curls decisively. This was her journey and she must do it alone.
‘Then, after you have been to the house,’ Bea said, ‘you must telephone me. And I shall expect you back within three days. Agreed?’
‘Sì.’
But as the stations were eaten up by the hurtling train, Flavia felt her certainty waver. What if he no longer lived there? What if after all this time it emerged that Peter had never made it back to England …? What if his family were cold or cruel or didn’t want to speak with a girl from Sicily? Peter, Peter, Peter, echoed the train.
At last they drew into the station and Flavia picked up her bag, squeezed the lever to push open the heavy door and made her way up the platform. Once again, she hailed a taxi (she was getting quite good at this; a decisive gesture was the way) once again she sat in the cab; her bag hugged to her chest, and watched a city pass by her eyes …
Exeter was very different from London. There was less traffic; it was greener, smaller and less daunting, though it too showed its legacy of the war years. They passed several fire-blackened ruins and sites of rubble and demolition. Peter … thought Flavia. There were also signs of rebuilding. Bea Westerman had told her that England was rebuilding its entire future. Was it possible, Flavia wondered? And yet it was true that with this new construction there was a sense of hope in the air, a new energy after the war years. She saw a coal lorry making deliveries; the men in caps with their blackened faces and grimy clothes. She noted a large canal too – with barges; a big church, a filling-station in what looked like the main street, an ABC cinema. It seemed a pleasant town; she had known somehow that it would be.
The house, when she arrived, was not grand like Beatrice Westerman’s house. But it was newly painted and had a nice front garden with a gate and a neat path. Flavia’s heart was hammering like a wild thing. She took deep breaths. She didn’t stop to think. She lifted the heavy brass knocker. Peter, she thought.