Daisy's Betrayal

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Then it is yours. I would like you to have it.’

  ‘But Gianni …’

  ‘Please. I insist. It can never repay your kindness to us, who were strangers in your country.’

  ‘Oh, you were strangers here but once,’ Concetta said kindly. ‘We are so happy to have you as our friends.’

  ‘We are also happy to accept your gift,’ Pasquale said. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  Daisy felt her eyes fill with tears at these touching expressions of amity. She had said nothing, only listened, watching the reactions of the Italian couple to John’s work, how John responded. He was at ease with them, which said much. And she was glad of it. Now she pushed back the tears, smiled and said, ‘I’ll get started with the food.’

  The next day, Daisy felt compelled to write to her family. She was entirely happy and wanted to declare it and share her happiness with them.

  Dear Mother, Father and Sarah,

  I do wish you could be with me if only for one day to experience this place where John and I have decided to live. It is indeed Paradise on Earth, so much so that we have decided to call the house Paradiso, which is the Italian word. It is such a strange coincidence, I suppose, that we should call it by the same name as where you live in Dudley. But this is truly the Paradise of Eden and nothing about dear old Dudley could influence our choice of name. We overlook the Bay of Naples if you want to find it in your Atlas. As we look out of our bedroom window we can see the Island of Capri with its steep cliffs on one side and Mt Vesuvius (which erupted only 2 years ago, they say) on the other.

  Our neighbours are the kindliest of people and have made us very welcome. I must say that all the locals are gentle and gracious and so polite. I imagine they would like us even better if we were both men, since so many have left the area to seek their fortunes in America and Argentina. There certainly seems too many unmarried girls for the available men. The weather is unbelievably warm and sunny, but the breezes are cooling and very welcome.

  John is inspired to paint and I know he will produce his best work ever here. Although I have told you before how shy he is, he is not so with these people who have been so kind.

  There is so much for me to learn here. We have our own vineyard with orange trees and lemon trees growing through the pergolas. They tell me that they harvest the oranges and lemons in December and April, so we just missed the last harvest. The blossom and the leaves give off a lovely scent all the time. We have olive trees as well which we shall harvest in October after the grapes. Of course, I shall have to tend all these while John is busy working. Olives are so plentiful that they even use the oil for burning in the lamps. I have developed quite a taste for olives now. We are due to harvest the grapes in late September and Concetta and Pasquale, our friends, have promised to help us make our own wine.

  If you could see the tan I’ve got you would swear I was a farm-worker, which I suppose I am now. And yet I love it. I have never been so happy as I am here in Sorrento with John. I have taken to wearing typical Italian dress – a cotton handkerchief around my neck, white linen sleeves tucked up at the elbow, a short-waisted little bodice, a wide apron and a cotton skirt that is very light and shows my shins. Of course it is too warm to wear stockings here and none of the women do. Some don’t even wear shoes, just twisted cloths tied around their ankles.

  You might find it hard to believe but since coming to Italy I have learnt to speak Italian. It’s true. There is no choice really because so few Italians speak English that you can understand. I am nowhere near as fluent as John yet but I am getting better all the time and I understand everything that is said to me. In this part of Italy though, they speak with an accent that is harder to grasp and some of the words they use are different to those they use in Rome.

  Mother, if you could see me, you would not begrudge me my contentment. Please make it complete by getting our Sarah to write to me. Overlook your prejudices and give me your blessing at last. I hope you are all keeping well and that Father’s gout is not too painful. My love goes to Sarah and I hope she is still enjoying working at Hillman’s. If you happen to see Lawson you may tell him I’m well and very happy.

  Your ever-loving daughter,

  Daisy.

  Summer came and went in an endless series of perfect days and heady nights. Daisy and John acquired a cow and Concetta taught her how to milk it. They bought chickens and thus had a continuous supply of eggs. Daisy tended the vines conscientiously and took an obsessive interest in the grapes, watching them grow fatter and taste sweeter by the week. Next year they would plant more, although they would not reap the benefit of such planting for another three years at least. She cultivated a herb garden near the patio, grew tomatoes that were big and round with a soft, mellow taste, and peppers that were succulent. She learned how to make pasta, how to bake delicious breads in the charcoal oven, and was amazed at how much olive oil Concetta used in everything. No wonder they all grew their own olives. She continued to write to her family every week, walking down to Sorrento town to post her letter, taking advantage of the arduous walk to buy meat, flour, cheese and other provisions. And, while engaged in all these domestic and horticultural activities, she still found time to sit for John whenever he asked her to.

  John continued to send work to his dealer in London and a steady stream of cheques flowed back. Pasquale asked him if he would consider using Concetta as a model in one of his typical settings and he would buy the subsequent painting. John assented and Concetta turned out to be a good subject. Out of respect for Pasquale and Alberto, John suggested she dress in garments less revealing than those Daisy sometimes wore for his paintings, but Concetta had different ideas. She defiantly fetched a filmy red silk dress she had made herself, and was adamant she wear it. She was blessed with vivacious Italian looks – not quite beautiful but better than pretty – a round, expressive face with full lips and dark eyes that had the soft and wild look of a young doe. There was mischief in the sweetness of her smile, but an innocent mischief tempered by the constraints of her religion and the gentle community of which she was a part. Her lush black hair she wore in the becoming fashion of ancient Greece, which her Greek ancestors brought with them to Sorrento, divided at the back into two plaits, braided round her head like a crown, then fastened with black ribbon and a long silver bodkin she called a spadella.

  Concetta had a younger brother, Serafino, nineteen years old, who was a waiter at the Hotel Tramontano. He had spotted Daisy when she first arrived there with John. When he was not working he fell into the habit of coming to the house and helping her with the heavy garden work. He had fallen hopelessly in love with Daisy and would have done anything for her, always making excuses that he would come tomorrow and do this job or do that job. Concetta alerted her to Serafino’s partiality and, subsequently, Daisy was always very polite and chatty with him in her steadily improving Italian, but without giving him any encouragement at all.

  Towards the end of September, Daisy noticed that there were suddenly deliveries of huge barrels to the neighbouring houses. Pasquale explained that they were for the grape harvest. One day, he called in to Paradiso on his way home from the caffè.

  ‘Tomorrow we are holding our vendemmia,’ he said with his usual bright smile. ‘We would like you to join us if you can. The weather is set fair and it will be most enjoyable.’

  ‘Of course, we would be delighted,’ John replied.

  ‘Good. Come at about half past six.’

  ‘In the evening?’ Daisy queried.

  Pasquale burst out laughing and his moustache widened across his handsome face. ‘In the evening? Are you serious? No, half past six in the morning of course. But the early start will be well repaid, I promise you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be there.’

  He touched Daisy’s arm affectionately. ‘Wear your oldest clothes, cara mia. We don’t want you to ruin your best outfit.’

  ‘I suspect it’s a compliment to be asked to a vendemmia,’ John rema
rked when he had gone. ‘They see us as honest and hard-working. Besides, I understand they make quite a thing of the grape harvest.’

  So, at half past six the next morning, John and Daisy presented themselves in suitable attire at the house of Pasquale and Concetta. Daisy wore an old cream blouse that buttoned down the front, with long sleeves to protect her arms from scratches, together with a long brown cotton skirt that had seen better days. On her head she wore a scarf in the style of the local women. Yet, even in her ancient, rustic garb, she looked wonderful, with her waist so slender and her back elegantly erect. Her hair was piled up on her head and held with pins, which gave a graceful set to her neck.

  The sun was already climbing, though as yet it was still hidden by the hills, but the dawn sky was clear and the air was warm. It promised to be another good day.

  Pietro and Francesca arrived with Concetta’s brother, Serafino, who looked longingly at Daisy and smiled. Others followed, neighbours, friends and relatives, people Daisy did not know, all there to help. As they laughed and talked, Concetta stepped outside bearing a tray on which were mugs of coffee. She handed them round and Daisy sipped hers.

  ‘Good Lord!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s in this?’

  ‘Grappa,’ Concetta told her and laughed. ‘Enjoy it.’

  ‘It’s strong. It will set us up for the day and no mistake.’

  Everybody took a large basket and followed Pasquale, who had loaded his cart with ladders and the huge barrels. As they trooped behind the cart the air was perfectly still and the smoke rising in perpendicular columns from the cooking fires of the farmsteads that peppered the downward sweep, vied with the tall cypresses of the more ornate gardens.

  In a few short minutes they were walking through green tunnels of vines, heavy with dew. The pergolas that formed these verdant galleries seemed overburdened with grapes. Pasquale unloaded some of his barrels and they began setting up the ladders for picking, and tables for sorting the grapes. Everybody was handed knives and John was posted with a ladder to a particular pergola and began cutting bunches of black grapes from the underside. Daisy began gathering from the sides and putting the cut bunches into the basket she had been given. As soon as she had filled it, Serafino collected it and emptied it into one of the barrels before sheepishly returning it to her. On one occasion she plucked a grape from a bunch and flirtatiously put it to his mouth. His blush was vivid, but he opened his mouth and she, laughing, popped it in.

  ‘Eat as many grapes as you like,’ Concetta called, also laughing, having witnessed the exchange.

  It was not long before the sun ascended over the hills bathing everything in a warm yellow glow, and the baskets and boxes began to fill up with grapes. Pasquale and Concetta stood on opposite sides of the table sorting them, discarding any bunches afflicted by mildew, keeping those with a velvety bloom on them – which was the yeast and bacteria that together would trigger the fermentation. These good grapes, stalks and all, went into the barrels which, when full, were loaded onto Pasquale’s cart to be hauled up to the ground-level cellar at the house, to be crushed. As they were pressed, the juice flowed into other barrels that had been specially prepared, while empty barrels were returned to the table to be refilled with more sorted grapes.

  After about three hours of intensively stripping vines, Daisy turned to John who was working close by. ‘Do you think those are Concetta’s sisters carrying those hampers?’

  John looked up. ‘There is a facial resemblance.’

  ‘I think they have food for everybody. Look, they’re laying a table.’

  ‘Break time,’ John surmised. ‘Thank goodness. I could do with a rest. No doubt you could too. It’s hard work, this. But it seems to me that the vines are all but done now.’

  Indeed, the work was soon afterwards declared finished and everybody was invited to take some refreshment. They were offered fresh bread, home-baked in a charcoal oven and still warm, cheese, mortadella and salami, tomatoes and fresh fruit. Jugs of red wine from last year’s harvest appeared and everybody sat around on the ground, taking advantage of the break.

  Then, the whole army of workers gathered up the equipment and headed for the house of Pietro and Francesca, and the whole process was repeated. Another picnic when everybody rested. Then, to the complete surprise of Daisy and John, they all moved to Paradiso. John complained that he had made no arrangements for the large barrels they used, but Pasquale had. And while the small army of tireless, willing workers stripped the vines and converted the grapes that were oozing juice into an unappetising mish-mash of dark liquid containing skins, stalks and pips, Daisy began to panic that she might not have enough food to feed everybody afterwards, for that seemed to be the custom and the expectation.

  She sought Concetta’s advice.

  ‘Don’t worry. Do you have any prosciutto?’

  ‘Ham? Yes, I have a whole leg of ham.’

  ‘Bene! We can slice it into strips and put it into a sauce of tomatoes, onions, herbs and garlic. Served with cheese and pasta it will be a feast fit for your Queen Victoria. I will help you. And don’t worry if you have no wine. We still have a whole barrel from last year.’

  ‘Concetta, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘You would cope easily. You are a born survivor.’

  The two young women gossiped like old biddies, laughing as they worked together preparing the feast. Concetta talked about her silk harvest the month before, then told Daisy about her sisters and their husbands, one of whom had gone to America with the promise that he would send for his wife when he was settled; that had been more than a year ago and she hadn’t heard from him since. She talked about their children, their in-laws, other neighbours. Daisy was picking up the local accent, which amused Concetta, who taught her how to curse in Italian, which had them both chuckling.

  ‘Tell me how you go about getting married in Sorrento,’ Daisy said, slicing tomatoes.

  Concetta’s eyes widened at Daisy’s apparent ignorance. ‘But you are already married.’

  ‘I am,’ she replied, telling no lie. ‘I mean the girls here. What is the custom?’

  ‘Oh, the mother of the young man does the proposing.’

  ‘The mother?’

  ‘Si. She goes to the girl’s mother and says, “I want this girl for my son”. Then the girl’s mother talks it over with her husband, both pairs of parents settle the money question, then it’s up to the young couple to agree to the match.’

  ‘I take it you and Pasquale had no trouble agreeing.’

  ‘I have known Pasquale all my life, Daisy. When I was a young girl he was a grown man and I idolised him. I have always been in love with him. For as long as I can remember.’

  ‘And he with you.’

  ‘Since I was about sixteen, I think. Else he would not have asked his mother to approach mine.’

  ‘Did he not ask you first?’

  ‘Yes …’ Concetta smiled her mischievous smile. ‘But such is the custom here, that the official approach had to come from his mother … I think I was lucky with so few men left … Also, I liked the house we were promised … The house we live in now …’

  It was about seven o’clock by the time the vendemmia was finished. The sun, in a gold and rosy glow, dipped behind the umbrella pines on the hills to the west and darkness fell. One last barrel remained at the side of the patio, three-quarters full of black grapes waiting to be crushed.

  ‘We shall finish it afterwards,’ Pasquale said dismissively.

  So the host of workers, all friends by this time, sat at the tables Daisy and Concetta had made ready and they served the food. Jugs of delicious wine passed from one to another as everybody filled and refilled their glasses. Conversation was loud and animated and laughter rang through the cleared vines that Daisy had tended so conscientiously. When they had all eaten, Pietro fetched his accordion and then the singing and dancing began.

  ‘I don’t know where they get their energy after such a hard day’s wor
k,’ Daisy commented to Pasquale.

  ‘Oh everybody has reserves of energy … as you will find out very soon,’ he added mysteriously.

  The moon came up, a silver crescent in a deep purple sky. Everybody danced with everybody else in traditional Neapolitan whirls that had been performed for centuries. Pasquale sang. Pietro sang. Concetta sang. Francesca sang, then they all sang together. And then everybody sang.

  ‘Now,’ said Pasquale, interrupting the festivities. ‘We have a special ceremony to perform … Daisy and Gianni … Will you come to me, please?’

  Daisy and Gianni looked at each other puzzled, she shrugged but, hand-in-hand, they presented themselves in front of Pasquale. Everybody looked on, nudging each other, benevolent grins on their expectant faces.

  ‘You must take off your shoes, both of you,’ Pasquale instructed.

  Both bent down and obediently took off their shoes.

  ‘Now you must tread the grapes in the old-fashioned way.’ He grabbed Daisy around the waist and lifted her up to a round of cheers.

  She shrieked with laughter. ‘Put me down!’

  He deposited her feet first in the barrel that still contained uncrushed grapes. ‘Gianni, I will not lift you. You must get in without my help.’

  Everybody laughed and applauded as John climbed inside the barrel with Daisy. Her skirt and petticoats floated on top of the mass of grapes, which were becoming wet and pappy around her feet. As the skins burst with their marching on the spot, she could feel the juice warm and sticky against her shins as she sank deeper into the barrel. The upward pressure of her knees as she raised her feet broke the skins of the grapes towards the top and she could feel the fluid trickling down her thighs. Pietro struck up with a lively tune and everybody clapped in time with the music. Daisy and John, laughing with joy and without embarrassment, trampled the grapes to the rhythm of Pietro’s accordion until they were crotch-deep in a bath of dark red, sloppy liquid.

  ‘You see?’ Pasquale said after they had taken the barrel to ferment with the others. ‘I told you you would find reserves of energy.’