Siena Summer

by Teresa Crane

  *

  The practical Poppy had indeed, of course, remembered the tea – Lipton’s best – that her sister had requested; she had added for good measure marmalade, Marmite, tomato ketchup and custard creams. Isobel was absolutely delighted, Kit amused. ‘You haven’t come to Outer Mongolia, you know!’

  ‘I know it perfectly well.’ Poppy cocked her head to look at him. ‘But, tell me, what were those feathered things that I saw scratching about out there?’

  He grinned. ‘Chickens?’ he ventured.

  ‘Exactly. And how can you eat a nice fresh soft-boiled egg without Marmite soldiers?’

  He shook his head; laughing aloud. ‘You’re priceless.’

  ‘So you’ve told me before, if you remember. And if you laugh at my Marmite, I won’t give you this—’ She held up a bottle wrapped in paper.

  ‘The Marmite,’ he said, ‘was an excellent idea. Pity you didn’t bring two.’

  ‘I did. The other one is buried in another case somewhere.’ She handed him the bottle. ‘And now—’ she rumpled through the case she had opened on the vast kitchen table, her head all but buried behind the lid ‘—ah!’ A square biscuit tin appeared. She levered off the lid to reveal bags and boxes of sweets and a bundle of lollipops.

  ‘Are those for me too?’ Kit asked, straight-faced but still barely able to conceal his amusement.

  ‘Only if you let Robbie have the Scotch,’ Poppy said, ‘and that doesn’t seem too good an idea. Can he have one now?’ The little boy was snuggled on his mother’s lap, his head resting on her shoulder, thumb in mouth, watching the proceedings with warily interested eyes, the knitted dog still tucked comfortably under his arm. Poppy extracted a lollipop, unwrapped it, offered it to him. The thumb stayed firmly put. Poppy hunkered down in front of him. ‘Robbie? It’s for you. Don’t you want it?’

  The small, bright head shook stubbornly.

  ‘Oh. All right, then. May I have it?’ She made as if to put the sticky thing to her own mouth.

  That did it. Out came the thumb; a plump, dimpled hand was outstretched. Smiling, she handed him the sweet. He took it shyly, touched it with his tongue, then, eyes wide with pleasure, sucked on it with noisy enthusiasm.

  ‘Robbie?’ Isobel said gently. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you to Aunt Poppy?’

  For a moment the child concentrated on the sweet. Then he took the lollipop from his mouth, smiled the sweetest – and the stickiest – smile Poppy had ever seen, and said, ‘Ta.’ Then he added carefully, ‘Pop.’ And Poppy was enslaved.

  She straightened, turned back to the case, rooted in it again, turned with two large brown paper parcels in her hand, which she gave to Isobel. ‘These are for you.’

  Kit could restrain his laughter no longer. ‘No wonder that damned thing was so heavy!’ He leaned to take his son from Isobel’s lap so that she could unwrap her presents.

  ‘Poppy! Oh, Poppy, thank you! How marvellous of you!’

  ‘They’re only a few books,’ Poppy said, bending to receive her sister’s kiss of thanks. ‘I bought every Mills and Boon I could find, and then a few others. Are they all right?’

  ‘Perfect! They’re perfect! It’s absolutely years since I’ve had anything decent to read.’

  Poppy smiled gently. ‘I’m glad you like them.’ She turned back to the case, only to find that Kit, Robbie riding contentedly on his arm, was shutting it firmly. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. Anything else you’ve got in there can wait. You’re exhausted, and you must be hungry. Come on. I’ll show you your room. You can wash and brush up, then we’ll eat. After that, I’ll show you the rest of the house. Which cases do you need?’

  Poppy pointed. ‘The little one will do for now.’

  ‘Right.’ Kit handed the child back to his mother, who took him and bounced him absent-mindedly on her knee. She was already riffling through one of the books absorbedly. Kit led the way out of the vast room, with its high, rustic beamed ceiling and huge cast iron range, through an arch that led into another, smaller kitchen that nevertheless, Poppy thought, was half as big again as the one that as a child she had always thought so cavernous at Tellington Place – and up some steps that led to a corridor. ‘We only use the back of the house, and then only part of it,’ Kit said over his shoulder. ‘I know it seems confusing at first, but you’ll soon get used to it.’ He led on up a set of narrow stairs, along more corridors. ‘This is our bedroom.’ He indicated, as they passed, a heavy door that stood half open. Poppy glimpsed an enormous unmade bed, a chair with clothes tossed untidily across it. Heavy curtains were haphazardly half-drawn. Poppy felt suddenly uncomfortable, obscurely embarrassed, as if she had inadvertently invaded her sister’s privacy. ‘And this is Robbie’s.’ Kit pushed open the next door. Again the room was untidy and ill-kept. The little boy’s cot was unmade, there was a heap of bedclothes tossed into the corner, presumably awaiting the wash. As in the previous room, the walls were flaking and there were water-marks on the ceiling. ‘I put you along here.’ Kit set off again to the end of the corridor and turned a corner. ‘If you’d rather be closer to us, then of course you can pick any room you wish. But I thought you’d enjoy the view.’ He pushed open the door. ‘What do you think?’

  Poppy’s small exclamation was one of pure delight. The vista, framed by a pair of high, narrow, floor-to-ceiling windows, drew the eye the moment the door was opened. To the right the tree-clad hillside sloped upwards, gently at first and then, suddenly more steeply and ruggedly, to the clear blue bowl of the sky. Half a mile or so away the ancient tower that had been the first habitation on the site rose tall from the encroaching woodlands, honey-coloured in the sunshine, a crumbling finger of masonry studded with small shadow-dark windows, silent and secretive observer of the centuries. To the left, beyond the slope of the hillside the window looked along a fertile valley to yet another range of hills that shimmered in the heat haze. In the middle distance, on a small rocky outcrop amid the tilled and tended fields of the valley floor, a church stood, massive as a fortress, surrounded by a huddle of tiny houses, its bell-hung campanile dominating the countryside around.

  ‘It’s absolutely lovely!’ Poppy said. She walked to the open windows and leaned over the waist-high iron grille that protected them. Below, more chickens scratched around a paved yard, a substantial corner of which was protected from the sun by a sagging pergola that appeared to all intents and purposes to be entirely supported by the ancient grapevine that scrambled up and over it. Directly below, next to a door that she presumed must lead to the kitchen, was a heavy iron pump. A few shallow steps led to a small and extremely neat vegetable patch and a grove of olive and lemon trees, the scent of which drifted headily through the window and filled the room. Incongruously, in the centre of the vegetable garden, a life-sized, lichen-covered statue of a girl with a dove settled upon her outstretched hand leaned precariously, as if imminently about to fall. From an iron gate in a high wall, that like everything else had obviously once been impressively substantial but now appeared to be held up more by brambles and ivy than by the crumbling mortar between its stones, a rocky track led into the woodlands in the direction of the tower.

  ‘There are deer in the woods.’ Kit spoke from behind her. ‘Deer, porcupine, foxes too, of course. And wild boar. They’re the ones you have to look out for, especially if they have young. The Gordinis still occasionally come out here to hunt them.’ He touched her shoulder, then turned to walk to the door. ‘Right, then. If everything’s all right, I’ll leave you to it for a while. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll have a bite to eat. Only bread and cheese, I’m afraid. We eat our main meal in the evening, when the day cools down a little.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. Thank you.’ Poppy turned from the window.

  ‘You can find your way back downstairs?’

  She grinned. ‘It did occur to me that I should have done a Hansel and Gretel and dropped some crumbs, but yes, I think I can find you.’

  He smiled his crooked smile. ‘I�
�m afraid they wouldn’t last for long if you had. We’ve got a small army of mice about the place. You can always yell if you get lost. See you later.’ He closed the door quietly behind him.

  Poppy surveyed her surroundings. In scale with the rest of the house the room was vast, as was the high bed. The walls were painted, but the pattern was so faded and flaked that it was impossible to discern. An oil lamp stood upon a table, one foot of which was propped up with folded newspaper on the uneven floor. The ceiling was stained and dark with smoke. Touchingly, there was a small bunch of wild flowers on the washstand beside a massive china bowl and jug. Beside the tall window, shutters were folded back to the wall. For the moment, there was no need for them. The room faced east, and the sun had already moved to the front of the house. The yard below was in shade. Poppy moved back to the window, stood for a quiet moment, enveloped by the scent of the afternoon. Even the cicadas had fallen quiet. Not a blade, not a leaf stirred. She ran her fingers through her bobbed hair, lifting it from her damp scalp.

  A confusion of impressions and memories suddenly invaded her mind, the events of the past couple of days, that had seemed so endlessly long, suddenly snapped short, like the closing of a telescope. The awkward farewell to her father at Victoria station. The excitement, despite the foul weather, of crossing the English Channel for the first time, and on her own at that. The equally exciting, if tiring, experience of watching the French countryside – so very different in character from the countryside that she knew, so very foreign – stream past the train window. The enveloping warmth and softly scented air of the south, growing perceptibly and beguilingly stronger as she travelled. The impossibility of sleep, except in snatches; the anxious moments, the missed connections. And then Florence, and Kit. The towering walls of Siena. Now—

  She leaned on the wrought iron balustrade. Now – this. A great, mouldering house to whose romance and atmosphere she was already warmly attracted. A hillside woodland guarded by an ancient tower and inhabited by deer, wild boar, and goodness only knew what else.

  A sister so changed that she could not, for the moment, bring herself truly to think about it. Pregnancy, she supposed, did change people. But – that much?

  Briskly she turned, slipping off her jacket, stepping out of her travel-crumpled skirt. It was, after all, to help Isobel that she had come. Everything would be all right now.

  *

  After a lunch taken under the vine-covered pergola, and which inevitably, with so much news to be exchanged, stretched well into the afternoon, Kit and Poppy left Isobel and little Robbie resting in the quiet heat and embarked on a tour of the house. The place was built, off centre, around a courtyard, on one side of which was the massive front door, on a second a high brick wall against which was situated, unexpectedly, a well with a wrought-iron cover. Next to this was a small arched doorway that led out of the side of the house to where a tiny church stood, dilapidated as the rest of the buildings. The living accommodation – or what had been the living accommodation – comprised the other two sides of the courtyard.

  ‘Some members of the family still occasionally use the rooms on this side—’ Kit pushed open a heavy door, stood back for her to pass through ‘—only rarely, for hunting trips, or if they feel the need to cast an eye over the estate. Careful. It’s a bit dark.’

  Poppy had stopped, wide-eyed. ‘Goodness me!’

  Behind her, Kit laughed quietly.

  It was a room from another age: heavy furniture, tapestries, portraits and dark oil paintings on the walls. A rug of faded splendour on the flagged floor. Kit walked to one of the long windows and opened the shutters. Light glinted on tarnished silver, reflected from stately damp-stained and fly-specked bevelled mirrors. Almost the whole of one wall was lined with bookshelves upon which stood rank upon rank of leather-bound volumes. A mahogany desk big enough to play table tennis on was neatly laid out with blotter, paper, pot of ink, two quill pens and a small pen-knife.

  ‘It’s—’ Poppy stopped, shrugging helplessly.

  ‘—incredible.’ Kit supplied. ‘Isn’t it? Wait till you see the bedrooms.’

  An hour or so later they were back in the kitchen. Even with the windows and doors open, and shaded by the ancient grapevine, at this time of day the stove made it uncomfortably warm. ‘Let’s sit outside,’ Kit suggested. ‘How about a glass of wine?’

  ‘Wonderful. Thank you.’ Poppy wandered out into the yard and sat down upon a battered but comfortable wicker chair. Movement caught her eye. The diminutive, unmistakeable figure of Umberto, dark skin and faded clothing almost blending with the colour of the dry soil, was working in the neat vegetable patch, moving with slow patience along the rows with a hoe.

  ‘There – village special, but very drinkable, I promise, providing you aren’t too picky. It could be that I’ve just got used to it.’ Kit placed a large glass of red wine in front of her. For himself he had brought the bottle of whisky and a small glass. He settled down across the table from her, splashed the amber liquid into the glass, tossed it back and poured another. ‘That’s a rare treat. Thank you.’

  She smiled, looked back to where Umberto leaned for a moment upon his hoe. Kit’s eyes followed hers. ‘He’s a treasure,’ he said, ‘an absolute treasure. I don’t know what we’d do without him.’

  ‘Does he live here in the house?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘No. He lives down in the village. He has a wife about three times his size and a gaggle of daughters who nag him silly.’

  Poppy’s eyes moved to his face. ‘And you? Where do you work? Do you have a studio in the house?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ve converted one of the stables. I’ll show it to you later, if you’d like. I had initially intended to use the tower—’ he nodded his head towards the wooded hillside ‘—but it turned out to be too inconvenient. And it would have cost a fortune to convert. And, to be honest, Isobel didn’t like the idea of my being so far from the house. She gets – nervous.’ The hesitation before he used the word was infinitesimal, but noticeable.

  ‘She’s changed,’ Poppy said, with straightforward candour, her eyes steady upon his face. ‘She isn’t well, is she?’

  Kit looked down into his drink, tilting his glass a little. Then he lifted his head to meet her eyes. ‘I did try to explain. She’s had a very difficult time—’

  Poppy shook her head thoughtfully. ‘It isn’t only that.

  She seems—’ she shrugged a little ‘—overwrought – unhappy,’ she finished, gently.

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Kit again tossed back his drink in a swallow and set the glass with some care upon the table. A small wry twitch of a smile touched his mouth. He did not deny the word. ‘I’m sure having you here will go a long way towards changing that. Now – would you like to see my studio?’

  She followed him out of the yard and round the corner of the house, passing the tiny dilapidated chapel. Poppy caught a glimpse of the inner courtyard of the house as they passed the arched doorway and then they were at the front of the building. Kit led her across the overgrown paving. ‘Mind you don’t turn an ankle. It’s all a bit rocky.’ Three or four chickens flurried away from them, then settled down to strut and peck officiously some yards off. The cat still sat upon its wall, grooming itself. It stilled and watched them with lambent, disdainful eyes as they passed. ‘Here we are.’ Kit pushed open a door.

  The room, which reached to the beams of the tiled roof, was spacious, light and very untidy. All vestiges of its previous use had gone, except for the channels and drains in the brick-paved floor and a single metal manger attached to one wall and filled with a careless collection of jars, brushes and paint-stained rags. Canvases, finished and unfinished, were stacked everywhere. On an easel was a half-finished landscape. A big table stood in a corner, its surface entirely engulfed in more jars, books, papers and several empty wine bottles. The light streamed through two huge windows that had been set into the back wall of the room. Poppy moved to look through the w
indows at the rolling countryside beyond. ‘What a gorgeous view!’

  ‘These are the only windows in the house that ever get cleaned.’ Kit came to join her. ‘Umberto cleans them religiously, every week. I think he rather likes being in charge of an eccentric English artist.’

  Poppy had wandered off, pausing every now and then to study a picture or leaf through a book. She shot him a quick grin. ‘And are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eccentric.’

  He laughed. ‘No more, I think, than I ever was.’

  Poppy had stopped by a collection of pictures stacked against the wall. The first was yet another study of Robbie. She looked at it with pleasure. ‘I think Umberto is very fond of you,’ she said. ‘Devoted, even. And to Robbie.’

  Kit acknowledged the comment with a small nod of his head. ‘We’re very lucky. To be honest, I think the only thing that takes precedence so far as Umberto is concerned is the Palio.’

  Poppy, in the act of leaning the half-finished portrait carefully against her leg in order to look at the next picture, turned her head. ‘That’s the horse race, isn’t it? I read about it when I knew you were going to come here to live.’

  Kit shouted with laughter. ‘You’ll get yourself lynched if you go around here calling the Palio a “horse race”!’

  She raised surprised brows. ‘Isn’t that what it is?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, yes, I suppose so. But to the Sienese it’s more. Much more. It’s a way of life, no less.’

  ‘Oh?’ Poppy moved on to the next picture.

  ‘It’s—’ he paused ‘—it’s a tournament. An old-fashioned, honest-to-God medieval tournament. A combination of circus, religion and quite deadly rivalry.’

  Poppy, still flicking through the paintings, did not notice his sudden stillness. ‘It all sounds terribly Italian. I say, I like this one.’ All at once she became aware of the sudden tension in the atmosphere. And at the same moment she realised that the door behind her had opened. She turned.