Siena Summer

by Teresa Crane

  Silhouetted against the light stood a tall, slim figure in shirt and soft, loose trousers. Cigarette smoke wreathed about her and she carried a large leather shoulder-bag. There was a moment of silence. Then, ‘Eloise,’ Kit said, his voice expressionless.

  The woman was looking not at him, but at Poppy. For the moment her face was in shadow and Poppy could not make out her features. It was only as she sauntered forward into the room that the severe, almost cold, beauty of her came into focus. In contrast to the dark hair her eyes were the palest green, luminous against her smooth olive skin. There was, as she studied Poppy, a glint of something close to amusement in her face. ‘So,’ she said. ‘The little sister.’ Her English was easy, but quite heavily accented; not, Poppy was surprised to hear, Italian accented, but unmistakably French.

  Poppy glanced at Kit, nonplussed.

  He took a stiff step forward. ‘Poppy, this is Eloise Martin. Eloise—’ he gestured ‘—Poppy Brookes. Isobel’s sister.’

  ‘Of course.’ The very smallest of smiles flickered.

  ‘How do you do?’ Poppy stepped forward, hand extended.

  For a startled moment she thought the other woman would ignore the gesture. Then, languidly, Eloise briefly took the hand in hers. Her grasp was dry and firm, surprisingly strong. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Ma’mselle Brookes. Isobel has told me so much about you.’

  Whereas no one has told me anything at all about you. Why not, I wonder? Poppy felt it impolitic to voice the thought. She smiled, politely noncommittal.

  Eloise turned to Kit. ‘I came to tell you that Michel arrives in two days. He will bring Peter with him as arranged. Will you tell Umberto, please? Peter stays with me, of course, but as you know since the house is so small, the arrangement is made that Michel will lodge with Umberto and his wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kit said a little brusquely. ‘He mentioned it yesterday. I’ll tell him.’

  The woman nodded, eyes veiled. She looked back at Poppy. ‘You stay for the summer, I understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How very pleasant for us all.’ The mockery, not gentle, was barely disguised. Poppy found herself flushing a little. Again she glanced at Kit, who avoided her eyes. ‘So.’ Eloise looked from one to the other, her hand resting lightly on the leather bag that swung from her narrow shoulder. ‘I will have a word with Isobel before I go.’ Her cool, pale gaze rested upon Poppy. ‘Au’voir, Miss Brookes. We will meet again. Quite soon, no doubt.’

  Poppy smiled, said nothing.

  Eloise Martin, without another glance at Kit, left them.

  ‘What an extraordinarily—’ Poppy stopped, searching for the word ‘—odd woman,’ she finished a little lamely.

  Kit had turned away, absent-mindedly tidying the table. ‘She’s all right. One gets used to her.’

  ‘To be frank, I’m not sure I want to,’ Poppy said, honest as ever. ‘Who are Peter and Michel?’

  ‘Her son and her brother. Peter’s at school in England. Michel teaches French there.’

  ‘Is there a husband?’

  Kit shook his head briefly. ‘No.’

  Poppy’s curiosity, as always, was getting the better of her. ‘Was there ever one?’

  ‘Oh – yes. He died. In the war.’

  ‘How old is the son?’

  Kit thought for a moment. ‘About ten, I suppose. Yes. He’s ten.’

  ‘Poor little scrap, with a mother like that.’ Poppy cocked an eyebrow at Kit’s quick, rueful grin. ‘Well, she doesn’t exactly emanate warmth and motherly love, does she? Or is the youngster a chip off the old block?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him. Eloise only arrived here six or seven months ago. Peter’s been at school all year.’ Kit with a quite obvious effort pushed himself away from the table. His face was strained.

  ‘Peter,’ Poppy said. ‘And an English school. Was the father English?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he was. They met during the war. Anyway—’ In a clear attempt to change the subject, he stacked a book precariously on a pile. ‘Let’s get back to the house, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What’s she doing here? Eloise, I mean?’

  ‘I believe she’s suffered from ill health over the past couple of years. It was recommended that she came to Italy for convalescence.’

  ‘She looks perfectly all right to me.’

  His hand on the door-latch, he turned, and his laughter was quite genuine. ‘Oh, Poppy, Poppy, I’m so glad you’ve come. You’re quite priceless.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that!’ Poppy’s voice was faintly and cheerfully aggrieved. ‘And I’ve only been here since lunch-time.’

  He put an arm about her shoulders as they strolled off across the front of the house. ‘What I mean is – you’re a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then. I don’t mind being that.’ Poppy stopped and turned, gazing beyond the gate down the woodland-cloaked hillside into the valley. A mile or so away woodsmoke rose, marking the position of the village. The smoke drifted to their nostrils, pungent and evocative. Tranquillity lay across the scene like a veil of gossamer. ‘It really is beautiful,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes. Come – I’ll show you the chapel before we go in.’

  The chapel, compared to the faded splendour of the house, was something of a disappointment. Everything had been stripped from it except what was immovable: the ancient stone altar, the faded, damaged frescos on the walls, a couple of plaques. To Poppy it smelled mustily of sadness and desertion, and she was glad when they stepped back out into the sunshine.

  Isobel was in the kitchen, sitting in an armchair, her feet upon a stool, a book open on her lap. She looked up with an oddly dreamy, almost secretive, smile as they came into the room. Robbie, sitting at the table industriously scribbling upon a sheet of paper, jumped from his chair and ran to Kit. ‘Daddy!’

  Kit lifted him, kissed the tender curve of his cheek, set him back upon the chair, ruffling his fair hair.

  Isobel, Poppy was pleased to see, looked better for her rest; more relaxed, less tense, though in the gloom of the kitchen her bright eyes looked curiously darkened. She held her hand out to Kit. He took it, bent to kiss her hair. She tilted her head to look at him, a gesture that had somehow something of defiance in it. ‘Eloise was here,’ she said. ‘She just left.’

  Kit looked at her with enigmatic eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So I see.’

  And Poppy, for the life of her, whilst quite clearly recognising it, could not fathom the depths of bitterness in his tone.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘So – tell me about this horse race that isn’t a horse race.’ Poppy and Kit were strolling through the woodland at the back of the house towards the tower. ‘When is it held? Will I be able to see it?’

  ‘It’s actually run twice a year, on the second of July and the sixteenth of August. And yes, you certainly will get to see both of them if you want to. I always go. It’s an extremely—’ he flicked a quick smile at her ‘—colourful occasion, in every sense of the word. It’s run in the Piazza del Campo, the town square.’

  ‘I read about it before I came. The tradition goes back centuries, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It really is quite unique.’ Something rustled in the woods to their right. Kit turned his head, watching for a moment. When nothing further happened, he resumed his slow pacing, his hands in his pockets, head bowed, watching his feet scuffing through the leaf mould and pine needles that carpeted the woods. His hair flopped over his eyes. Poppy smiled a little. ‘Putting it simply, the city is divided into various quarters, called Contrade. There are seventeen of them. Each Contrada has its own traditions – its own symbol, its own colours, its own banners. They have their own saints’ days, their own festivals. You’ll see. The whole life of Siena revolves around the Contrade and the Palio – and not just in the summer but all year. It’s all very passionate; very Italian. The parades and ceremonies before the races are as spectacul
ar as the races themselves. The rivalry is intense – almost literally cut-throat.’ They were approaching the tower. It was bigger than Poppy had expected, rearing from a massive, brick-built base. They stopped, looking up at it. To Poppy’s own surprise- she was not usually given to such flights of fancy – she found something menacing in the huge thing.

  ‘It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?’

  Kit laughed. ‘I suppose it is; something to do with the age of it, perhaps. There’s a splendid view, though.’ He led her through the door.

  In the shadowed interior she stopped in surprise, then shook her head firmly. ‘Not a view I’ll be seeing,’ she said. The building was a shell, all the wooden floors long collapsed. Dazzlingly bright fingers of sunlight struck through the narrow windows. Poppy jumped as a pigeon swooped from the rafters. She pulled a face. ‘You wouldn’t get me up there for all the tea in China, thank you very much, view or no view.’ A flight of dangerously decaying stone steps, very narrow, led up to a wooden platform, from where a rough wooden staircase – almost a ladder – zigzagged up the wall to a tiny lookout point in a window embrasure high overhead. ‘It makes me feel dizzy just to look at it!’

  ‘You don’t like heights?’

  She grinned, shrugging a little. ‘Let’s just say I prefer my little flat feet to be on the ground.’ They walked back out into the warm sunshine. Poppy rubbed her bare arm. ‘What a peculiar place. I’ve come out in goose bumps.’

  ‘Isobel doesn’t like it either. That’s why she didn’t want me to build a studio up here.’

  ‘I don’t blame her a bit. Now, tell me some more about the Palio. Do you support one of these – what did you call them-?’

  ‘Contrade. Oh, yes, I have to. Or Umberto would have my head on a plate! I tell you, you just don’t understand the passions the Palio arouses in the Sienese.’

  They strolled back to the house, talking easily. Isobel, watching them from the kitchen window, ran her hand through her tangled, sweat-damp hair tiredly. It had been strange to discover that the small, brown child that Kit had so appropriately nicknamed ‘Mouse’ had become this bright, capable and unnervingly modern young woman. Strange, and a little daunting. But then everything seemed to be nowadays. Strange. And daunting. Between one second and the next, helpless to prevent it, she felt her fragile composure slip from her; felt, as she all too often did nowadays, the burning of tears – pathetic tears, she knew; childish, demoralising, futile, unnecessary – she had heard all the words from the occasionally and she supposed justifiably exasperated Kit and from the gently chiding – gently mocking? – Eloise.

  Eloise.

  Isobel closed her eyes for a moment; saw the perfect, subtle face, the slender, elegant body. The little phials that she so – apparently – reluctantly produced at Isobel’s begging.

  Clenched against tears she turned suddenly and with a small sob slammed her open hand painfully hard upon the table; her left hand, upon which the dull gold of her wedding band gleamed, loose and heavy; for as her body swelled and distorted, the rest of her flesh shrank. Through blurred eyes she stared at the ring.

  ‘Mummy?’ Robbie stood in the doorway, the shabby woollen dog that had been his lifelong sleeping companion tucked under one arm, his blue eyes wide and worried. His bottom lip, soft as a ripe berry, wobbled a little. ‘Mummy?’ he said again.

  Isobel clung to the table for a moment, steadying herself. ‘It’s all right, darling. Mummy has a headache. That’s all.’

  A headache with no cure. The laudanum Eloise had brought her yesterday had gone frighteningly quickly; she had been unable to resist the temptation to slip those few extra drops into her wine. And yet the period of relief it afforded – relief from the nightmare of doubts and fears, the terror of what was to come – seemed to get shorter every day.

  The little boy leaned against the door jamb, his thumb in his mouth, small forefinger stroking the side of his button nose.

  ‘Don’t suck your thumb, Robbie,’ she said automatically; a plea rather than an order, even she could hear that.

  ‘Want to.’ He spoke around the thumb, his fair, stubborn brows drawn together.

  Isobel bowed her head. In this state she could not even attempt to control her own child.

  Outside she heard voices, Poppy’s laughter.

  ‘Daddy,’ Robbie said very softly.

  Isobel lifted her head.

  ‘—so to Dora’s absolute fury I decided that the shelf was a rather more desirable place to be than—’ Poppy stopped as she caught sight of Isobel, her laughter dying, her face concerned. ‘Isobel? Are you all right?’

  Isobel nodded, avoiding her eyes. ‘Yes. I’ve got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’

  ‘You ought to sit down and put your feet up. Look at your poor ankles—’ Poppy hurried to her sister’s side, put an arm about her to lead her to a chair. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Robbie hasn’t finished his nap. I really ought to put him back to bed for half an hour or so.’ Nevertheless Isobel allowed herself to be fussed into the chair, leaning her head back tiredly and closing her eyes.

  ‘I’ll see to that.’ Kit swooped his son from the floor, settled him, crowing delightedly, on his arm. ‘Come on, old chap. Back to bed for a little while.’

  ‘Story,’ the child said, with through the golden veil of his lashes, a small, cautious glance at his mother. ‘Want story.’

  Isobel did not even open her eyes.

  ‘Then a story you shall have. Which one would you like?’

  He considered solemnly. Then a broad beam lit his face. ‘Pirates,’ he said firmly, and back went the thumb.

  Kit laughed. ‘What a bloodthirsty little wretch you are! All right, then, pirates it will be.’ Father and son left the room, Kit’s voice fading as they went into the shadowed labyrinth of the house.

  Poppy busied herself at the stove for a moment, putting on the kettle, rinsing out the teapot.

  ‘Poppy?’ Isobel asked from behind her, her voice barely audible.

  Poppy turned. Her sister was still half-lying in the chair, her feet upon a stool, her head tilted wearily upon the cushioned back. The light showed the bruise-like shadows beneath her closed eyes; gleamed too upon the film of perspiration on her forehead and the tears that slid down the thin cheeks, trickling into the bright tangle of her hair.

  ‘Isobel!’ Poppy hurried to her, dropped to one knee beside her. ‘Darling, what is it? What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?’

  The drowned blue eyes opened. Isobel turned her head a little on the cushion to look with sudden, tearful intentness into her sister’s face. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said abruptly. ‘Do you think Kit and Eloise are having an affair?’

  The question was so unexpected that for several moments Poppy could not speak. She stared at Isobel, her eyes round and startled.

  Isobel sat up, knuckling the tears half-angrily from her cheeks. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said again, insistently.

  Poppy shook her head, ‘Isobel—’ She shrugged helplessly, at a loss for words. ‘What makes you think such a thing?’ she asked at last, lamely.

  The sudden caustic and self-mocking gleam in the look her sister threw her was an answer more eloquent than words. ‘Poppy, I may not be as bright as some, but neither am I entirely stupid. You’ve seen them together. Haven’t you sensed anything between them?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, quickly and frankly, ‘but – I’m not sure what it is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Poppy sat back on her heels, again half-shrugging and spreading her hands. ‘To be honest, I don’t think Kit really likes her. Or she him, come to that.’

  ‘Since when did that matter?’ Isobel’s words were quite shockingly bitter. ‘I didn’t ask if you thought they liked each other.’ She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief, blew her nose loudly.

  Poppy watched her for a moment, a small frown on her face. ‘Tell me about Eloise.’ />
  Isobel sniffed. ‘I don’t really know very much. She’s French. She was married to an Englishman who was killed at the end of the war. She has a son who was born after his father’s death – he’s ten now. He’ll be here soon; his uncle’s bringing him—’

  ‘Tomorrow. Yes, I know. Tell me more about Eloise. What’s she actually like? What’s she doing here? How did you come to meet her?’

  Isobel was twisting the handkerchief in her fingers. She lifted her eyes to Poppy’s, genuinely surprised. ‘Hasn’t Kit told you?’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘Not very much.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t talk about her?’

  ‘No. Hardly ever. And, when he does, he doesn’t really say anything.’

  Isobel’s eyes went back to the handkerchief as if it were the most fascinating object in the world. ‘She’s – well, she’s a contradiction, I suppose. Sometimes she’s really kind, and then sometimes—’ she trailed off, shrugged. ‘She’s very intelligent. And very beautiful.’

  ‘I had noticed.’ Poppy’s voice was dry.

  ‘Perhaps that’s it. Kit is an artist, after all. He loves beautiful things.’ The tears welled again. Isobel dashed them away with her fingers.

  There was a long moment of silence, then, ‘Kit said something about her having been unwell, and having come here to recuperate,’ Poppy prompted.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘She doesn’t look as if she hasn’t been well.’ The words were thoughtful. Isobel shrugged. ‘How did you meet her?’

  The handkerchief was twisting again, the curly head bowed miserably. ‘Kit met her walking in the woods a few months ago. He brought her back to meet me. She said she wanted us to be friends. That we had a lot in common, and that she’d help Kit look after me. There’s precious little company around here, as you can imagine. I wasn’t feeling very well—’ Once again she trailed into silence, biting her lip. ‘It was peculiar,’ she went on at last. ‘Even then I felt – something. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something. I did wonder if they’d been meeting for some time. Whether this was just a way for them to be together, to prevent me from – well, from becoming suspicious—’