Family Honour

by Hannah Howe

  We entered the house through the back door to find Vittoria sitting in the living room. She had a pile of books at her side – mostly psychology textbooks – and a collection of CDs. She was searching through the CDs, though in absent-minded fashion. Her eyes were glazed, troubled, distant.

  “Hello again,” I said. “This is my friend, Mac. You know Mac?”

  She glanced up and offered a terse nod. “I’ve seen him around.”

  “I’d like Mac to stay with you, until I can sort things out with your father.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” Vittoria said, giving the CDs an angry shove. The CDs scattered over the floor, revealing albums by the Stereophonics, Manic Street Preaches, Super Furry Animals and Catatonia. I also spied a CD by folk singer, Dafydd Iwan.

  “I can’t leave you on your own,” I said. “If I should walk away from you, and something should happen, your father would never forgive me; you understand?”

  Vittoria stared at the CDs. She leaned forward, to tidy them, thought better of it, then slumped back on the sofa.

  “A deal,” I said. “If you allow Mac to stay with you, I’ll keep your family off your back for as long as it takes.”

  Vittoria hesitated. She fingered her shell bracelet then glanced at Mac. “I need to think about that,” she said.

  “You think,” I said. “We’ll wait outside.”

  After we’d climbed on to a sand dune, to keep watch over the house, I turned to Mac and asked, “What do you make of her?”

  Mac pursed his lips. He lapsed into deep thought, then replied, “She’s not the Vittoria I’ve seen at Vanzetti’s house. I mean, the woman in there is Vanzetti’s daughter, but her personality has changed.”

  “You noticed her hair?”

  Mac nodded. “Self-inflicted, I reckon.”

  “And her arms?”

  Again, he nodded. “She probably cut her arms as well. I reckon something’s disturbed her, psychologically. I reckon she’d be wise to talk with the good Dr Storey.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said. Asking Alan for his help had already lodged at the front of my mind. “If she agrees, will you keep an eye on her until I sort things out with Vanzetti?”

  “I take it I’m on a percentage of your cut,” Mac said, leaning back, arching his back, offering me the eyes of a parsimonious banker.

  “I thought you did this job for love, not money.”

  “I’m Scottish,” he said, leaning forward again, allowing his feet to sink into the soft sand, “or haven’t you noticed. We Scots know the value of a pound.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Ten per cent.”

  “Ten?” Mac frowned.

  “Twenty.”

  “Call it forty and we’re moving towards a deal.”

  The day was bright and sunny, though a fresh breeze cut across the sand dunes, disturbing my clothes and hair. I reached up, swept my hair away from my eyes, my face, and said, “You’re not going to walk out and abandon Vittoria, so why are we having this conversation?”

  “You want to put that statement to the test, Missy?” Mac asked, his gaze fixed on a windsurfer, a young man who struggled to remain upright as he fought the waves and the breeze. “You whistle, I’ll come running, but a man has to eat and find shelter.”

  “Thirty per cent,” I conceded.

  “Forty.”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Thirty-eight?” Mac’s forehead rippled, mimicking the layers of damp sand on the beach. “What sort of figure is that?”

  “It’s a number between thirty-seven and thirty-nine.”

  Mac glared at me, so I folded my arms across my chest and tapped my toes on the sand. Taking a leaf from Sherri’s book, I pouted and looked away. Drama queens incorporated.

  “Now you’re being stubborn and pedantic,” he complained.

  I turned to glance at the sky. An aeroplane had left a vapour trail while, in the distance, a yellow helicopter hovered over the railway line. “You want me to list your traits?” I asked.

  Mac gave my shoulder a playful nudge, which almost sent me rolling down the sand dune. “We’re bickering like a married couple,” he smiled, “you know that.”

  “Good job we’re not married then. Good job you don’t find me attractive.”

  “I didn’t say that, Missy. You’re a very attractive woman, despite your obstinate ways.”

  I nodded towards the house and we set foot on the sandy path. It was time to get back to Vittoria. “Thirty-eight per cent,” I said, “my final offer.”

  With each heavy stride, Mac sank deep into the sand. So he jumped up to walk on the grass. “Let’s round it down to thirty-three per cent, just to put an end to this conversation. Thirty-eight per cent,” he shook his head forlornly, “I can’t be doing with that figure; no way I’ll remember that.”

  “And you’ll remember thirty-three per cent?”

  He nodded decisively. “The old long playing records, thirty-three rpm. The first time I had hochmagandy was with a long player playing in the background; how could I forget that?”

  “Hochmagandy?” I frowned.

  “You want me to draw you a picture?”

  I blushed, then lengthened my stride. That’s the trouble with freckles; at the merest suggestion, my face lights up like a beacon. “Would it be X-rated?” I asked.

  “Oh, aye,” Mac grinned, revealing a gold filling on his left eye tooth, “triple-X for sure.”

  Inside the house, we found Vittoria on the sofa, in the same slumped position. Indeed, to all intents and purposes, she hadn’t moved.

  I arched an eyebrow and she replied, “Okay, Mac can stay. But I don’t want to see or talk with anyone from my family.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll arrange that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I returned to St Donats and Vanzetti’s house.

  In the gold living room, I found Catrin and V.J. Parks perched on the edge of their sofas while Vanzetti paced the floor. Sherri was staring at the TV, sans sound. Meanwhile, someone had removed the low glass table, so no bruised shinbones this evening.

  “I found Vittoria,” I said; “she’s safe.”

  “Where is she? Vanzetti asked. “At the house?”

  I nodded.

  “I want to see her,” he said, his tone insistent, forceful.

  Without doubt, few people stood up to Vincent Vanzetti. However, I’d made a promise to Vittoria, so I said, “No.”

  “No?” he frowned, clenching his fists in anger.

  “I promised her. She needs time for herself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Vanzetti glared. He walked over to me and placed a hand on my right shoulder. He gave my shoulder a forceful shove.

  “I don’t know exactly,” I said, holding my ground. “Vittoria ran to her sanctuary for a reason. She doesn’t want to see you, any of you, for a reason. She needs time, before she can explain herself.”

  Vanzetti grabbed my shoulders. He shook me and said, “She’s my daughter and I’m going to see her.”

  Concerned, Catrin jumped up. She dragged Vanzetti towards a sofa, then eased him on to a plush seat. “Sit down, Vince. Keep your hands to yourself and let’s hear Sam out.”

  “Mac is with Vittoria,” I explained, ignoring a twinge of pain in my right shoulder. Vanzetti had squeezed an old scar, a reminder of a bullet wound; although time had passed, that wound remained tender to the touch. “Mac knows Vittoria, from the times he’s worked for you.”

  Catrin and Vanzetti nodded in unison. They were sitting side by side now, and Catrin took hold of Vanzetti’s hands. She caressed his hands, cradled them in her lap. From the corner of my eye, I could see Sherri, pouting, while V.J. looked on, his gaze vacant, his mind, no doubt, on Vittoria.

  While flexing my shoulder, I said, “Mac reckons that Vittoria is not the woman he met at this house; her personality’s changed.”

  “In what way?” Catrin asked.

  “More withdrawn,” I ex
plained, “sombre.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s cut her arms and hair.”

  “Why?” Catrin repeated.

  I shrugged, “I’ll try to find out.”

  The pain in my shoulder had eased; I could move with freedom. Nevertheless, I made a mental note; I reminded myself that Vanzetti was a man of violence; I’d do well to watch his temper, and his hands.

  While wandering away from Vanzetti and Catrin, I asked, “Has Vittoria ever harmed herself before?”

  “Never,” Catrin said. “Vittoria always takes pride in her appearance.”

  “V.J.?” I asked, glancing at the boxer.

  “Vittoria’s never harmed herself. She hates pain; has a low pain threshold.”

  “I’d like to understand what’s going on,” I said, “for Vittoria’s sake, before asking her to return home.”

  “You think that someone in this house is behind her behaviour?” Vanzetti glowered. “That we’re to blame?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Vanzetti. But, to be honest, that thought has crossed my mind.”

  Vanzetti struggled to his feet, only to submit to Catrin’s firm restraint. “I hired you to find my daughter!” he yelled. “Not to insult my family!”

  Catrin tugged at Vanzetti’s sleeve. She said, “Sit down, Vince. You’re getting yourself worked up. You asked her a straight question; she gave you a straight answer. There was a time when you’d have respected that.”

  Vanzetti glared at me for a long ten seconds. Then he nodded at his wife and held his position on the sofa. “Okay,” he conceded. “I’m sorry. But I’m upset.”

  “We’re all upset,” Catrin said. She gave Vanzetti’s hands a reassuring squeeze, then placed them against her right cheek. Her lips brushed the backs of Vanzetti’s hands. He held them still. He made no complaint. “You spend some time with Vittoria,” Catrin said to me, “find out what’s going on; report to us, regularly.”

  “You’ll be here?” I asked.

  “Vince?” she turned to her ex-husband.

  “Huh?” Vanzetti shook his head, as though to clear it. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “You can have the guest suite.”

  As an afterthought, he turned to his wife, who’d abandoned the TV in favour of Catrin and Vanzetti; Sherri was sitting there, her eyes cold, her gaze vindictive; if she could have transformed her long fingernails into stilettos, she would have scratched Catrin’s eyes out.

  “Is that okay with you, dear?” Vanzetti asked with all the subtly of a sledgehammer.

  While sniffing back tears, Sherri flounced from the room. Meanwhile, Vanzetti gazed at Catrin and shrugged.

  “V.J., you want to stay too?” Vanzetti asked of the boxer.

  “Sure,” V.J. nodded. Then he stood and walked over to me. With a plaintive catch in his voice, he said, “I want to see Vittoria.”

  “All in good time,” I said. “Please, trust me.”

  I walked from the room. However, before I reached the front door, Vanzetti yelled, “You’d better deliver. You screw up, and I’ll have your hide.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  From St Donats I drove to St Fagans. In Glamorgan, every other village was named after a saint, at least you got that impression; did that imply that our ancestors were pious to the point of sainthood, or in desperate need of spiritual guidance? If my ancestors were anything to go by, the answer lay with the latter, without any doubt.

  I found Alan at home, in his study. He was typing up a manuscript, his theories on psychology. Although he was well qualified, he’d resisted all offers to write a book, claiming a lack of time. However, a publisher had badgered him into submission with the promise of an open deadline. Although it might take Alan a while to write his book, when finished, that book would be an impressive tome, in terms of content and volume.

  I waited for Alan to complete his paragraph, leaned forward to kiss him then said, “I’ve traced Vittoria.”

  He smiled, “I knew you would.”

  “She’s damaged, emotionally and physically.” I sat on an old armchair, covered with a decorative throw. The throw contained a diamond pattern and a range of autumnal colours; it offered a pleasing contrast to the plain magnolia walls. I said, “I’d like to know what caused that damage.”

  Alan squinted at the computer screen. He made a minor adjustment to his manuscript then said, “I’m sure Vincent Vanzetti can afford a support team of helpers; one of them, a psychologist perhaps, could help Vittoria.”

  “She doesn’t want to see her father, or talk with him, or any of her family.”

  Alan paused. He turned to face me then frowned. “I see.”

  “I promised Vittoria that I’d protect her; Mac is with her to keep her family off her back.”

  Alan’s frown deepened. Concern clouded his sympathetic brown eyes. “Their reaction?”

  “Not pleased. They’re leaning on me, especially Vanzetti.”

  He nodded. “So you’re caught between a rock and a hard place.”

  I grimaced. “And feeling the squeeze.”

  Alan closed the computer programme. The screen reverted to its screensaver, a picture of yours truly. I was smiling in that picture, as you do, looking young and happy. Come to think of it, I was still relatively young and blissfully happy, save for the sword of Damocles Vanzetti had placed over my head. While I pondered that point, Alan swivelled in his chair and asked, “You think that someone in the Vanzetti household is behind Vittoria’s condition?”

  “She doesn’t want to see them. That suggests something, surely. They all have something about them, something threatening. I mean, Catrin is a hard woman, as hard as granite; V.J. is a boxer, which suggests natural aggression; and Vanzetti is, well, Vanzetti, a man who’d order your execution, if it suited his needs.”

  “And what about Sherri?” Alan asked.

  “Despite her movie background, Sherri is quite sweet and innocent. However, she’s so sweet and innocent you sense that she could do something without thinking, something dangerous; do you know what I mean?”

  Alan offered a rueful smile and nodded. “I could present you with a list of serial killers who looked like angels. And show-offs are often immature and emotional. Some have aggressive traits that they express through violence. There’s a saying, ‘the expressive can become aggressive.’ There’s a label some psychologists attach to people: Histrionic Personality Disorder. People with HPD will do anything to get attention and their emotions tend to be extreme. Their personal lives are often turbulent and they can come across as living caricatures. Many actors, performers and politicians display strong HPD traits. Sufferers crave approval and are terrified of rejection. What I’m saying is, don’t take Sherri at face value; to understand her, look beyond her flamboyant displays.”

  “The sweetest saints can often be the wickedest sinners,” I said.

  Alan nodded. “It happens; in fact, it’s a common trait. In life, we need a balance; over-generous behaviour is often balanced by acts that are dark in the extreme.”

  “I’m not sure how Sherri could have harmed Vittoria,” I said, “but something might have happened between them.”

  We lapsed into silence and pondered that point. As Alan mulled over my words, he gazed at a picture, a painting, depicting a coalminer’s cottage. The cottage represented an ancestral home. A relative had painted the picture, which reminded me of Alan’s humble roots.

  “Vittoria needs someone to talk with,” I said. “She needs you.”

  Alan turned. He offered me a cautious frown. “Wait a minute, Sam.”

  “As a favour to me, please.”

  He shook his head; I wasn’t the only one in this household who could be stubborn.

  “I can’t just jump in on her unannounced,” Alan said, “psychology doesn’t work like that. Psychology works best when the client approaches the psychologist.”

  “But sometimes a sticking plaster is needed,” I said. “I’m not asking you to instigate a cure, what
ever that means, just apply a sticking plaster until Vittoria can seek help for herself.”

  “She might resent my interference,” Alan said, closing his computer. “I might make matters worse.”

  “You won’t, I know you. You’ll make her feel better about herself. You made me feel better about myself. If you can do that for me, you can do that for anyone.”

  Alan smiled. He gave his finely-trimmed beard a thoughtful caress. “That was through love, not psychology.”

  “No,” I insisted, “it was through you, through the person you are. You offer something to people, something I can’t explain, something intangible. To describe that something as an aura would be too fanciful. But you do have a presence; a calming, reassuring presence, and when people meet you, they respond. Besides, Vittoria is into psychology; she’s studying child psychology; I’m sure she’ll respond to you.”

  “I’m not sure,” Alan replied cautiously.

  “Please,” I begged, “if only to get Vanzetti off my back.”

  Alan stared through the window, into the forest, into the woodland at the rear of his house. A river ran beyond the woodland, added a sense of serenity, a sense of tranquillity to the beautiful, sylvan scene. “Vanzetti’s a dangerous man,” Alan mused.

  “He is,” I agreed. “If Vittoria offers her consent, will you do it?”

  Alan nodded. “For you, I will.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After my chat with Alan, I made the return journey to Newton. En route, I endured the frustration of a half hour delay on the motorway; a lorry had shed its load, halting traffic. While I sat and waited, I reflected on the notion that things designed or invented to speed up our lives often slowed us down.

  At Newton, I found Mac in the living room. He was sitting on the sofa, watching the television with the sound turned down. He’d selected a sports channel and that channel was broadcasting a football match; a European game, at a guess, possibly a cup final. The lack of a father, and a male presence in my childhood, made for an unbalanced upbringing; my mother hated sport, so it became anathema to me. That said, I could appreciate the skills and dedication of modern sportsmen, but the voyeuristic nature of sport did little for me.