Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  They pull up outside Daria’s cottage with a jerk. Light blazes from the doorway, where Daria waits, huddled in a dressing gown several sizes too large. She runs down the path and pulls Nats’ door open, her face twisted with worry, a torrent of Belarusian tumbling out.

  ‘Shh! Shh!’ cautions Artem, indicating the adjoining cottages. ‘The neighbours!’

  Daria claps her hand to her mouth then, as Nats climbs out, continues her diatribe at a slightly lower volume, jabbing her index finger repeatedly towards Ben’s huddled form.

  Nats grabs her arm and hurries her back inside, whispering furiously.

  Artem climbs out and comes around to tug Ben’s door open.

  The boy, not wanting to court further humiliation, stumbles out and, cold and sick at heart, stands uncertainly on the pavement.

  ‘Inside,’ snaps Artem.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Now!’

  Ben shoots up the path, almost colliding with Nats, who, rucksack over one shoulder, is bidding a quiet farewell to Daria. She ignores Ben completely.

  ‘Bye, Artem.’ Nats stretches up, as if she has done it forever, to peck Artem on the chin, which is as high as she can manage on tiptoes. She reaches for her bike.

  ‘No, no, Natalie! You cannot ride home alone at this time of night!’

  ‘Artem, I can. I must. My mother will be—’

  ‘I will drive you.’

  ‘No you won’t! Now get to bed. Trust me, I can look after myself.’

  For a second it looks as though Artem might contradict her, then he recalls her extraordinary contribution back at The Laurels. He cannot deny it: this tiny girl can indubitably look after herself.

  She flings a leg over the saddle, strapping on her helmet. ‘See you first thing tomorrow,’ she says sotto voce, steps hard on the pedals and is off.

  Artem waves briefly at her departing back, shaking his head in admiration. Then his eyes light on Ben, cowering just inside the door. ‘Bed!’ he snarls, pushing him towards the stairs, just as Daria re-emerges from the kitchen, eyes blazing. Ben scoots up the stairs two at a time and tears into the tiny boxroom under the eaves, shutting the door swiftly but silently. God help him if he wakes Milo. He hears Daria and Artem at the foot of the stairs engaged in a furious exchange. No prizes for guessing the subject matter. Tears of self-pity threaten to overwhelm him; ripping off his clothes down to his underpants, he crawls in utter misery under the quilt, tormented by a kaleidoscope of images whirling around his aching head. And then, abruptly, miraculously, blessedly, he falls asleep.

  The jury sits facing him at the kitchen table as he staggers down, dry-mouthed, disoriented and crushed, the following morning. All three of his judges nurse mugs of black coffee and all three wear the same expression. Disdain and anger, yes, of course, but harder, much harder, to withstand: deep, undisguised disappointment. He has braced himself for their justifiable contempt, but seeing how low he has sunk in all their estimations makes him realise the true cost of what he has forfeited. And this represents just the tip of a horrible iceberg, for the real victims of his stupidity and duplicity have yet to learn of his betrayal. It is not his parents’ reaction he most dreads, terrible though that will be; it is the aunts’. And not in truth Aunt Hester’s stony-faced fury, but Aunt Harriet’s infinitely more painful sorrow and regret that the boy she has championed and supported so valiantly for so long against an army of detractors has proved utterly unworthy of her love.

  Daria rises without a word, pours him a glass of milk and slams it down in front of him, then sits again. Nats sips her coffee, watching him coldly over the rim of her mug. Artem consults a sheet of paper in front of him, then slowly locks his eyes on Ben’s. ‘Drink.’

  Ben does as bid, imagining the milk curdling as it hits his still-tender stomach. His shaking hand fumblingly wipes the milky moustache off his upper lip. From the front room comes the sound of a heedless Milo playing with his bricks in the playpen. He waits for his sentence, all hope gone.

  Artem clears his throat. ‘Natalie and I have inspected the damage this morning.’ He catches Ben’s glance at the clock on the windowsill. Ten forty-three. ‘Yes. While you were sleeping. It is severe.’

  Ben swallows.

  ‘The staircase must be totally rebuilt. There is little remaining that we will be able to . . .’

  ‘Salvage,’ murmurs Nats.

  ‘Yes, thank you, salvage. The floors require thorough cleansing. With bleach, with disinfectant. The walls, perhaps, may be cleaned, but I am not hopeful. They are so badly stained. We may need to redecorate the best room completely.’

  Ben gulps.

  ‘Someone has vomited down the curtains. Daria will try to wash them. One of your guests has kindly smashed the washbasin downstairs. How?’

  He looks genuinely bewildered. For a moment Ben thinks he is waiting for an explanation, then realises just in time that he is simply seeking to fathom the mindlessness of the demolition. ‘Someone has . . . what is the word?’ He turns to Nats, miming a knife.

  ‘Scored their initials.’

  ‘Yes, scored their initials on the kitchen door.’ He shakes his head with incomprehension. ‘Finbar is even now attempting to unblock the lavatory.’

  ‘Finbar?’ croaks Ben.

  Daria, no longer able to contain her ire, interrupts, thumping the table with her fist. ‘Yes! Finbar! Your . . . your . . . he rescues you!’

  ‘Saviour,’ offers Nats quietly.

  ‘Yes! He saves you. He runs—an old man, in the dark!—he runs from the house of Hester and Harriet and he is bang, bang, bang on the door here! Karavul! Dapamazhytse! Help me! Wake up! Come quick! There are men, mad, mad men, throwing, breaking . . . and still he helps today!’

  From the front room comes a startled wail; Milo has obviously heard his mother shouting.

  ‘You! You see! Wicked, wicked boy! Even baby is crying!’ She rushes from the room. ‘Okay, okay, Milo, Mama comes!’

  Artem straightens his list. ‘So, this is the plan. I will phone Barry, my friend. I will ask him please to help.’

  ‘Barry?’ manages Ben, head now pounding.

  ‘He is a carpenter. I will ask him to mend the stairs. If he can. If he will. At the weekend. The weekend, when he ought to be not working. Relaxing.’ He juts his jaw at Ben to emphasise the huge sacrifice he will be asking of Barry. ‘We—’ he sweeps his hand over himself, Nats and Ben ‘—we will start immediately to clean the house as well as we are able. Then we will see what more we must do. And we will then try to put everything back together again. Somehow. Before poor Hester and Harriet return.’

  He makes it sound almost possible.

  Ben’s face lifts; he cannot mask his relief. Hope flickers for a moment. ‘Thank you, thank you. I can’t tell you how sorry—’

  ‘You twat!’ Nats’ face twists with incredulity; even her braids seem to be quivering with rage. She is a pulsing bundle of fury. ‘We’re not doing this for you! Are you out of your tiny half-arsed brain?! We don’t give a stuff about you, you selfish prick, or what you think. This is for your aunts. No-one deserves what you’ve done to them. No-one! Just thank Christ there are all these people who really care about them, who really love them! I’ve never even met them but I want to help! Stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself like the total dickhead you are. For fuck’s sake, go and have a shower, will you, and clean your bloody teeth: you stink.’

  CHAPTER 37

  The rain stops as suddenly as it started. Only the steady drip drip from the shrine’s eaves remains as witness to its visit. Harriet picks her way outside across the litter to look up at the sky, where a valiant sun struggles through the remaining cloud, twinkling on the puddled potholes. She wriggles her toes to the ends of her sodden shoes. She’ll have to manage the rest of their walk without socks.

  ‘We might as well get going. Perhaps we could get a bus back. Or a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi!’ To Hester, the height of extravagance. ‘I thought you wanted
a walk!’

  Harriet resigns herself to a soggy trudge back to the hotel. ‘Come on, you old skinflint, let’s at least splash out on a decent coffee.’ And maybe, she thinks, one of those delicious little doughnuts . . . It seems ages since breakfast.

  They find a trattoria in the town square, its striped awning still dripping, with a padrone more than happy to serve two damp English ladies with good strong coffee and, to Harriet’s delight, a plate of tiny biscotti and pastries. Hester, eschewing anything but her coffee, tuts almost but not quite inaudibly as her sister reaches for her third biscuit.

  ‘I’m on holiday!’ protests Harriet, with a grin. She flicks back and forth in the dog-eared town guide she found on an adjacent shelf. ‘This is brilliant. Listen. Placed in a suggestive position between two mountain large and grand, the town is surprising. Full stop.’ She laughs delightedly. ‘And we really can’t leave here without a visit to the botanical gardens—’

  ‘Stop it,’ whispers Hester, glancing over at the padrone.

  ‘No, seriously. Botanic garden despite its little smallness and position in the centre that allows no widening yet offers to the eye hidden corners of suggestive delights to discover always new scenaries. It’s clearly a very suggestive place.’

  ‘The worst kind of cultural snobbery, sneering at the natives,’ says Hester sanctimoniously, but with a glint in her eye. For years, one of their mutual pleasures has been spotting and celebrating infelicitous translations.

  The sisters share a complicit look. And both relax, sensing the beginnings of a return of their old easy camaraderie. Hester reaches over and snaffles the remaining biscuit on Harriet’s plate.

  The taxi draws up outside Il Santuario, the driver hurrying around to heave open the sliding passenger door and offer the poor lady a helping hand. Mary takes it gratefully and, supported by Ron and Rhona, carefully eases herself out of the vehicle, to be greeted effusively by Alfonso and Marco, who have run down the steps to welcome her. They usher her into the hotel and towards the room designed for disabled guests, sited close by reception.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine!’ Mary keeps insisting, embarrassed by all the fuss.

  ‘Perhaps the signora would like to lie down?’ Alfonso asks Ron, as though his wife’s accident has deprived her of all volition.

  ‘I’m okay,’ says Mary plaintively, looking desperately to Rhona for support, only for Ron to ignore her interjection and agree with the hotelier that yes, she must rest and be left to sleep. Perhaps a sign requesting silence could be displayed outside her door?

  ‘I’m sick to death of sleeping,’ mutters Mary, fast losing all hope of the coffee she has been craving for the last two hours as they battled the impenetrable bureaucracy at the hospital before finally securing her discharge. Defeated, the reluctant invalid allows herself to be frogmarched to her room, the restorative view of the sun-bathed countryside to be hidden behind light-excluding shutters, her shoes removed and a blanket to be drawn over her. Her minders tiptoe noisily out and shut the door, leaving her in almost total darkness. She closes her eyes.

  The beauty of the town’s Renaissance architecture feeds the sisters’ bonhomie as they begin to retrace their steps, on their way calling into the pharmacia, where Harriet purchases a bottle of Italian shampoo emblazoned with what looks like sprigs of rosemary. Regardless of its perfume and ingredients, it has a signal quality approved by both sisters: it is cheap. They marvel over the wealth of treasures contained within the narrow streets, agreeing that they really must return one day to do the town justice, as they make their way back towards the main road: at the geraniums spilling over wrought-iron balconies, the occasional cat sunning itself on pot-strewn steps, pedestrians raising a hand in greeting as they pass with a muttered ‘Buongiorno’.

  ‘I could almost live here,’ says Harriet.

  ‘Really? You mean you’d seriously leave England? Leave Pellington?’

  Harriet stiffens. Is that relief, hope even, she hears in Hetty’s voice?

  ‘No, of course not. Not really. It’s just the sun . . . the food . . . the people . . .’

  ‘The rain . . .’

  ‘Yes, but look at it,’ says Harriet, a sweeping hand taking in view and sky. ‘It’s over in seconds. Not like back home.’

  ‘It snows here in winter,’ says Hester, pointing at a symbol of snow tyres on a road sign.

  ‘Good point,’ concedes Harriet. ‘Holiday madness, that’s all.’

  ‘And the politics?’ Hester’s face crinkles with disapproval. ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes.’

  The sisters share a rueful laugh. This sort of conversation always ends up with the same conclusion: however bad life, society and politics may appear at home, it’s better than anywhere else.

  ‘Could you live somewhere else?’ says Harriet, spotting an opportunity. ‘Not abroad. I mean in England. London, say?’

  ‘London?’ Hester frowns in thought. Tries it out. ‘London . . .’

  ‘We’re always saying we don’t see enough theatre. Think of all of those galleries and exhibitions on your doorstep.’ Harriet glances across at her sister. ‘I mean, depending on where in London you lived.’

  ‘Couldn’t afford it,’ says Hester decisively, ‘even if we wanted to. What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Harriet, with studied casualness, thinking ‘we’. Who’s we?

  They walk on in silence for a few more minutes. Harriet thinks: the longer this goes on, the worse it’s going to get. I hate all these secrets. Did she but know it, Hester is thinking along almost identical lines.

  ‘Hetty—’

  ‘Harry—’

  They both laugh apologetically.

  ‘Sorry. Go on—’ Harriet is almost glad of the interruption.

  ‘No, you first,’ says Hester, secretly relieved. She nods at her sister to continue.

  Harriet takes a deep breath. ‘Well, you know what you were saying about Tuesday? About coming with me? To see Marion?’

  ‘Marion?’ says Hester. ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Friend from uni.’ Friend, thinks Harriet, but was she? ‘She was on my staircase in college.’

  ‘And you think . . .?’

  ‘Yes.’ There, she’s put it into words. ‘I don’t know for certain or why on earth . . . but yes. I spoke to her briefly this morning. Said I was going to be in her neighbourhood and could I drop in on Tuesday. Anyway, I’m sorry I was a bit iffy when you offered to come with me. I’d love you to. If you still want to.’

  ‘Of course I will! It’s the least I can do,’ says Hester humbly. ‘I got you into this mess.’

  ‘I thought we’d agreed you’d take off the hairshirt, Hetty. But I’m glad, I truly am. I’m really apprehensive, if I’m honest.’

  Hester grunts, Harriet’s overture balm to her still-battered and guilt-ridden spirits. She gives her sister’s shoulder an awkward pat in thanks.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Harriet. ‘Thanks a lot. Anyway, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ No, thinks Hester, not right now. Not when we’ve just got back on an even keel. ‘I can’t remember. Doesn’t matter. Gosh, it’s hot, isn’t it?!’

  Harriet knows an evasion when she sees one. She decides to let it go.

  ‘Mary should be back today,’ she says, seeking a neutral topic of conversation.

  ‘Presumably she’ll fly back on Monday on our flight,’ says Hester, as much from a desire to keep the conversation flowing as from any real concern for Mary. She’s bubbling inside with relief.

  ‘I guess. Let’s hope they can all get seats.’

  ‘And who’s this other woman that came over?’ says Hester. ‘Her sister?’

  ‘Neighbour.’ It’s not for Harriet to spill Mary’s secrets. ‘Best friend, that is.’

  ‘Must be,’ says Hester, with some asperity. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure I’d muscle in, not when there’s a husband to hand.’

  ‘I’d’ve done the same for you.’


  ‘Well, of course,’ says Hester scornfully, ‘but I’m your sister.’

  They turn in through the entrance to the hotel.

  The waiter lays out the plates of salami and hams, the pecorino, a basket of bread, pats of butter glistening with tiny drops of moisture, bowls of olives and thick slices of tomato sprinkled with torn basil and drizzled with oil. Plates, glasses, napkins, cutlery, a jug of water, a carafe of vino bianco, perfect for a light lunch. Alfonso and Marco, content that the necessities of life are at hand, that Signor Martindale has made no further mention of the accident, are at last returning to their duties: they have a business to run, fresh guests arriving any minute.

  ‘Bellissimo!’ says Rhona. ‘Grazie.’ The young boy sketches a bow and scampers back up the steps, leaving Mary’s husband and lover alone for the first time since they arrived in Italy.

  Ron regards his rival sourly. His mind simply will not allow him to comprehend the nature of her relationship with his wife. His wife! It’s an aberration, a test Mary has set him, a provocation. God knows why. Perhaps this accident, this blow to her head, will restore her to her senses. All he wants is for things to return to the way they were. Safe, predictable. They need never speak of it. If this bloody woman would just bugger off . . .

  The bloody woman gets to her feet. Her face is transformed, lit as from within, with rapture almost. He’s not a religious man but he’s seen the pictures. She might be a saint transfigured in a medieval painting. He envies her that joy and whatever its cause with an inexplicable sense of longing. Turns and sees Mary carefully making her way down the steps, clasping the rail tightly, smiling a small secret smile of triumph. If he had the words, had the courage, he would tell her—

  Rhona runs lightly up the steps and for one terrible moment he thinks she is going to kiss Mary. There, under this unfamiliar sun, in front of him. His heart tears, a hard hot pain, not with jealousy but regret. That she got there first. That it is her hands that are guiding Mary down those last few crooked steps.