2008 - Recipes for Cherubs

by Babs Horton

  What was wrong with him of late? He had never had this problem in the past – why, his hand had always itched to draw, even when he was in the most improbable of places. Sometimes when he was kneeling during Mass and a shaft of sunlight doused a cool saint in a shadowy niche or cast luminous haloes around the upturned faces of the altar boys, he would have killed to be able to take up his charcoal and set to work. Yet in the last weeks it was as if the world around him had grown stale and uninteresting and his eyes could not make contact with his hand.

  His fingers felt heavy, as if his blood was transforming into a thick syrup and parts of him were turning to stone, little by little, his hands, maybe next his arms.

  This morning, he had begged for more time but Signor Bisotti was having none of it. And then he had dropped the bombshell. He wanted Piero to model his cherubs on the widow Zanelli’s two daughters.

  Sweet Jesus, the man was mad. The Zanelli sisters were pretty enough, but in such an artificial way, all baubles and bangles and dangling ribbons. They had fine enough faces to grace the front of a snuffbox, but there was no freshness, no earthiness, and no aura of innocence about them. He had told Signor Bisotti this, said he must feel the very essence of his model’s flesh seep into his being.

  At that point Signor Bisotti had lost his temper and screeched, “This is the drink making you talk nonsense. Essence and aura my arse! Pah! When I ask the carpenter to make me a table, does he say, “Oh, the oak has no aura, no essence?” No. He takes my money and he makes me a table. You, Piero, will paint the Zanelli girls or I will withdraw my generous offer.”

  Then Signor Bisotti had led him up to this cool, dark room and bidden him lie down until he was sober and his madness had passed.

  Now Piero ran his paint-stained fingers through his tangled hair in despair. He knew that as soon as those damned Zanelli girls were sitting in front of him his hands would begin to shake and his mind would flit from one incongruous thought to another. He had surely been cursed, his talents dried up, congealed like old paint blobs on the empty palette of his mind.

  He got unsteadily to his feet, went over to the window, pushed open the shutters and screwed up his eyes against the bright sunshine.

  He looked down into the garden of the Villa Rosso and drew in his breath with a whistle at the scene before him.

  Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the pomegranate tree, dappling the faces of the four people sitting on the grass.

  There was a girl he had never seen before. She must be Ismelda, the youngest Bisotti girl, the one Signor Bisotti took great pains to keep hidden away. He’d heard the locals speak of her in hushed tones, calling her the odd child, a child who could put the evil eye on you, make milk turn sour and the hens stop laying.

  She was looking intently at the little dwarf, Bindo, and the unusual blue of her eyes was so captivating that Piero could not take his own eyes off her. It was like getting a sudden glimpse of the sea, of unfathomable swirling depths. Her face was remarkable; she was no classic beauty but there was a great vitality and an animation about her which took his breath away.

  Her skin was as smooth as alabaster, a cluster of freckles peppering her nose and cheeks. She had a wide mouth, lips as pink as roses, as plump as caterpillars. A mane of wild, glossy hair framed this wonderful face, hair as black and blue as a raven’s wing.

  Reluctantly he turned his eyes away from her and looked at Bindo, and it was as if he was seeing him properly for the first time. The boy had been miraculously transformed in some way, but what was it that had changed? His skin was paler than usual and, though darkened by the summer sun, it had a translucency that transformed his features. A smear of red fruit dissected the smooth skin of his cheek like a scar.

  Bindo was looking at Ismelda with wonder in his deep green eyes, drinking her up with his gaze, his eyelashes whispering across cheeks dusted with freckles of sunlight.

  Piero started when he saw that Luca Roselli, his shop boy, was down there in the garden, too. The cheeky devil was supposed to be at the house in the Via Dante, making cheese glue. So this was where he sloped off to in the afternoons – no wonder Piero could never find him when there was work to be done. Luca’s eyes were closed and there was a look of such contentment on his face that Piero was astonished. Gone was the scowl he wore when he was working for Piero. He was resting his back against the pomegranate tree, wriggling his bare brown toes, looking as though he had not a care in the world.

  Maria Paparella, the Bisottis’ servant, sat cross-legged on the grass, her faded black dress rucked up to just below her dimpled knees. Her plump calves were as pale as early narcissi, in contrast to her large sun-browned arms; here was a woman of contrast, of light and shade, of strength and tenderness.

  It was a scene of such raw and unadulterated beauty that it made the hairs on his neck quiver, and a lump grow in his throat.

  Maria Paparella looked up suddenly, and she smiled as their eyes met. Piero stepped back hastily from the window, feeling suddenly bashful. He drew the shutters together reluctantly and stood for a long time in the darkened room. For the first time in months his hand itched to take up his charcoal and draw.

  13

  In Kilvenny Castle Ella Grieve woke early in the four-poster bed where she had been born almost fifty-three years ago. Until last night she had barely set foot in the castle since the day her family had moved to Shrimp’s Hotel. After they had gone, the castle had been shut up until her eldest brother, William, had married Hester and moved in here.

  As she lay listening to the morning sounds of Kilvenny, she grew puzzled. There was the sound of birdsong and the lapping of the waves down on the beach, but something was missing. It was all far too quiet. She was used to the silence up at Shrimp’s, but down here in the village there had always been lots of bustle and noise. Today there was no raucous laughter from the fish workers as they made their way down to the Café Romana, where they bided their time until the ramshackle bus arrived to take them along the rutted road to the smokehouse further down the coast. She hadn’t heard the clop of hooves as the donkey cart from Duffy’s Farm made its way around the narrow streets, delivering milk, eggs and gossip.

  She got up, opened the window and looked over at the Café Romana. She was surprised to see that the door was firmly shut and the sign still turned to CLOSED. There was no sign of movement inside, no steam rising from the coffee machine, no workers in greasy overalls, no lingering smell of strong tobacco or pungent whiff of fish on the morning breeze.

  She turned away from the window and wandered fretfully around the room. Above the fireplace there was a framed photograph of William’s awful wife, Hester. Hester had been a beautiful woman but her beauty was marred by cold, scornful eyes and a cruel twist to her lovely lips. Ella looked at the sleek blonde hair framing the well-boned face, and shuddered. Hester Grieve had been a sly, calculating bitch.

  Thinking of her brought Kizzy reluctantly to mind. She had been a little beauty, too, not fair like her mother but dark like the Grieves. She’d been a delightful child, full of fun and able to charm everyone around her, but after her father died she’d hardened and in her teenage years she’d been nothing short of a bloody handful. Hester had been hopeless with her, impatient and critical and hideously jealous of Kizzy’s youth. When she met her second husband she’d bundled Kizzy off with relief to boarding school, upped sticks and never set foot in Kilvenny again.

  Kizzy had come back to Shrimp’s every school holiday, severing all ties with Hester. Ella had been fond of Kizzy, had always hoped that she would join them in running Shrimp’s after she left school, but that wasn’t to be. Kizzy had proved that she had far more of her mother in her than anyone had thought. What she had done to Alice had been quite unforgivable, poor, beautiful, naive Alice, who hadn’t a bad bone in her body. Alice had been far lovelier than either Hester or Kizzy; she’d had looks to die for and she’d always been able to attract any man’s eye, though not necessarily his heart.

 
Ella sat down at the dressing table and scrutinised her reflection in the mirror. There was a slight improvement on how she had looked yesterday because last night she’d soaked in the antiquated bath downstairs, her first bath in longer than she cared to remember. Her face had scrubbed up well and there was a semblance of colour in her cheeks this morning; her hair was clean, although still tangled from years of neglect.

  Dear God, she must have frightened that child half to death when she opened the door to her the other night. Whatever must Catrin have thought, seeing her great-aunt dressed in that old brown overall, odd-coloured Wellingtons and a face which hadn’t been washed in months, even years?

  Ella looked critically at herself; she had never been remotely beautiful, not even close to pretty, although her eyes were reasonable; her nose was rather on the large side though not hideous. Her mouth had always been her best feature but now it was drawn down because of all the years without smiling. She practised a smile hesitantly, and then frowned. It had been more of a grimace than a smile, so out of practice was she.

  She got to her feet, took a last dissatisfied look in the mirror, and sighed. She made her way slowly down the stairs to the kitchen and set about boiling a kettle on the old stove. After a good strong cup of tea, she would have to think about what she would do with this blasted great-niece of hers. The sooner she could get shot of her and get back to Shrimp’s the better.

  14

  Catrin woke as the first watery light came pricking through the bedroom window, rinsing away the shadows of the night. Outside, the air was alive with birdsong and someone was whistling cheerfully.

  She sat up in the big bed, yawned and sniffed. She smelt of sour sweat and unwashed hair and she realised with horror that it was almost three days since she’d last washed. When she was fully awake she’d go down to the bathroom and bath and then she must ring her school again – one of the nuns was bound to answer the telephone this morning, and her worries would be over. Sister Matilde would drive down in the old school jalopy and rescue her. Hip hip hooray, she’d be on her way out of Kilvenny for ever.

  Aunt Ella would be glad to see the back of her and could hurry back to Shrimp’s Hotel and lock herself in with the mice and cobwebs and strange men who hid in wardrobes for fun. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  There was a knock at the bedroom door and before she had time to hide beneath the blankets, Aunt Ella backed into the room and set a battered tray down on the bedside table, nodding curtly to Catrin. Catrin’s heart sank as she looked with loathing at the boiled eggs and the plate of thickly buttered toast soldiers. She’d eaten the chicken soup last night because she was too embarrassed to turn it down, but she wasn’t going to stuff herself stupid on eggs and bread.

  “I thought you might want some breakfast. You look as if you haven’t eaten much in a long while.”

  Catrin felt her face redden with indignation. Why did people go on about food all the time? No one needed to eat three square meals a day.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I don’t actually have a big appetite.”

  “You don’t look as if you eat enough to keep a sparrow alive.”

  “Looks can be very deceptive,” Catrin retorted.

  Ella edged away towards the door, her mouth set in a grim line. “Of course, if you can’t eat, rather than won’t eat, I could get the doctor in to take a look at you.”

  Catrin bit back the urge to snap: if Ella did call a doctor to look at her, they’d know something was wrong.

  “Fine,” she mumbled, leaning across for the tray.

  “Do you have any plans for today?” Ella asked.

  Catrin ignored her. She was making it sound as if she was On a proper holiday and not waiting to escape from a bad dream. She wanted to say sarcastically, “Oh, yes, I’ll have a swim and sunbathe and then maybe a game of tennis.” Instead she said through clenched teeth, “I’d like to find a telephone and ring my school again, if that’s all right with you.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “I’d still like to.”

  “I, er, rang them yesterday evening from the library.”

  Catrin brightened visibly and sat up in bed. “Are they coming for me today?” she asked, hope rising in her voice.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Catrin looked at Ella through narrowed eyes. She could tell she was lying. “How did you find out the number?”

  “If you remember, you mentioned the name of your school to me yesterday and I got the number from the operator.”

  “And the nuns really said that I had to stay here all summer?” Catrin asked in disbelief.

  “Not exactly. I actually spoke to a man.”

  “There aren’t any men at my school, so you must have got the wrong number,” Catrin said with triumph.

  “The man I spoke to was, in fact, a doctor. Apparently there’s been an outbreak of scarlet fever and none of the sisters was available to speak to me.”

  Catrin glanced down at the tray of food. For two pins she’d snatch up the boiled eggs and hurl them across the room at this mad old woman.

  She clamped her lips together and tried to batten down her rising anger.

  “I’m sure we’ll sort something out for you before long.”

  “You can’t keep me here against my will, you know.”

  Ella raised her eyebrows and laughed. “I’ve no intention of keeping you here any longer than necessary.”

  “I didn’t ask to come here in the first place.”

  “And I certainly didn’t ask your feckless mother to send you here. I expect she was desperate and Shrimp’s was the last resort.”

  Ella took a sidelong look at Catrin and felt immediately sorry for speaking so sharply. She was a mere scrap of a girl, bewildered and afraid. She had very beautiful eyes, rather like Ella’s brother William, the sort of eyes that looked as if they’d been drawn with charcoal and smudged around the lashes. She was bound to take after the Grieves – after all, William was her grandfather.

  She watched Catrin wipe her eyes surreptitiously on a corner of the sheet. Don’t be fooled by tears, Ella Grieve, she told herself. Some people could turn them on like a tap.

  “I don’t know why she sent me here, either. She must have known you wouldn’t want me.”

  “I expect she thought Alice would welcome you with open arms. Alice was always a soft touch where Kizzy was concerned.”

  “But Alice is dead,” Catrin said.

  “Yes, she is, dead and gone, but your mother wouldn’t have known that. I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at. The last thing I need in my life is a child to look after.”

  “And the last thing I need is a…”

  “A what?”

  Catrin was going to say ‘a mad old aunt who lives in a pigsty’ but seeing the stern set of Ella’s face she thought better of it. “Nothing.”

  “Go on, tell the truth and shame the devil.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, spit out whatever it is you want to say, and clear the air.”

  “I don’t want to say anything. I just want to go away from here, that’s all.”

  “You will soon enough when we can get hold of that useless article of a mother of yours.”

  “But I don’t even know how to find her. All I know is that she’s somewhere in Italy.”

  “What the hell is she doing in Italy?”

  “She said she was going to meet someone she’d known at school.”

  “Well, I’ll find her somehow, even if I have to ring the bloody Pope himself.”

  Catrin looked aghast. Was she mad? You couldn’t just ring the Pope. He was a very busy man. Didn’t she know anything?

  Ella turned on her heel and walked towards the door.

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Catrin called after her.

  “For starters, eat your breakfast.” Catrin turned her head away in fury and did not look back until the door had closed behind Ella and her footsteps had died away down
the corridor.

  She looked longingly at the food in front of her, ached to pick up the spoon and crack the brown shell of the egg, watch the yellow yolk rise up and dribble over the side. The smell of toast was unbearable and she imagined how it would feel to dip a toast soldier into the warm egg.

  The temptation to eat was so great that if she didn’t distract herself straight away she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She got quickly out of bed and looked around for a suitable hiding place. She hid the boiled eggs in the back of an empty wardrobe, opened the window and stuck the toast butter side down against the outside wall of the castle. They might be able to make her stay here until they found her mother but they couldn’t force her to eat.

  She threw herself down on the bed, hid her face in the pillow and punched the bed with clenched fists until she was exhausted. When her anger was finally spent she picked up the strange book she had been reading last night and thumbed through the pages, losing herself once again in the beautiful paintings, transporting herself to another place, another time, far away from horrible Kilvenny.

  15

  Signor Bisotti emerged from the sombre darkness of the church of Santa Rosa into the light as the Angelus bell began to chime. He stepped backwards as an old donkey, escaped from his tethering and laden with panniers of fruit, came clattering along the cobbles. Signor Bisotti ducked when a large split lemon bounced up off the cobbles, narrowly missing his head.

  The good Lord must surely be looking down on him this morning, for if he had stepped out a moment sooner he might be nursing a blackened eye or missing a few of his crooked teeth.

  He crossed the square, passed the fountain where the chipped and mossy cherubs splashed in the cascades of frothing water. He kept to the shade, staying close to the high walls that surrounded his house, the Villa Rosso, the largest, most luxurious house in the town. He smiled at this thought; he was very proud of his wealth and his standing in Santa Rosa.