by Babs Horton
“I see,” Catrin said.
“You have nervous laugh because you is afraid of what you don’t understand. Maybe you need to open your own eyes.”
“I do have my eyes open,” Catrin retorted sulkily.
“It’s your inner eye you not using because maybe you afraid of what you see.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“We all afraid of something, we just don’t like to admit it, eh?”
Catrin stayed silent.
“Now, before I forgets I must tell you something I remembered.”
Catrin didn’t reply. She felt wretched after stuffing her face with all that toast, and all she wanted was to get out of here and do some exercise. She tried to calculate how many star jumps she would need to do to burn off all those calories. If she didn’t move soon, the butter would start to lay itself down as a greasy layer of fat.
“I remember the name of man who Alice going to marry.”
Catrin didn’t care who the stupid man was. Alice had been just a simple woman who had stupid dreams and saw things which weren’t there. What did any of it matter? It was nothing to do with her.
“He is called Arthur, Arthur Campbell, and he a doctor.”
Catrin stared at Nonna’s unseeing eyes. Arthur Campbell? No, that couldn’t possibly be right.
“What kind of a doctor was he?”
“He the doctor of the sike-ee-eye-atry, like the man Alice sent to in London – a doctor who mends troubles in the head.”
“I know what a psychiatrist is,” Catrin said curtly. Norma must be mistaken. It couldn’t be Arthur Campbell, that was just too ridiculous.
“He come here often for the holidays with his sister and then poof! he fall in love with Alice and make a windwhirl romance and Alice is swept off of her feets.”
Catrin could hardly hear what Norma was saying. Arthur Campbell had been going to marry Alice Grieve, who was slightly simple in the head? No! He would never marry someone unless they were very clever, because cleverness mattered to him more than anything in the world. Anyway, he didn’t have a sister so Norma must be mistaken.
If it was true, though, Arthur Campbell had been stood up at the altar. Blimey O’Riley! Alice may have been daft but she was very brave to do that to a man like Arthur Campbell. How furious he would have been to be made a fool of. Catrin shuddered; she wouldn’t want to face him if he was angry.
She remembered Ella asking what her godfather’s name was. At the time she hadn’t thought anything of it, but Ella had almost spat out her tea and then scurried off into the larder. Why hadn’t she said she knew Campbell? Why did she need to be so secretive?
Catrin had been so deep in thought that she had forgotten all about Norma. When she looked across, the old woman was fast asleep, snoring gently, with her chin resting on her chest, the corno necklace flashing in the sunlight that streamed suddenly through the window.
She looked like something from another age, like a portrait from Recipes for Cherubs. Catrin smiled. She reached out and gently touched the old woman’s warm cheek. Then she closed the door softly and made her way downstairs.
The café was empty except for Tony, who was sitting at a table near the window with his head in his hands. He jumped as she got nearer, smiled and patted the seat next to him. Catrin sat down obediently. “Nonna’s fallen asleep,” she said.
“She gets very tired these days.”
“Tony, do you know what ‘gelato’ means in English?”
“II gelato is ice cream.”
“Is it easy to make?”
“Ah! Nowadays it’s easy, with fridges and electric icecream makers. When my grandfather came here, he made his own ice cream with an old-fashioned ice-cream maker and then he had to push his ice-cream cart up and down all the steep hills in Wales. Today they’ve got ice-cream vans with plastic cows and noisy bells on top.”
“Only, I’ve found a recipe for ice cream and I’d like to make it the old-fashioned way if I can.”
“Somewhere we’ve still got the old ice-cream maker. I’ll look it out and you can try it.”
“That would be good.”
“You said you didn’t like ice cream.”
“Well, I don’t particularly.”
“Then what do you want to make it for?”
“Well, it’s for Aunt Ella, to cheer her up.”
“You’re a very kind girl, Catrin. Ella is a lucky woman to have a niece like you.”
Catrin felt the colour rise in her cheeks and she glowed under Tony’s kind words.
“You don’t need to blush,” he said, touching her playfully on the cheek.
As he got up, she noticed an old postcard on the table with a picture of a cherub on the front.
“That’s a beautiful painting.”
“It’s the famous Napoli cherub,” Tony said. “Fancy a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, but no milk, please.”
“Sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
It was easy to forget how many calories there were in sugar and milk.
Catrin looked at the chubby green-eyed cherub, then turned the postcard over and read the printed bit on the back: The green-eyed cherub is one of the few Piero di Bardi paintings to have come to light. It was found by accident and sold for a fortune at auction by an anonymous seller. Catrin scrutinised the painting again. It was just like the ones in Recipes for Cherubs. Tony was partly hidden behind a cloud of steam from the coffee maker, so she furtively read the message.
Antonio, my apologies for leaving without saying goodbye. I have made a terrible mistake and had to leave suddenly. I will write soon, don’t worry. One day we will have the restaurant of our dreams, maybe in London, Roma or even here in… The writing was smudged here and the sender’s name obliterated.
It sounded as if the card was from a lover, perhaps the woman for whom Tony had lit the fourth candle in the chapel. Whoever she was, she obviously hadn’t kept her promise because here he was, still running the Café Romana.
Tony came back to the table, sat down and pushed a steaming cup of coffee towards Catrin. “You had a good chat with Norma?”
“Yes, about Aunt Alice and Meredith Evans, mostly.”
“Poor old Meredith.”
“You like him?”
“He’s harmless enough. He used to be a damn fine photographer years ago, but he lost all interest. You should take a look at some of the photos in his shop – there are some good ones of Kilvenny.”
“Why does he drink so much?”
“These days this place is enough to drive a man to drink.”
“Don’t you like it here?”
“Dear God, I don’t know. There’s nothing going on these days, and it saps your ambition.”
“So you’d rather be running a restaurant with your friend?” she blurted out without thinking.
Tony looked hard at her and she averted her eyes with embarrassment. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?
“Ah, so you read the postcard.”
Catrin blushed and looked down into her coffee cup.
“There was a time when I had ambition, when I wanted my own restaurant, to cook real Italian food and make a name for myself.”
“So why didn’t you make the Café Romana into a restaurant?”
“Here in Kilvenny my customers want soggy pie and chips, toasted teacakes and Spam sandwiches; they don’t want ravioli, bruschetta or tiramisii. They’re not ready for change like that.”
He laughed. “If I served up ravioli or cannelloni they’d think I’d gone mad and say, “Hey, Tony boy, what’s this muck?””
“Did you want to live somewhere else, then?”
“I had all sorts of dreams – a little café in the heart of Naples, a trattoria in Soho London – but I was let down badly.”
“Who by?”
“A friend of mine who came here to work in the café one summer. We made great plans but then they left unexpectedly.”
“Without sa
ying goodbye?”
“Without saying goodbye,” he repeated, and there was a catch in his voice.
There was silence for a while until Tony got to his feet.
“Ah, well, it wasn’t to be. Soon afterwards my grandfather died suddenly and I stayed here with Nonna. Anyway, it’s not going to happen now, so don’t let’s be maudlin. How are you finding Kilvenny?”
“I love it. I’m having a whale of a time and I’m getting on better with Aunt Ella.”
The bell above the door announced the arrival of Dan Gwartney, who came in, removed his cap and sat down wearily.
“All right, Catrin? Tony? Cup of strong tea when you’re ready.”
Seeing the postcard, Dan picked it up and turned it over and his eyes grew bright with interest.
“That’s the Napoli cherub by Piero di Bardi,” said Catrin. “I’ve just read all about it.”
Dan didn’t answer. He was staring at the postcard, his fingers drumming absentmindedly on the Formica table.
“Have you heard from your mother recently?” he asked, pushing the postcard aside.
“No, she’s still in Italy.”
“That’s good. She’ll be enjoying herself, then.”
Then he got up suddenly, put on his cap and left.
“You forgot your tea, Mr Gwartney.” But the door closed, and the echo of the bell hung in the air for a long time.
32
It was dark in the Via Dante. The shutters were closed on all the houses except one. Piero di Bardi stood at the window watching the fat moon rising above the church tower. The bats were out, cutting arcs of darkness through the air, and over in the piazza a dog howled.
He must eat and drink and fortify himself against exhaustion so that he would have the strength to work through the night. He smiled as he lifted down the huge ham from the hook in the ceiling. Signor Bisotti’s servant, Maria Paparella, had come to the house this morning, bringing the ham and two loaves of the most delicious-looking bread he had ever seen. She had been flustered when she spoke to him, blushed and said they were gifts from her master, but everyone knew that Signor Bisotti was as mean as he was ugly.
As she left she had given him one of those generous smiles of hers; a smile which could lighten up a dark alley on a gloomy day. Then, before he could thank her properly, she was bustling back along the Via Dante, singing loudly as she went. He watched her enviously until she disappeared into the piazza. How wonderful to be blessed with such a capacity for happiness and the confidence to sing so unselfconsciously. She couldn’t sing to save her soul and yet, awful as her voice was, it seemed to him that she could paint rainbows with her tongue.
Piero cut some thick slices of ham, broke one of the loaves in half, and settled down to eat. These days, if he didn’t eat he became shaky and disoriented and his sight blurred alarmingly. He ate enthusiastically, poured a mug of wine and drank deep. Just lately, he seemed to have an unquenchable thirst.
He had wasted valuable time this afternoon sketching the blasted Zanelli girls while the widow stood at his shoulder yatter-ing like a demented crow. He could not abide her with her polished piety and nit-picking ways. She was a scurrilous gossip, a social climber and a spiteful bitch to boot. Left to his own devices, he would never have chosen such a charmless pair of girls as his models.
He got up from the table and stood looking lovingly at a canvas propped against the wall. He had captured her spirit, that wonderful capricious light in her eyes, and the whimsical smile. He ran his finger over the painted lips, traced the outline of her face, then wiped his eyes with the back of his paint-stained hand.
If only he knew what had happened to her, whether she was alive or dead. Why hadn’t she come to him? Had she never meant to make their assignation? Or had something terrible happened to her and the child? He had been so sure she would follow him and he had waited and waited, but in vain.
He wandered over to his easel and stood lost in thought. It was time to accept that she would never come. He’d kept the hope alive for all these years and deluded himself. It was time he laid the past to rest and embraced the future. He would dedicate this new work to her memory, to the memory of their love. This painting of the cherubs feasting was going to be his best work ever, although maybe his last, for he knew with certainty that his health was failing, that time was of the essence.
He hastily removed the sketches of the Zanelli girls and took up another canvas. Then he began to draw, working feverishly, his eyes bright with rekindled passion.
As the moon rose higher and the stars pricked through the blanket of indigo sky, Piero worked on, unaware of the mischievous eyes that watched him and the tiny hand that slipped in through the open window and surreptitiously removed a paintbrush from the pot.
33
Most days Catrin strolled down to the beach and paddled in the sea, enjoying the freedom of being able to wander wherever she chose without asking anyone’s permission. At school they were always chaperoned by the nuns and only allowed to walk down to the village shop in threes on Saturday mornings. When she was at home with her mother they took taxis almost everywhere, and when occasionally she was allowed out into the garden in the middle of the square she ambled about awkwardly, too self-conscious and tongue-tied to approach any of the other children.
She kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes in the warm sand, stared out to sea, scooped up a handful of sand and let it run through her fingers.
It was wonderful to have time to think without the nuns telling you what you should be thinking. She was mulling over what Norma had told her about Arthur Campbell marrying Alice Grieve, but things didn’t add up. For a start, he didn’t have a sister, and yet everything else Norma had said sounded as if it must be him.
He would never have married someone like Alice; he despised people who weren’t intelligent. He didn’t say it out loud but you could tell. When she was small he’d paid for her to have piano lessons and every Sunday afternoon she had to play for him. She’d enjoyed her lessons, even though she was hopeless, but as soon as Arthur Campbell commanded her to play she’d been a bag of nerves. She crumbled beneath his withering gaze and impatient sighs and the black and white keys on the piano became a blur.
A year or so later he’d sent her to art classes with the best teacher he could find, then dancing lessons, but when she failed to shine in either he lost interest in her. She still visited him on Sunday afternoons during the holidays but she could tell he was bored with her.
She got slowly to her feet and climbed the steep steps to Shrimp’s Hotel, wandered through the long grass and stood looking at the dilapidated building. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine how it must have been in its heyday.
The windows would be open wide and the curtains blowing in the sea breeze. Maids would be waving their feather dusters out of the windows and singing as they cleaned the bedrooms. There would be guests sprawled in deckchairs on the lawns, talking and laughing. Others would be sitting at tables covered with white damask tablecloths. She would hear the tinkle of silver teaspoons against bone china and someone playing the piano as girls in black uniforms and starched white caps served afternoon tea.
She was lost in her reverie and it was a few moments before she realised that the music wasn’t inside her head. She opened her eyes and listened intently. Yes, someone was definitely playing the piano in the hotel. The breeze caught the notes and whirled them around her head. It was a song that Sister Matilde had taught them in school:
“Oh soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me with your musket, fife and drum…”
“Oh no, sweet maid, I cannot marry thee for I have no hat to put on.”
The song told the story of a young girl who fell in love and was tricked into giving a wily soldier everything that she had, and when she had, he told her he was already married. The last words of the song were: “Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry thee for I have a wife of my own!”
Mary Donahue said that the girl wanted her head exa
mining for being such a trusting chump, but Sister Matilde said that love clouded the eyes and sometimes the judgement.
Catrin went over to the french windows, screwed up her eyes and peered into the room. She could see the piano but not who was playing it. It was a spooky feeling, as if a ghost were in there.
The music stopped abruptly. Then a chord was played with a flourish and the final notes echoed on the air for a long time.
She stared intently at the piano. Any moment now whoever was playing would stand up and show their face…
The hands came down on her shoulders without warning and she cried out in alarm. She spun round, her eyes wide with fear.
34
As Ella walked, head down, across the cracked paving of the Italian garden, she was startled by a meaningful cough. She jumped, and put her hand up to her heart. “Dear God, Norma, you gave me such a fright!”
Norma was sitting in a bath chair to the left of the rose-laden archway, a black lace shawl draped across her head and shoulders to keep off the sun.
“I think you taking a long time to come and see me, so I gets my Antonio to push me over in this contraption and comes to see you instead. You going to sit and talk with me or you going to run away?”
“I’ve stopped running, Nonna,” Ella said with resignation.
“Come here to me, Ella, my Ella!” she cried, holding out her arms. Ella stooped and kissed her affectionately on both cheeks and they held each other tightly for a long time.
“It’s good to see you, Nonna, it really is,” Ella said.
“You take your times, but I very glad I see you before I dies, eh?”
“Don’t talk like that, Nonna. You’ll be here for ever.”
“Well, I thank God that child come here and make you come out of hidings.”
“As soon as Tony rang me I came straight away. Not that I wanted to leave Shrimp’s but I was worried about her. She’s not well, Nonna, she’s as thin as a stick.”
“Something troubles her badly, eh? Something very deep that make her punish herself.”