by Babs Horton
“You’re sticking up for her now,” Catrin said.
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want you to get too upset about it.”
“Upset? Of course I’m upset. I’m a bastard, and I don’t know who my father was, and I’ve got a mother who doesn’t care about me.”
“I’m sure she does care about you in her own way.”
“She doesn’t care at all, that’s obvious. I’m not wanted, and I’m not good enough, I never have been.”
“Good enough for who? There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I’ve always embarrassed her, never been pretty enough. I used to be plump – fat, really – and I thought if I was thin I’d feel better, fit in more, but I don’t and I never will because I’m a bas – ”
“Enough! I don’t want to hear that word again. Get a grip. You’re not the first child to be born out of wedlock, and you won’t be the last. It happens.”
“Why did it have to happen to me, though? It’s just disgusting,” Catrin wailed.
“I don’t know why it happened to you, but I know people in the same position and they’ve turned out all right.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Tony Agosti, for a start.”
Catrin looked up in surprise. “Tony? Doesn’t he have a father, either?”
“He doesn’t have a father or a mother.”
“That’s being an orphan, though, and that’s not as bad as what I am.”
“His mother had Tony before she was married, and after he was born she left him here with Norma and Luigi and buggered off.”
“What, left him for good? You mean she never came back?”
Ella sighed, and it was a while before she replied.
“No, she never came back. He was brought up by his grandparents.”
“How awful for him.”
“Not really: they loved him dearly. So you see, at least your mother didn’t abandon you.”
“That’s probably only because I didn’t have any grandparents she could dump me with.”
“I don’t suppose it was easy for her being an unmarried mother.”
“She doesn’t love me. She never wants to spend any time with me – look at the way she sent me here without even bothering to see if you minded.”
“But you’re here now and, despite our shaky start, you’re very welcome. Come on, have another biscuit.”
Catrin was about to refuse but, unbidden, her mind conjured up a picture of Ismelda Bisotti and Bindo sitting together beneath the pomegranate tree eating brutti ma buoni biscuits. Hesitantly she put the biscuit to her lips, and then popped it into her mouth and ate it. Without thinking, she took another.
Ella sat in silence, delighted to see her eating, and when she’d finished her third biscuit she took Catrin gently in her arms and hugged her close.
“You’re a very lovely girl, Catrin Grieve, and don’t you forget that,” she said softly.
“Aunt Ella, can I ask you a question?”
Ella braced herself, but Catrin only said, “You know the statue in the Italian garden?”
“I do.”
“Where did it come from?”
“You are a funny one! What a strange question to ask in the midst of all your misery, but I can tell you the answer.”
“Brilliant.”
“A ship went down along the coast.”
“Do you mean the Flino?”
“That’s right. The statue was salvaged from her and brought here. It was covered in muck and moss until my father decided to restore it and get it working.”
“Where was the Flino on its way from?”
“I don’t know…somewhere abroad. If you’re interested you could always look up the records in the library. There’s all sorts of information in there in an old scrapbook someone put together.”
Catrin shivered with anticipation. Things were getting more mysterious and interesting by the minute.
“I see you’ve heard from your mother,” Ella said, nodding at the letter discarded on the window seat.
Catrin scowled. “She’s staying in a place called the Hotel Paradiso in Naples and she can stay and rot there, for all I care.”
“Do you think you should speak to her and tell her what you’ve found out?”
“No. I don’t want to speak to her as long as I live!” Catrin said defiantly.
Ella thought that Kizzy had better make the most of her holiday, because she was going to have a difficult task on her hands when she came breezing back from Italy. Catrin had changed since she’d been here in Kilvenny, and was showing more feistiness by the day.
“Perhaps you’ll feel differently, given time.”
“Oh no I won’t. She can bloody well whistle!”
40
Dan Gwartney had his head stuck in a book when Ella burst into the library. He got to his feet and went towards her.
“Ella, it’s a surprise to see you. I was just thinking about pouring a drink. Come and join me.”
“I’m not staying long,” she said haughtily. “I want to use your telephone, if that’s all right.”
“Help yourself, you know where it is. Who are you ringing this time of the night?”
“Kizzy Grieve, if you must know.”
“I didn’t think you were on speaking terms,” he said.
“Well, I haven’t got much to say to her, but what I have got may give her a nasty shock.”
“You know where she is then?”
“Some hotel in Italy. Catrin had a letter from her today.”
“Ella, sit down for a minute and catch your breath. I’ll get you a whisky and while you’re drinking it I’ll ring the operator and find out the number.”
Ella sank thankfully in a chair and took the proffered drink without protest. “She’s staying at the Hotel Paradiso, near Naples.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“Visiting some man or other, I expect.”
Dan raised his eyebrows, then left the room, and a few minutes later she heard him shouting down the line to the operator.
When he came back Ella had finished her drink and he poured her another one without giving her time to refuse.
“The line isn’t very good but I’ll try again in a minute, get a connection, and then you can talk to Kizzy. How is Catrin?”
“Up and down, you know,” she said, determined not to give anything away.
“She comes over here quite a bit. She likes to read, which is nice to see in this day and age.”
“That reminds me, can I borrow that scrapbook with all the cuttings about the Flino?”
“You taking up history as a hobby?” he teased.
“Hardly. Catrin’s interested in it, and I thought it might take her mind off things a bit.”
“What things would they be?”
Ella pursed her lips and was about to retort angrily that he hadn’t changed and was still a nosy old bugger, when the telephone rang, an insistent ring which made Ella flinch.
“I’ll take that and call you when she’s on the line.”
Ella drained her drink and then helped herself to another; she needed fortifying before she gave Kizzy a piece of her mind.
Dan came back in looking crestfallen.
“Sorry, Ella. I got through to the hotel, but it seems that Kizzy left this morning without leaving a forwarding address.”
“Bugger! I’d got myself all wound up to give her a flea in her ear, and she’s flown the coop.”
“Is there any other way you can get in touch with her?”
“Not as far as I know. Thanks for the drink, anyway.”
“I’ll just get you that scrapbook.”
He searched through the drawers of a large chest and produced a battered old scrapbook. “This hasn’t seen the light of day in a good few years. If you could sign for it in the members’ ledger I’d be grateful.”
The telephone rang again, and Dan excused himself.
Ella opened the ledger and turned the p
ages until she came to her own name, surprised he hadn’t erased her from the book considering how long she’d been away. She signed for the book and then flicked through the pages until she came to a section in the back for temporary memberships; a lot of the guests from Shrimp’s used to join while they were on their holidays. Looking down the list she saw a name which made her breathe unevenly. There was the once-familiar copperplate handwriting.
Oh God, how excited she used to be when a letter arrived with her name and address written in that distinctive hand.
She snapped the book shut and leant heavily on the table. It was all a long time ago and there was no good getting upset about the past. One had to let go and yet…
She straightened up and turned to see Dan standing in the doorway watching her.
“Are you all right, Ella?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“Do you want me to see you home?”
“Do I look like a woman who needs escorting across the bloody road?” she asked sharply.
“Now, now, Ella, mind your tongue.”
“You know me, Dan. Wasn’t it you who always said I was as rough as a badger’s arse?”
“I think my actual words were ‘as rough as a badger’s arse and twice as prickly’.”
Ella grunted and drained the last of her whisky.
“Goodnight, Ella.”
But the door had already closed.
41
A rook perched on one of the small stone crosses in the graveyard eyed Catrin askance and, with a strident cry, flew up into the trees.
Sitting down between the crosses, resting her back against the wall, she opened the scrapbook that Ella had given her at breakfast this morning. Someone had painstakingly stuck in an old newspaper article, some handwritten reports and ink drawings.
She read the faded newsprint and learnt that the Flino had set sail from Napoli carrying a cargo of fruit and wine and eight passengers. She had got into difficulties when a storm blew up unexpectedly, bringing thirty-foot waves which swamped her decks. She had hit the rocks, started taking on water and been listing dangerously. When the villagers of Kilvenny had seen her in difficulty, they’d tried valiantly to save those on board. A few passengers had managed to scramble into a rowing boat, but it had capsized and those who had clung perilously to it were soon swept away to their deaths in the freezing water. Many of the dead were washed up days later on to the beaches around Kilvenny. One body was washed up along the coast at Aberderi and was dragged up the beach by the cockle women. The captain, Antonio Ravello, who had survived against all the odds, identified those who had perished.
There was a black-and-white sketch of the Flino as she floundered in heavy seas beneath a glowering sky. There was another of shadowy, windswept figures stumbling up the beach carrying grown men on their backs, others buckling under the load of barrels and crates. A third showed a priest kneeling, holding the hand of someone who lay lifeless on the beach; the priest’s hand was raised as if giving the last rites.
There was a newspaper report of people coming from far and wide to see what they could loot from the stricken vessel. Another report described a fight which had broken out outside the Bug and Bucket over a barrel of wine, and another in the grounds of Kilvenny Castle over ownership of a mysterious object later revealed to be a watermelon – for days after the Flino sank the sea was choked with olives, limes, lemons and pomegranates.
The villagers rallied round and gave shelter to those who were injured, and Nathaniel Grieve put some of the most badly injured survivors up in the old tower of the castle. One man and his heavily pregnant wife took shelter in a half-derelict house above the beach and lived there for many years after.
Catrin read through all the reports and snippets of information, but nothing struck her as being of great importance.
She put down the scrapbook, took her penknife from her pocket, knelt down in front of one of the crosses and began to scrape away the thick moss from the stone until she had uncovered the roughly engraved name hidden beneath: Orazio Russo. She set doggedly to work on the next cross until she could read another name: Agatina Marino. How sad that they had lost their lives so far from home and their families.
She was sweating by the time she had uncovered four names, but she kept going. The next grave was the one with the posy of weeds and wild flowers. It was strange that someone should still lay flowers after all this time. There couldn’t be anyone left living who remembered the passengers on the Flino.
She didn’t know what she expected to find; the name she uncovered made her heart lurch painfully.
It was unbearably sad to see his name inscribed on a forgotten cross in a village graveyard hundreds of miles from Santa Rosa. How tragic to think that such a young boy should have lost his life when the Flino went down.
She traced the name with her finger, closed her eyes and tried to bring his face into her mind; a handsome boy sitting beneath a pomegranate tree, in the garden of the Villa Rosso, smiling as if everything was right with the world.
A shiver made its way up her backbone, a frisson of fear growing stronger until her whole body began to tremble.
She glanced across at Alice Grieve’s grave. Although she’d never met Aunt Alice, they had something in common: a fascination with an old Italian book and a belief that within its pages there was a hidden message. Alice might have been childlike, even simple, but she’d seen something in that book which had made her think and set her on a trail she’d been unable to finish. Though Catrin had no idea what it was she was looking for, she knew there was something, and it might be connected with this little Italian boy buried here, a boy with a handsome face and a small scar on his cheek. Luca Roselli.
As she made her way dejectedly out of the graveyard, a rook perched on a tree yattered at her ill-temperedly. She stared back defiantly, imagined her mother’s face in place of the rook’s. She screwed up her own face and waved her arms at it.
“Sod off!”
42
In the cool of the kitchen Maria Paparella counted out the eggs from the basket. Twelve brown eggs bought fresh from one of the old women at the early-morning market. She cracked them expertly, one by one, on the side of the large earthenware bowl, then beat them vigorously with an old spoon. Then she lifted the cloth off the earthenware jug of cream and tipped the cream into the bowl.
Luca came in, carrying a large metal pot.
“Did you manage to get it, Luca?”
“Yes. I went to see the batty old nun at the convent and did a swap for three of your walnut cakes. She says that’s the last of the ice until the snows come again. Have you made up the mixture according to the instructions I read out to you?”
“Yes, and it’s almost ready. We must hurry, though, or it will gooff in this heat.”
“Okay. I’ll read out what we have to do next.”
He picked up the recipe Maria had got from her uncle from Naples.
Maria pointed to two metal jugs on the table. “These are what he gave me to use.”
“Yes, it says here that we must pour the mixture into the smaller jug.”
“Just one moment, I need to add the chocolate powder.”
“When you’ve filled it you must put it inside the larger one.”
Maria deftly poured the mixture into the smaller jug and put it inside the other one. “Then what?”
“Then we pack the ice in between the two jugs. We must be quick, because the ice is already melting.”
Luca packed a handful of ice round the small jug, glancing down at the recipe as he did so. “Now we put block salt on the top, then more ice, and so on.”
“What next?”
“Then you start to stir with the paddle spoon.”
“You start doing that, Luca. I need to check that Signor Bisotti has gone out. I don’t want him bumping into Bindo when he arrives.”
“I think he’s already done that.”
“Gesu bambino! How do you mean?”
�
�He caught him in the piazza not half an hour ago and accused him of stealing the cat’s teeth.”
“He should be thanking him. The old brute’s far happier without them. They gave him pain these past few years. Since they’ve gone he’s a different animal, purring and rubbing up against your legs instead of biting and spitting.”
“The Signor caught Bindo a crack around the back of the legs with his stick that lifted the poor little fellow right off his feet. If it hadn’t been for Piero coming on the scene, Bindo would have been beaten senseless.”
“What did Piero do?” Maria asked with interest, her face colouring.
“He got between them and told Bindo to run. And he was off like a shot.”
“I don’t expect Signor Bisotti took too kindly to that?”
“The funny thing is, they just stood staring at each other.”
“Neither of them spoke?”
“No, but Piero looked at Signor Bisotti as if he was seeing him for the very first time, and Signor Bisotti looked paralysed with fear.”
“Then what happened?”
“They just nodded at each other and walked away in opposite directions. Then Signor Bisotti went into one of the houses in the piazza.”
“The widow Zanelli’s?”
Luca nodded and blushed.
“Well, at least he won’t surface for the next few hours. She’s got her claws firmly into the old fool. Now, there’s an old cat that could do with having her teeth pulled. Tell you what, Luca, you go and find Bindo and I’ll finish this. Be quick, though. We don’t want it melting on us.”
Maria refilled the jug with ice and then salt and turned the paddle. Soon the mixture started to freeze and stick to the sides – it was like magic.
She stuck her finger into the mixture and tasted it. It was delicious.
She busied herself chopping lemon and orange peel into the thinnest strips, washed the wild strawberries, cut the tops off four ripe pomegranates and dug out the fleshy pips.
Ismelda’s gelato was almost ready, and very good it looked, too.
Today they would have a wonderful feast. If Signor Bisotti did marry the blasted widow it would be the last one for a long time. Soon all that would belong to the past. They would dine on beans and thin soup for the rest of their days. She sighed, for she knew she wouldn’t be able to stomach being under the same roof as that woman and her hideous offspring. But if she left, where would she go? Her parents were both dead. And what of Ismelda? She could never leave the child behind. She loved her and would lay down her life for her. This evening she would go to mass and light many candles to the Holy Virgin to beg deliverance from that horriblefate.