by Babs Horton
“He was little, then?”
“A tiny little thing like that Tom Thumb.”
“Bigger than that, I think. What happened to him?” Catrin asked with bated breath.
“He was laid out in the back bar of the Ship and Bottle, where he breathed his last,” Queenie Probert said, closing her eyes as if she, too, was giving up the ghost. She paused for what seemed an age.
“And then he died?”
“When they came to bury him in the morning, they saw a movement of his little finger.”
“He was alive?”
“It was a miracle. He was badly injured, mind, and he’d lost the art of speaking. But the strangest thing was’ – Catrin could barely breathe – ’that inside his jacket was a tiny statue of a saint. That’s what must have kept him safe, see.”
Catrin was silent. In the painting in Recipes for Cherubs there was a niche in the wall of the convent in Santa Rosa, where a small saint looked down on the olive jar in which a baby had been abandoned one freezing night.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Queenie Probert said, touching Catrin gently on her arm.
“I was just thinking, that’s all. Did he stay in Aberderi?”
“Times were hard here in those days. Most people were on the bones of their arse, and another mouth to feed was nigh on impossible.”
“So what did he do?”
“He was given a bed in the shed with the donkeys until he was well. In fact, he scratched his name in the wood on one of the donkey stalls – Bindo. That’s how people knew what to call him. It’s there to this day.”
“And then?”
“I fancy he went to work over Kilvenny way for Nathaniel Grieve.”
Catrin grinned. Imagine that! He’d worked in Kilvenny, had walked the same alleys and lanes as she had. It made her heart puff up with pleasure to think of him doing that.
“Thank you, Mrs Probert, for telling me all this.”
“You’re welcome, my lovely. Strange how you came here with all your questions just like your Aunt Alice did all those years ago. She wanted to know all about the little dwarf, too.”
Catrin wondered what else Aunt Alice had found out.
“I’m tired now, but I enjoyed our little chat. If you go up the lane and turn left you’ll see where they keep the donkeys.”
Almost before she finished her sentence, her head nodded on to her chest and she was snoring soundly.
55
It was getting dark when Catrin went into the donkey shed, a weak light breaking through the gaps in the ramshackle roof. Up in the rafters a bird chirruped and the shadowy donkeys shuffled their feet expectantly, their large heads nodding over the doors of the stalls as if in welcome. Catrin felt as though she were stepping into a Christmas Nativity scene except for the earthy smells of damp straw and steaming donkey droppings.
Outside the wind was getting up, rattling the wooden building and bringing with it the smell of seaweed and fish. Stray drops of rain wheedled their way in through the broken roof and somewhere close by a mouse scuttled for cover.
As she approached the nearest stall the donkey lifted its head, drew back its lips and showed a mouthful of yellow teeth. Catrin stepped closer. Far out at sea the thunder rolled and she shivered.
Above each stall there was a makeshift sign with a name on it: STANLEY, ELVIS, TOMMY, GRACIE.
She stepped up to Grade’s stall, put out her hand and the donkey nuzzled her fingers playfully. She knelt down on the floor and ran her hands over the ancient wood of the door, her fingers finding the letters carved there: bindo.
Here in this shed the green-eyed boy had slept, sharing the stable with the donkeys, tucked up in the straw amongst the mice and nesting birds.
She imagined him curled up at night, listening to the sea pounding on to the beach, the scream of the gulls as they followed the fishing boats in. How homesick he must have felt, away from his friends, alone in a strange land where he couldn’t even speak the language. It was even worse than that, though, because Queenie said that he’d lost the use of his tongue. Thinking of his loneliness brought a lump to her throat. She patted Grade’s nose and turned away; it was time she set off back to Kilvenny before the weather came in any worse.
The donkeys were watching her in dignified silence, ancient-looking beasts with knowing eyes.
She closed the stable door and stood with her back pressed against it for a long time, breathing deeply in the salty air, feeling the rain on her face, soft as a blessing.
56
Luca reached the Villa Rosso with Bindo close on his heels and Pipi lolloping in their wake. The two breathless boys and the wheezing cat stared aghast at the spectacle before them.
Signor Bisotti, aided by his new wife, was dragging Ismelda out of the house, and she was kicking and screaming as though fighting for her life. The air was filled with the sound of cursing and bloodcurdling screams, mainly Ismelda’s. From the balcony, the two Zanelli sisters watched the scene with delight.
Bindo ran to Ismelda’s aid but Father Rimaldi, who had followed the Bisottis out of the villa, caught him a resounding blow on the forehead, splitting the skin, and Bindo reeled backwards and sank to his knees.
Luca yanked him to his feet and held on to him.
“Get any closer, you fucking midget, and I’ll crack that empty head of yours,” Signor Bisotti spat, hatred thick as phlegm in his foul mouth.
“Maria will come and save her,” Bindo said, a trickle of blood running down his cheek.
“She’s not here. Signora Bisotti sent her on an errand this morning.”
Beside himself with misery and rage, Bindo broke free of Luca’s grasp and ran to Ismelda, reaching out frantically for her flailing hands. She tore crazily at his clothes, desperate to touch him, but she was not strong enough.
With a torrent of oaths, Signor Bisotti lifted Bindo by the shoulders of his threadbare jacket and hurled him towards a petrified Luca.
Ismelda screamed and fought like a cat until Signora Bisotti gave her a slap which knocked her backwards and Father Rimaldi, like a man practised in kidnapping, flung a rope round her and tied her arms to her sides. As she opened her mouth to roar once more, he slipped a length of cloth between her teeth and knotted it at the back of her neck.
Bindo could only watch in dismay as she was bundled into the back of the cart. He held his arms out towards her beseechingly, and from the back of the donkey cart she looked at him, tears smearing her face, her beautiful blue eyes wide with fear and anger.
Maria Paparella, turning out of the Via Dante where she had spent a pleasant half hour with Piero on her way back from a fruitless errand, arrived on the scene as the carter cracked his whip and the donkey cart set off at a trot towards the crossroads and then took the right fork that led down the steep hill to Terrini.
Seeing Maria, the Bisottis stepped hurriedly back into the Villa Rosso and the door banged shut behind them. Father Rimaldi glanced at her nervously, then scuttled across the road to the church.
Maria looked from Bindo to Luca, saw the fear in Luca’s eyes and Bindo standing there bleeding and bereft, his eyes glassy with rage and impotence.
There was only one place where the conniving bastards would be taking Ismelda, and that was the Convent of Santa Lucia where the mad people were sent; a place of no escape.
She sank to her knees and crossed herself, threw back her head and howled. The leaves swirled around the three of them, the wind growing ever wilder, the first flakes of snow settling on the upturned faces of the four cherubs in the fountain.
57
The sky was a mix of stormy hues, purple and red blending with orange, the rain driving in off the sea, sharp as pine needles. Catrin pedalled along the cliff road, the wind sweeping her hair into her face so that several times she swerved dangerously close to the cliff edge. Down on the beach the waves pounded on to the sand, spume rising high into the air, hissing as though it were whispering secrets.
Exhausted, she came to
a wobbling halt, propped the bike against a tree and looked around.
The dry-stone wall that had once enclosed the garden of Blind Man’s Lookout was reduced to rubble, and nettles and weeds grew in profusion in every crack and crumbling crevice. The old house was falling down: a few more wild winters and the roof would cave in and the whole place would be past repair.
Many slates had slipped off the roof and the rafters were exposed to the brooding skies. Weeds sprouted from the wonky chimney and an abandoned bird’s nest threatened to topple at any moment. The window frames were warped, the glass long since gone, allowing the weather free rein inside the house. The front door hung on a rusty hinge and groaned painfully as Catrin entered.
The downstairs rooms were littered with broken furniture, and sand had blown up from the beach, piling in drifts on the floor amid shrivelled birds’ nests, sheep shit and the remains of camp fires. This was where Benito had camped out that summer long ago.
The staircase was rotten, broken away from the wall, and looking up, Catrin could see the gaping roof and the rain-laden sky above it.
She went out through the hole where the back door had once been, into the overgrown garden, where the smell of rosemary and mint was strong after the downpour.
She thought suddenly of the blind man who had lived here in the olden days, the man who could tell the colour of things without seeing them; another survivor of the ill-fated Flino. A man and his pregnant wife, who had scrambled up here and set up home, had a house full of children like the old woman who lived in the shoe.
At the end of the overgrown garden, sunken steps led up to another level and Catrin climbed them wearily. More steps led up from the next level and when she got to the top step she sat down with a heavy sigh.
The sun came out after the rain and bathed everything in a new and watery light. She was above the level of the house now, and could see the sea over the roof and, to her right, the smoke rising from the chimneys of Aberderi. To her left she could see the lane that led down from the station, the tower of Kilvenny Castle and the rooks circling high above it.
Absentmindedly she pulled up a handful of weeds and her hand touched something rough, a cockleshell set into the wall. She tried to pick it up but it was set fast. She knelt down and pulled up more weeds until she was soaked with rainwater and spattered with earth. The shells had been painstakingly arranged to form letters: Tito, Lucia, Caterina.
She wandered back down the steps and through the desolate rooms of the house. As she went into the front garden and made her way across the overgrown flagstones, an image of Maria Paparella drifted before her eyes, a woman with an expression of such glee on her face that it made Carrin smile. Those warm, dark eyes, the skin of her face as brown as an early conker, her cheeks highlighted in downy pink, the full-lipped mouth opening and beginning to sing tunelessly but joyfully.
All around Catrin, now, was the sound of children’s voices on the wind. She could see the face of Piero di Bardi as he was in Recipes for Cherubs, a thin-faced man with dark, tangled hair. His cheeks were hollow and there were dark circles under his eyes. Wonderful, dreamy, haunting eyes…
He had eyes which reminded her of Norma, eyes which were losing their sight.
The children’s voices were closer now, mingling with the cry of gulls.
“Tell us the colours of the paints in your workshop, Papa!”
Indigo, verdigris, lampblack, cinabrese, sinoper, Vermillion, ochre, saffron.
Mamma, make us some brutti ma buoni. Please, Mamma.
Tito, come quick, Bindo is coming.
Hey, Bindo.
She put her hands to her head, pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples.
She knew without a doubt that they had all been here. Piero, the man whose life had been all about colour, a man who could tell the colour of something by its touch. Maria looking after him and all those children they’d had. She was suddenly struck with a thought. Did Piero know that Bindo was his son, and did Bindo realise who his father was, or had they lived their lives unaware of the truth?
58
Sister Annunziata, newly arrived at the Convent of Santa Lucia, unlocked the door to the cell at the top of the turret and stepped inside hesitantly. This cell was kept for difficult newcomers, so that their screaming should not stir up those on the lower floors. They usually stayed up here a week and then, if they complied with all that was asked of them, they were moved to other cells.
The little rich girl who had arrived screaming and biting like a wild animal two weeks ago gave no sign of doing as she was asked. According to the other sisters, she refused to wash or to eat and sat all day and most of the night staring ahead of her. When she did fall asleep through sheer exhaustion, her sleep was fitful and she cried out pitifully.
Sister Annunziata watched the girl anxiously. She was huddled in a corner, knees drawn up to her chin, head bowed in submission or fury – it was hard to tell. Her shock of wild, unwashed hair covered her face like a veil, and there were bruises on her thin arms and angry weals round her ankles from when she had been restrained.
Sister Annunziata opened the door and listened in case any of the other sisters had followed her. She had firm orders merely to check on the girl and report back, but the child was in a terrible state and it couldn’t be right to leave her like this.
For some moments Sister Annunziata struggled with her conscience, but then she thought that surely God in all His wisdom would not want her to abandon a child. She dipped a cloth into the stoop of water set into the wall. Kneeling down, she lifted the child’s face and pushed her hair back so that she could see her properly. Her face was streaked with grime and there were dark circles beneath the bluest eyes the sister had ever seen. She gently cleaned the child’s face, spoke soothingly to her and wetted her parched lips from a tin cup. The girl put out her hand tentatively and touched Sister Annunziata on the cheek, a touch full of gratitude.
She lifted the girl on to the pallet bed, covered her with a coarse blanket and then sat with her for a long time, stroking her forehead until, fearful that one of the other nuns would come to see where she was, she leant over and kissed the girl’s cheek tenderly.
A few weeks later, she was passing through the market place in Terrini, head bowed and eyes lowered as she had been instructed to do by her superiors, when she heard a piercing whistle nearby. She did not look up, for fear of catching someone’s eye, because the locals believed that the nuns from Santa Lucia could put the evil eye on them. She walked quickly on through the market place but the whistling seemed to come from all around her. She stopped in front of an enormous wine barrel and slowly raised her eyes. She jumped in alarm as a young dwarf popped up from behind the barrel, grinned at her and winked.
“You’re a nun from Santa Lucia?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone,” murmured Sister Annunziata.
“Well, don’t. I’ll ask the questions and you just nod or shake your head. How about that?”
She shook her head and made to move away.
“You know Ismelda Bisotti?”
Despite all her good intentions she nodded enthusiastically.
“Is she well?”
She inclined her head.
“Would you give her this?”
He held out a pomegranate towards her.
An emphatic shake of her head this time.
Bindo thrust his hand down into his shirt and pulled out a piece of string tied round his neck.
“See the ring I keep on this string next to my heart? Ismelda gave me this ring. I’m going to marry her one day, so it’s all quite proper.”
Sister Annunziata put her hand to her mouth to stifle a rising giggle. This little fellow was so comical, so serious and sure of himself.
“Please,” he begged, going down on one knee theatrically.
“Get up at once, you fool. People are beginning to look at us.”
“If you don’t take it to her, I will follow you all round th
e market and call out that you were once my betrothed but that you forsook me to become a bride of Christ.”
Sister Annunziata’s mouth dropped open in horror. She had no doubt that this brazen fellow would carry out his threat. Imagine if word got back to the convent! She would be mortified and dragged before her superior.
“Very well!” she hissed through clenched teeth, and she snatched the pomegranate and hid it beneath the folds of her habit. “Now go away and leave me alone!”
After his first meeting with Sister Annunziata, Bindo went to Terrini market every week, hitching a ride on a donkey cart. He followed Sister Annunziata surreptitiously, passing her his gifts to Ismelda when they were sure no one was watching. He brought a lemon, a paintbrush, a slice of walnut cake, and often he sent a note tucked between two slices of focaccia telling her all the news from Santa Rosa. Maria was getting fatter. One day soon Piero’s masterpiece was to be unveiled in the church at Santa Rosa. Her father now had a son and heir, an ugly child with a nose on him the size of a carrot.
In return Ismelda sent him notes and sometimes a small painting which she did to cheer him up.
59
Ella was rattled. She’d looked everywhere for Catrin, but couldn’t find her. Dan Gwartney said he’d seen her wobbling off on Tony Agosti’s old bike, heading off past the war memorial, but she’d been gone for hours and the weather was threatening to come in rough.
In frustration she decided to walk up to Shrimp’s to see if Catrin was up there. She needed to see the place again, because she couldn’t ignore the fact that one day soon she’d have to think about moving back in, and there was a hell of a lot of work to be done before she could.
Catrin’s unexpected arrival had done her a favour, dropped the scales from her eyes and made her come to her senses, start looking outwards again. No doubt Kizzy would make contact eventually and Catrin would be whisked away out of her life for ever. The thought of life without Catrin filled her with sadness. She’d lived for years without any desire to see Kizzy’s child, and yet after a few weeks in her company she couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.