2008 - Recipes for Cherubs

by Babs Horton

  “You’re going somewhere?”

  “Out of the country,” the woman said. “We’re leaving as soon as we can, but you must let her know that we haven’t deserted her.”

  “Be sure to tell her it may be a while before I can come again, but I will never desert her,” Bindo said. “There’s a basket here with some food for her,” he went on. “Will you make sure that she gets it?”

  Sister Annunziata nodded and replied, “Now you must go before any of the other sisters come to see what’s going on.”

  When she was sure they had gone she unlocked the door and took in the basket.

  Standing at the window of her cell, looking out into the night, Ismelda had heard her friends’ voices. She heard the bell clang, and she danced up and down as she waited for someone to come for her, to usher her down to the visitors’ room. The door would open and the four of them would be standing there, their faces breaking into smiles, the distinctive smell of their skin bringing warmth into the cold confines of the convent.

  But no one came. Through a veil of tears she watched the cart drive away, listening until the sound of the rough wheels on the rutted road died away.

  Later, Sister Annunziata brought her the news from her friends, and she tried to tempt her with some focaccia, some dainty little cheeses wrapped in olive leaves, some brutti ma buoni wrapped in a linen cloth, but Ismelda pushed the food aside, slumped down on to her straw mattress and stared up at the ceiling in despair.

  Sister Annunziata was packing the food back when she saw a book in the bottom of the basket.

  She took Ismelda in her arms and together they turned the pages of Recipes for Cherubs. As the wind grew stronger, whistling feverishly around the convent, Ismelda’s eyes grew bright with a fierce intensity Sister Annunziata had never seen before.

  67

  Kizzy waited in the Fisherman’s Snug, sitting on the threadbare old sofa, smoking a cigarette while she waited for Tony. She had almost given up hope of him coming when the door opened and he came in, shutting the door quickly behind him.

  “I thought I was never going to get a chance to speak to you on your own,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. To her dismay, he backed away from her. He’d always been putty in her hands when they were teenagers, and she’d liked the feeling of power.

  “I haven’t got long, Kizzy, so get to the point.” He was edgy and stood by the window keeping an eye out in case anybody came past.

  “I wanted to thank you for what you did,” Kizzy said, smiling up at him.

  “There’s no need to thank me,” he said coolly, surprising her.

  “But it was chivalrous of you to rescue me like that.”

  “Whatever you like to think, I didn’t do it for you.”

  She was covered in confusion and stepped closer to him, but he turned away again.

  “Then why did you admit to being Catrin’s father?” she retaliated.

  “I did it for Catrin, because I couldn’t bear for her to be hurt by what you were going to say.”

  “Oh, and what was I going to say? That I didn’t know who her father was?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “And you stood there and lied through your teeth. Do you think that will make her feel any better when she finds out?”

  “It was foolish of me, but I’m fond of her. She was in a terrible state when she came here, and I’d hate her to be hurt any more.”

  “You used to be fond of me,” Kizzy said, pouting.

  “Only as a friend.”

  “I remember getting up to a little more than what friends do, here in the Snug,” she said provocatively.

  “That was a mistake. We were just children.”

  “So who do you think is Catrin’s father, then?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Three guesses?”

  “Don’t be so bloody childish.”

  “Benito,” she blurted out.

  Tony took a step backwards, ran his fingers across his dry lips.

  “How shocking is that?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Just look at her, Tony, look at her closely. You don’t want to believe me, that’s the problem. He led you a merry dance, didn’t he?”

  “I’m not going to listen to any more of this.”

  Kizzy sidestepped him and stood with her back to the door.

  “Either you listen to me or I tell my daughter, Miss Goody Two Shoes, that you’re a liar.”

  He turned to look out of the window.

  “Benito and I met when I was on a school trip to Italy. That’s why he came over here that summer, to be near me.”

  “You never told me that. You pretended you’d met him for the first time that summer.”

  “I’m a good liar, Tony. We used to meet up at Blind Man’s Lookout; sometimes I even smuggled him into Shrimp’s for our nights of passion.”

  Tony bit his thumb to stop himself cursing her.

  “Of course, by that time I was already pregnant and he’d promised to marry me.”

  Tony didn’t respond.

  “Quite a Lothario, wasn’t he? And he had the measure of you, all right.”

  “What do you mean by that?” His voice was barely audible.

  “I expect he told you he loved you, promised to open the restaurant of your dreams somewhere. Am I right?”

  Tony turned to face her, his face taut with emotion. “You knew all that? You knew he was stringing me along?”

  “Oh yes. He’d left a trail of people all over Europe with broken dreams. I expect you gave him money?”

  Tony nodded and looked closely at her; she was enjoying this. “And you, Kizzy, did you give him money?”

  She nodded. “Oh yes, almost everything I’d been left by my mother. And I gave him a child he didn’t hang around long enough to see.”

  “And what did he promise you?”

  “Undying love.”

  “Me too,” Tony said in barely a whisper.

  “Then we were both duped. I expect he’s still out there making men and women fall in love with him,” Kizzy said. “He never minded which sex he went for, as long as there was money behind it.”

  “Do you ever hear from him?” Tony asked hopefully.

  “Not a word until recently,” she replied, and his heart missed a beat.

  She told him about the postcard and the trip to Italy.

  “Do you think the postcard was from him?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I think someone wanted me out of the way, because while I was in Italy my house was burgled.”

  “Did you lose much?”

  “I’ve got precious little left to lose – I’m in a bad way financially.”

  “But you’ve got the house.”

  She shook her head. “It belongs to Arthur Campbell. He’s looked after Catrin and me since, er, since I was dumped by our Italian friend. And before you ask, no, he doesn’t think he’s Catrin’s father.”

  “He didn’t strike me as the type to play Mr Bountiful.”

  “Well, he’s seen us right. Without him I wouldn’t be able to pay Catrin’s school fees.”

  “Maybe she won’t need to go back to boarding school.”

  “Well, she’s not coming home to me. I’m not cut out for full-time mothering.”

  “You’re honest at any rate, Kizzy.”

  “A few days back here and I’m ready to bolt. It’s my nature.”

  “Where will you bolt to?”

  “I’ve a friend holidaying in the South of France, and if I ever get out of this bloody place I’ll be winging my way down there pretty damn quick.”

  “And Catrin?” he asked.

  “I could arrange for her to go back to school early.”

  “She’s happy enough here, don’t you think?”

  “With her new father?” Kizzy said with a laugh. And then she was out of the door and hurrying up Cockle Lane, leaving behind the faintest
whiff of expensive perfume.

  68

  Sister Annunziata hurried into the refectory, looked round the room and immediately saw the empty seat. Seeing her concern, one of the sisters whispered, “The Bisotti girl has asked not to eat this evening because she is feeling unwell.”

  Sister Annunziata nodded her thanks and smiled discreetly.

  No doubt Ismelda had been feasting on the delicious food her friends had sent and probably could not face the watery beans and tough bread that were dished up nightly. When the meal was over she would try to slip away and spend some time with Ismelda.

  Sister Annunziata looked sadly at the faces around her, dull-eyed and devoid of hope. She prayed that one day things would change, that more compassion would be shown to these poor souls whose minds were afflicted.

  As for Ismelda, sweet Jesus, such a child should never have been put here. She was clever and capricious and a joy to be around. It was sinful that she should be incarcerated in a place like this because her father wanted her out of the way. Ismelda was a gift from God; she was wise beyond her years and had so much to offer the world. Half the inmates here didn’t deserve to be locked up. They needed respite, peace and love to make them better, not shackles and chains and hours shut away in solitude. One day she hoped that she might be granted the strength to speak out and try to change things.

  The last of the sun’s rays played across the faces of the inmates and sisters seated at the long table; the faces of the mad and the sane all bathed in the warm glow of the late autumn sunset. The convent bell began to chime and the sister on duty looked up from her reading of the Scriptures as if aware that something was afoot. There was a restless silence in the room, a pent-up excitement exhibited in the twitching of noses, the feverish brightness in the expectant eyes of the inmates.

  The echo of the bell clung to the air, along with a whiff of incense and the smell of candle smoke.

  There was a sudden intake of breath as though everyone in the room was breathing at the same rate, everyone turning their face towards the largest of the arched windows.

  A silence fractured by intensity.

  Then a fleeting vision, as of a giant bird freefailing beyond the window, silhouetted momentarily against the archway of golden sky. Wild dark hair billowing out around a pale face, enormous eyes, a mouth opening, the cry of triumph…or was it terror?

  A cacophony of twisted spoons banging on the wooden table and a raucous cheer growing ever louder.

  The nuns rushed to the windows, the swirl of their threadbare habits making the dust rise.

  The high-pitched scream of a postulant rent the air.

  Outside the bats were swooping and somewhere a dog howled.

  Sister Annunziata pushed her way to the window and watched aghast as the small body, arms outstretched like a crucifix, floated downstream until the darkening waters swallowed her up.

  In the turret Sister Annunziata lit the oil lamp and watched as the crucifix on the wall grew momentarily dark then light in the flux of moving shadows. The smell of life clung to the room, a faint aroma of coarse convent soap, fresh herbs and recent tears.

  She stood by the narrow window and tried to imagine how it had felt to climb out on to the perilous ledge and then step out into oblivion. She was overcome with giddiness, crossed herself feebly, wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead and breathed deeply in the cool night air.

  Moonlight dappled the dark pool far below, and the river ran on heedlessly downstream towards the faraway sea.

  Only a few hours had passed, and yet time seemed suspended.

  She knew that what she had witnessed today would return to her, again and again; an image that would come to her in her dreams or in the lonely quiet hours.

  She stripped the bed of its coarse blankets and packed Ismelda’s few belongings into a trunk, but though she searched she could not find the walnut paintbox that had been Ismelda’s prized possession. She found the scraps of canvas wedged beneath the bed, and she held them in trembling hands. The smell of oil paint still lingered and the paint had barely dried on the last page. A strand of dark hair was trapped in the paint, the imprint of a finger in vermillion on the last empty page…Her tears fell then, bitter tears against the futility of it all.

  She extinguished the lamp and closed the ill-fitting wooden shutters against the night. The bats were already circling the turrets, the dogs barking in the small towns scattered across the valley. The nun’s lips moved in silent prayer and the cries of the mad and the misplaced echoed in her ears.

  Sister Annunziata closed the book gently, held it against her breast then slipped it beneath the folds of her habit.

  No one must steal it. The story was not quite finished yet…

  69

  Kizzy was leaving Kilvenny, and Catrin could barely contain her delight. Dan had arranged for a car to pick her up and take her to Swansea. There she would do the rounds of hairdressers, manicurists and dress shops before heading back to London and then on to the South of France. She’d half-heartedly offered to take Catrin with her, but Catrin had politely declined; she and Tony had exciting plans for the rest of the summer.

  Catrin stood waiting dutifully outside the castle while Kizzy trailed around saying her goodbyes, kissing everyone on both cheeks like a film star, making Dan and Meredith blush deeply.

  She stepped up to Catrin and took her face in both hands. Catrin squirmed. This was Kizzy’s theatrical idea of mother love; an intent look into her child’s eyes, a false tear trailing down her cheek, and then a swift walk away; she’d seen it in a film somewhere and adopted it as her own.

  “Goodbye, darling. Write to me,” she whispered and then she turned and walked to the car without looking back.

  As an afterthought she opened her handbag, took something out, turned and held it out to Catrin.

  The girl went to her mother and held out her hand.

  “Here,” Kizzy said. “Aunt Alice gave me this, but I never really liked it. I couldn’t see the point, really.”

  Catrin looked down at the walnut etui that nestled in the palm of her hand.

  She looked up to thank Kizzy, and for the first time ever she saw the beginnings of a real tear in her mother’s eye.

  Carefully Catrin lifted the catch on the side of the walnut, revealing tiny paintbrushes, small sticks of charcoal and a little artist’s palette with paint marks on it. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “Aunt Alice loved that. If she’d met you she’d have liked you to have it.”

  But Catrin wasn’t listening. She was peering down at the initials someone had painstakingly inscribed on the lid: LB.

  She said, “Ismelda Bisotti. It belonged to Ismelda Bisotti.”

  “No, dear, it didn’t, it was Aunt Alice’s.”

  “Sorry, er, Ismelda was – is a friend of mine.”

  “It’s just as well I didn’t call you Ismelda, then.”

  “Why? Were you thinking of it?”

  “Oh yes. I always loved that name,” Kizzy said, smoothing her hair.

  “You did?”

  Kizzy nodded and winced. The breeze was getting up and she didn’t want to stand here all day talking about girls’ names and have her hair blown all over the place. She climbed into the car, and waved demurely to Ella and the others standing outside the castle.

  “What made you think of Ismelda as a name?” Catrin asked as the car began to pull away.

  “Because it’s the name of the girl in the…” Her words were carried away by the breeze.

  “What did you say?” Catrin yelled, but the car was already accelerating past the war memorial.

  Catrin stood holding the walnut tightly in her hand, and she didn’t move until the car was out of sight.

  70

  When Signor Bisotti and Father Rimaldi arrived at the house in the Via Dante, Piero was long gone. They stamped from room to room cursing loudly, opening closets and peering inside. The studio was just as it had always been, but P
iero’s canvases were gone and there was no sign of the painting of Feasting Cherubs. Signor Bisotti slammed his fist down on the table, shaking the flute-shaped pots of paint and scattering charcoal all over the floor.

  They hurried back along the Via Dante to the convent, where Father Rimaldi headed straight for the stables. There was no sign of Bindo. His few belongings were gone and one of the nuns who came running out to see what the disturbance was said they hadn’t seen him since yesterday.

  An hour later they were both apoplectic with fury. Maria Paparella’s room in the Villa Rosso had been emptied, and most of the food in the larder had gone. Then Signora Roselli came running to say that Luca, the ungrateful little sod, had upped and offed without a word.

  As Signor Bisotti and Father Rimaldi stood together in the piazza, they were aware that they were being watched. There was no one around but the eyes of the village were on them.

  “When I get my hands on that bastard Piero, he’ll rue the day he played this trick on me.”

  “They can’t have got far if they’ve loaded all those paintings on to a cart.”

  “The people are up in arms over that painting. They think we’ve made fools out of them; it won’t be safe for us to stay for long. The signora and I will travel down to Napoli tonight. What about you?”

  “They won’t lay their dirty hands on a priest,” Father Rimaldi said confidently.

  “Whatever possessed the man to do such a thing?” Signor Bisotti moaned. “You don’t think he has any idea of what we did?”

  “How could he?” Father Rimaldi said querulously.

  “I don’t know, but a few weeks back when I was giving that bloody dwarf a beating Piero looked at me and at the dwarf very strangely, as if he had worked something out. It gave me quite a turn, I can tell you.”

  Father Rimaldi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I had the same feeling when Maria Paparella was speaking to me about the night the baby was abandoned, as if she, too, knew something or was trying hard to remember something.”

  “If they do know, we must make sure they keep their mouths shut,” Signor Bisotti said, his eyes narrowing.