Tell Me No Truths

by Gill Vickery

  Caterina brought refreshments and the atmosphere eased. Dario was funny and Jade relaxed as his jokes coaxed Amber into a better mood, his hazel eyes glinting at each sharp remark she made. Talk about instant attraction, Jade thought and hoped Dario’s magic would still work when they started to talk about Nonno.

  Nico looked at the huge, half-scale reproduction of Botticelli’s Primavera propped against the wall in an annexe next to Mrs Bax’s study. It had sticky notes all over it; blue ones on the bushes and trees, and green on the flowers. Each one was dated and had the name of the plant in Latin, English and Italian written on it.

  ‘How many plants are there?’

  ‘Six trees, two-hundred-and-forty non-flowering plants, forty-two identifiable flowers, several about which one might argue and nineteen absolute fantasies,’ Mrs Baxendall said promptly.

  Remembering what the old lady had said when she first spotted the viperina at the chapel, Nico looked closer. Nestling under a nymph’s foot was a blue flower shaped like a snake’s jaws open wide, the hairy stem sprouting leaves growing up it in steps and ending in a collar just underneath the bloom. ‘There’s the viperina.’

  ‘Well done, m’dear.’ Mrs Baxendall thrust a green note at Nico. It read: E. Vulgaris, Viper’s Bugloss, Viperina – April 2005. ‘You can stick this on now, since you found it.’

  Nico pressed the note into place. ‘How many more plants do you need?’

  ‘I’ve completed the identifiable ones and all save one of the disputed ones – an elleboro, a hellebore or Christmas rose in English. I do have an elleboro puzzolente as a stopgap.’

  Nico knew the word ‘puzzolente’. ‘A stinking Christmas rose?’

  ‘An unorthodox but accurate translation.’

  ‘Where is it in the picture?’

  Mrs Bax pointed out a strange, greenish plant. It looked like a child’s pinwheel.

  ‘Is it anything like the real thing?’ Nico asked.

  ‘I’ll show you and you can decide for yourself.’

  In the study Mrs Bax got up a computer image of Botticelli’s hellebore side by side with a photo of a faintly sinister green flower. They didn’t look particularly alike to Nico. ‘It’s gross,’ he said.

  Mrs Bax laughed. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you but I have to have one nevertheless. Besides, it’s reputed to rejuvenate the elderly which means I need to find it fairly soon.’

  ‘You don’t need it, you’re not old.’ Nico wasn’t good at guessing ages; he supposed Mrs Baxendall was sixty something which was old, but not ancient. Her father must be pretty elderly though since he’d fought in the Second World War.

  ‘Dear boy.’ Mrs Bax regarded Nico fondly. ‘I’ve tramped kilometres to find the blessed elleboro but never a sign.’

  ‘Where do they grow?’

  ‘Generally, in the woods or woody sheltered areas.’

  Outside flowed the endless, tree-covered hills. That was a lot of woodland and Nico only had a week of his holiday left.

  Jade put the book on the table. ‘From when we were very little Nonno told us stories about his life in Italy. How he was an orphan and how his friends looked out for him. He always wanted to come back to Italy but he couldn’t. Then he had a stroke and was too ill even to try. He got worse after a second stroke and we decided that one day we’d come instead and tell you about him. Then we had this idea – to make a book for you, about his life. It took ages.’

  Though it had been Jade’s idea, Amber had done most of the work. She was good at the practical things: scanning photos, assembling the book and decorating it. Jade was glad Amber had made the book look classy, covering it in the colours of the Italian flag and attaching a small golden frame with a smiling photo of Nonno in it. Now she wished she hadn’t sniped at her sister for the hours and hours she’d spent on it.

  Amber opened the book. The title page read, The Book of Memories. It was the story of Nonno’s life. Jade turned to the first page with one black and white photograph on it.

  ‘Nonna Elena!’ Caterina touched the tiny photo with gentle fingertips.

  ‘He told us he carried this picture everywhere, even during the war,’ Amber said.

  ‘That’s why it got so creased and crumpled,’ Jade added. She turned the page to a picture of Nonno just after he arrived in Derby.

  ‘He looks so young, just a boy,’ Caterina said.

  ‘He looks like Zio Teo,’ Dario said. ‘Look at the way he’s standing.’

  Roberto had made a shape, one foot nonchalantly behind the other, cap swinging from the hand on his hip, cigarette held casually in his other hand.

  Jade turned the page to a double spread with photos of Nonno’s wedding to Granny Grace. Nonno had written the details on the picture.

  ‘They look happy, Roberto and Grace,’ Caterina said.

  ‘Yes, they were.’ Jade turned to the next spread with its pictures of Nonno, Grace and baby Luisa, then the next pages showing Luisa’s wedding to Kevin.

  ‘Mamma! You and Zia Luisa are so alike!’ Dario’s eyes were wide. ‘You could almost be twins like Valentina and Lia.’

  ‘You have to meet Luisa,’ Teo said to Caterina.

  Jade quickly turned the page to a picture of Nonno and Grace outside their house.

  ‘That’s a beautiful house.’ Teo whistled admiringly at the stately Georgian building with ivy climbing to the second floor. ‘Not bad for a peasant orphan – becoming so rich?’

  ‘Matteo!’ Caterina said.

  It was insensitive, as though he were saying, how could an immigrant peasant afford a big house like this?

  Jade ignored the fist of anger gathering inside her and said coldly, ‘Nonno worked in Granny Grace’s family company. She inherited a shoe factory from her parents. It’s gone now but when Granny and Nonno were young it made money.’

  ‘Nonno earned it,’ Amber said. ‘He started in the factory and worked hard and learned all about the business. He didn’t just walk in and take over.’

  ‘I understand, cara,’ Caterina said gently and Amber turned back to the book. But Jade caught a glance passing between Caterina and Teo; a glance that said nothing was going to convince them that Roberto wasn’t anything more than a grasping opportunist.

  A little green lizard watched Nico from one jewelled eye as it basked on the warm steps of the terrace. He stopped writing and drew the tiny creature swiftly.

  ‘That’s rather good.’ Mrs Baxendall sat next to him on the step and passed over the orange juice she’d brought out. ‘Do you enjoy art?’

  Nico nodded. ‘I like writing but I prefer art.’

  Mrs Baxendall sipped at her coffee and the two of them sat in companionable silence while Nico turned over questions in his mind; which to ask first and how should he frame it? Tentatively he tried: ‘Mrs Baxendall, you said you’ve written books about Italy; what sort of books?’

  ‘Well, there’s this book about the Primavera. The botany’s an excuse to look at history, that’s why I’m interested in the stories behind where and how the specimens are found. For instance, the viperina was found at the chapel steps which gives me a reason for writing about the chapel, which is very, very special.’

  Special? Nico decided to hold on to that information till later; there was another question he wanted answering first: ‘Did Teo really find the cornflower when he saved you from a sheep?’

  ‘I let him think so.’

  ‘What else have you written?’

  ‘Cookery, reminiscences, a history of the partisans who fought against the fascists and the German occupation . . .’

  It was so peaceful now; Nico found it hard to imagine war stamping its vile boots over the tranquil land.

  Mrs Bax clinked her coffee cup on the step, sending the lizard darting away. ‘You’ve been quite the detective, working out what I’m doing with the garden.’
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  ‘Not really,’ Nico said. ‘When I remembered that Filipepi was Botticelli’s real name it was obvious. I wasn’t exactly Commissario Lupo.’

  ‘You still had to put the evidence together – that’s detective work.’

  Nico thought Mrs Baxendall was being kind and it made him feel patronised. To his fury he felt himself flushing. ‘My mother’s the one who behaves like a detective, walking round the places in the books to “soak up the atmosphere”.’

  ‘Don’t you do that as well?’

  Only a few days ago Nico had walked in Alessandro’s footsteps and grieved with him for his lost Semiramide. He felt vaguely stupid for living someone else’s feelings, especially someone fictitious. ‘Alessandro’s not real – I think Mum’s chasing shadows.’

  Mrs Baxendall smiled.

  ‘E. J. Holm is real though. I’d like to find him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure – I think it’s the fact he’s secretive. It makes me wonder what he’s got to hide.’

  ‘He might be a frightful creature,’ Mrs Bax said.

  Nico couldn’t believe that the creator of Alessandro and Semiramide was any kind of frightful creature. ‘Haven’t you met him? You told Mum he always gives you copies of his books.’

  ‘It’s the agent who gives me copies – I’ve never even shaken hands with Holm. I think your author’s simply a person who values his privacy. Die-hard fans of crime fiction are as interested in the writer as they are in the detective and they view both in a completely unrealistic light. Have you seen the websites?’

  Nico had. He’d posted storylines on the most popular fanfic one. ‘You can’t blame the fans completely,’ he said. ‘I mean, when Alessandro’s solved a case he slips away and lets his colleagues take the credit and E. J. Holm’s the same. He writes all these amazing books, gets everyone excited, and then disappears. He’s deliberately making himself a mystery – that’s why fans get obsessive and go running off to places in the books in case he’s there.’

  ‘You might be right,’ Mrs Baxendall agreed.‘Or not.’

  Nico thought the topic of the elusive writer was exhausted. He went back to his reserve question: ‘What makes your chapel “very special”.’

  ‘Let’s have lunch first and then I’ll show you.’ Mrs Baxendall smiled mischievously. ‘I’ll have to swear you to the utmost secrecy first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wait and see. I promise you’ll be more than delighted.’

  Nico couldn’t imagine what she meant.

  CHAPTER XV

  BECAUSE IT WAS a fine day and Dario wanted to see the old farmhouse again before it was sold, the family drove out there for lunch. Caterina took Jade and Amber. Dario, who turned out to be the owner of the yellow scooter, bumped along behind and Teo followed in Mrs Baxendall’s old 4x4.

  After they’d eaten Teo drove back to Mrs Baxendall’s house while the rest of them sat round the table with The Book of Memories, leafing through pictures of Jade and Amber with Nonno – on holiday, at the club in town, working on the allotment.

  ‘There’s a pocket at the back.’ Jade opened it. ‘Look, there’s loads of Nonno’s thoughts – his memories and stories written down . . .’

  ‘What’s happening?’ A harsh voice from the doorway made them swing round. An old man was leaning on a stick, his crooked shape dark against the sunlight behind him.

  ‘Nonno!’ Caterina jumped up and hurried over to him.

  Nonno? Caterina’s nonno? It’s Gaetano, Jade thought, Elena’s husband, Sofia’s stepfather.

  The old man stumped out of the shadows.

  Jade stared in disbelief. ‘Oh my God!’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s that man who shouted at Mum in the restaurant,’ Amber hissed.

  Caterina ushered him forward. ‘What are you doing here, Nonno?’

  He slumped onto a bench. ‘Till it’s sold it’s still my house. I don’t need permission to come here.’

  ‘Of course not, Nonno, we didn’t expect to see you, that’s all.’

  The old man waved his stick at Jade and Amber. ‘Who are these girls?’ He looked at them with mild hostility but no more. Jade was certain he didn’t recognise them from the restaurant in Borgo Sant’Angelo; he’d been too intent on staring at Luisa.

  ‘Jade and Amber are visitors from England,’ Caterina said.

  Gaetano grunted and thumped The Book of Memories with his gnarled brown hand. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s about our nonno,’ Jade said.

  ‘Why have you brought it here?’

  ‘The girls are Roberto Volpe’s grandchildren,’ Caterina said. ‘They came to find us and bring us news.’

  Veins in the old man’s neck bulged and his face turned an ugly, dark red. ‘You bring the traitor’s spawn here – to defile my house!’ He almost choked on his venomous outburst. ‘I told you after I saw the woman in Il Nido that they were all to be kept away – yet you defy me!’

  He snatched up the book. ‘You dare to come here with news of the fascist – the traitor – the coward.’ He hurled the book to the floor.

  ‘No!’ Amber dived for the book and held it tightly in front of her like a shield. Jade rushed to her, put a protective arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Nonno, let me explain,’ Caterina said.

  Gaetano made a grunt of such contempt Jade felt like punching him.

  ‘Dario,’ Caterina said to her son, ‘your cousins didn’t have time to see the stables the last time they were here. Please show them now. I want to talk to Nonno on my own. First,’ she appealed to Amber, ‘please trust me with the book.’ She held out her arms.

  Amber looked at Jade. She nodded. ‘Go on.’

  Amber clung to it for a moment before she handed it over. ‘You’d better look after it.’

  ‘I will.’

  Dario led the way to a door at the far end of the room.

  Nico swore to keep Mrs Baxendall’s mysterious secret to himself and, after lunch, she unlocked the door to the chapel. Inside it was more or less as E. J. Holm had described his chapel – a box shape with whitewashed walls and seating down either side. At the end, an altar held a crucifix and two golden candlesticks. Behind it, light filtered through narrow windows set high up and lingered over a gilded panel painting. The only difference was that E. J. Holm’s candles had been lit and his windows were red stained glass with ruby light that played over the altar like splashes of blood. And his chapel had the body on the scaffolding.

  Nico nearly jumped out of his skin when Mrs Bax boomed, ‘Look behind you!’

  For a wild moment Nico thought the book had come to life. Just as in The Shattered Mirror, a wooden platform supported by scaffolding ran the width of the wall. A man was sitting on it, slumped forward. Nico’s heart hammered until he realised the man wasn’t dead, only leaning forward to work on a fresco partly hidden under an old layer of dingy plaster. He twisted round.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ Mrs Bax said to Nico. ‘This is Edoardo Rossi, who’s busy restoring the old frescoes.’

  ‘Hi,’ Nico said, trying to be polite. It was hard when all he wanted to do was focus on the astonishing paintings in front of him.

  A narrow stone staircase draped with a thick grey bunting of spiders’ webs led down to a stable lit by hazy sunlight filtering through cracked windows. Amber leaned against one of the empty stalls, her arms crossed, her face closed tight as a safe door.

  Jade shivered. ‘It’s ghostly in here, and sort of sad. It shouldn’t be so empty.’

  She meant the whole house not just the stable.

  Dario seized the chance to talk about a neutral topic. ‘The house will be sold soon – these places are very popular with the English and Germans – and the stables will probably be turned into a big kitchen and dining room.’

  Jade tho
ught of the bullet holes across the front of the farmhouse. ‘Won’t it feel kind of weird if you sell to a German? I mean, with the war and everything?’

  ‘Not for me, or for my parents – it was a long time ago and we are all Europeans now. It’s true it’s still hard for the old people.’

  Jade thought about the bullet holes again. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have her father butchered in front of her and the rest of the family dragged away to die in another country.

  Amber pushed off from the stall. ‘If the Germans were the enemy, what’s your nonno got against our nonno?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I did.’

  Dario stumbled for the right words. ‘It’s hard for me . . . Mamma told me only yesterday the truth about Roberto being my Nonna Sofia’s father and . . . you have to understand this was a big shock for me . . . before she told me, I only knew Roberto as . . . as . . .’

  ‘As a fascist – yes, we know.’ Amber glared and Dario took a step back.

  Even though Jade agreed with Amber she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Dario. ‘Lots of people were fascists early on in the war,’ she said. ‘Some of them, when they knew the truth, they changed. Nonno might’ve been a fascist to start with . . .’ She ignored Amber’s angry gasp ‘. . . but he fought with the partisans later. He wouldn’t have done that if he stayed a fascist, would he?’ She swept her arm wide. ‘He even helped save the English spy who hid here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He told us he warned the partisans that someone had betrayed them and the enemy were sending soldiers to capture his foster brother and the spy.’

  ‘No, no!’ Dario shook his head. ‘That’s not right!’

  ‘What isn’t right?’

  ‘Roberto Volpe didn’t warn the partisans; he betrayed them. He was the one responsible for Gaetano’s family being killed.’

  Mrs Baxendall pointed her stick at the fresco. ‘This gem’s been covered up for almost five hundred years. It takes technical expertise of the highest order to uncover it safely and restore it to its former glory.’