by Sam Stone
Her expression reminds me of my cousin Francesca and for a moment I feel the pangs of homesickness I had occasionally felt since leaving Italy over three hundred years ago. Though Juliet’s blonde hair is far more like my own than the darkness of my cousin. Is this the Italian genes?
‘Have you lived in England long, Gabriele? There is no trace of Italian ...’
‘Er, yes. Many years now ... but I still speak it fluently.’
‘So does Lilly, but I’m sure she’s already ...’
My raised eyebrows are a giveaway.
‘A girl’s got to have some secrets.’ Lilly grins.
For the first time since we arrived Lilly seems to be enjoying herself. Even so her quick retort falls flat in the room, dulled by the claustrophobic essence of her father. I wonder how the lovely Juliet survives it. She seems immune; her vivacious personality is not suffocated. Perhaps Juliet is too cheerful?
‘I suppose you are the reason that Lilly hasn’t been in touch?’
‘Dad ...’
‘Our daughter has never been away from home this long.’
‘It’s nothing to do with Gabriele ... We hardly parted on good terms, Dad.’
‘Oh, really! Are we going to air our dirty washing in public now?’
‘Gabriele is not public and may I remind you that you started this! What was it you said, oh yes, “You go to that deadbeat University and I’ll never speak to you again.” That was our last conversation as I recall.’
‘Lilly, of course your father didn’t mean it ... You know what he’s like,’ Juliet interrupts.
‘Nice salad, Juliet.’ I smile, munching on some very crisp iceberg lettuce. ‘Smoked salmon is always a safe option.’
Roger glares at me.
‘Thank you, dear,’ Juliet replies automatically as she begins to clear away the plates, placing them on a tray beside the dining table.
‘An intelligent girl like you ... You could have gone to Oxbridge. All that private education wasted on Manchester.’
‘What’s wrong with Manchester? It’s famous worldwide.’ I pick up my glass of water and sip slowly as Roger looks at me again.
I wonder if he will rise to the bait.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Lilly stands as the ringing of high-heeled feet echo above us. ‘I knew this was a mistake.’
A tennis ball smacks against the window.
‘Blasted girls!’ Roger yells pushing back his seat and rushing to the window.
Saved by the ball ... ?
‘Sorry, Principal Johnson!’ a muffled chorus yells through the thick glass.
I stand and walk to the window, tripping over the curled up rug. Outside the retreating girls swagger away; they don’t look ‘sorry’. One swings a wooden bat over her shoulder, her left sock scrunched around her ankle. They are all wearing gymslips. Mmmmm. I am suddenly peckish.
‘How long have you known her?’ Roger asks.
‘We met at the University, like you said.’
Lilly glances at us as she helps her mother clear up. Her hand strokes the ‘Old Country Roses’ china teapot as she lifts it. She places it down on the trolley with infinite care. Nana’s. I watch her blink, once, twice, before she turns back to the table.
‘Lilly tells me you’re well travelled.’
‘Mmmm. I have spent some time in Europe.’
‘Have you ever been to Venice, Gabriele? My family originated from there,’ Juliet says.
‘Oh yes. I ... spent some time there in my youth.’
‘Youth? You’re how old?’ laughs Roger. ‘Young men talking of youth!’
Roger sits back down at the table. I follow politely; I have played this game with fathers before.
‘Dessert?’ Juliet asks. ‘Chocolate cake?’
‘Is it homemade?’
‘Always.’
‘Then certainly.’
Lilly watches me as I eat two pieces without pausing. Her eyes hold some mystery yet undiscovered. Where did she come from, this beauty? Surely she never grew up here?
‘I need some things from my room,’ she says, excusing herself as I take the third piece of cake and pour half the jug of cream on top. ‘I won’t be long.’
I roll my eyes as she leaves me to be interrogated, but I start first.
‘Were you born in Venice, Juliet?’
‘No, Verona. My mother’s people are from there though.’
‘Have you ever been?’
‘Yes, when I was ...’
Lilly scrutinises herself in her dressing table mirror amid half open boxes. A dark mahogany jewellery box plays Beautiful Dreamer as a delicate ballerina twirls before its miniature reflection. Her blind fingers examine the carved wood with its faded gold inlay.
A lipstick rests open beside her hand. Behind her the pink and girly room seems like a contrived set in an American soap opera; it is frozen in time. She has long since outgrown it.
‘I don’t belong here anymore ...’ she tells her reflection.
‘What are your intentions, man?’ Roger says as though he is finishing a long speech.
I meet his gaze across the table. The scent of the freesias, in a small Blue Willow vase hovers between us.
I blink. ‘I want to keep her forever ...’
Roger’s face becomes oddly alert. He reminds me of Henry Fonda in some old western; his face twitches, his fingers flex as he prepares to draw. Lilly sits down beside me, wrapping her arm through and around mine. She has never touched me so much. Her presence breaks the spell and Roger looks away. He seems defeated.
‘Perhaps you would like to see the photo album?’ Juliet suggests.
Lilly groans. ‘Oh, no! Do we have to do this?’
The ‘album’ is several, including newspaper clippings. Baby Lilly playing in the landscape gardens of the school; teenage Lilly competing in talent shows; school plays; sporting activities.
‘You were a debutant?’ I comment scrutinising a newspaper cutting from Cheshire Life. ‘I didn’t expect that ...’
‘Who’s the boy?’ I ask, staring at the same face appearing in picture after picture and always beside her.
A clang of china; Juliet stares at me.
‘Michael Ellington-Jones,’ Roger answers as he lifts up his teacup to me as though showing me a secret treasure chest; there’s fight in the old wolf yet. ‘Lilly and Michael were engaged.’
‘Oh?’ Ahh, now we get to it ...
‘She didn’t tell you that either, I suppose?’
‘That’s because the engagement didn’t exist anywhere but in your head, Dad,’ Lilly says, standing up.
‘Odd. It was in Michael’s head too.’
‘Let’s go.’ Lilly holds out her hand to me.
‘No ... let’s not.’ I’m suddenly enjoying myself too much.
An uncomfortable silence, that even the lovely Juliet cannot disperse, fills the room, and so I take pity on them.
‘I want to know more of your Italian heritage. I want to know all about you Lilly. Perhaps, Juliet, you could tell me something of your family line?’
Lilly sinks back into her chair. ‘Now you’ve done it.’
Juliet beams radiantly and leans forward. ‘Would you like to see my family tree?’
The school Heritage Room is situated left of the entrance hall at the bottom of the impressive double staircase. Juliet carefully unlocks the heavy door as two teenage girls enter through a door under the stairs.
‘Your stupid friend has broken my nail,’ shouts a redhead with pale rose-coloured freckles scattered over her face and bare arms.
‘That’s payback for what you did to my glasses,’ laughs the other; a dark blonde with prominent teeth; they are both wearing blue checked skirts and short-sleeved whi
te blouses.
‘Shut up, Horsey! Or I’ll knock out your buck teeth!’
‘Girls! Really. Is this any way to behave in front of visitors? Go to your rooms at once!’ Juliet turns to us handing the keys over to Lilly. ‘You go ahead. I’d better go and make sure there are no repercussions.’
Cabinets and display cases line the walls of the room, which is filled with local historical artefacts and writings - a huge painting of the house and grounds across one wall, old pieces of broken pottery - probably dug up from the grounds - an ancient flag with a Ducal coat of arms; but it is not to these things that Lilly takes me, but through the room to an adjoining door.
‘Mum’s office.’
The door swings open quietly and Lilly steps in first, her hand fumbling along the dark wall until she hits the light switch.
Illumination. I find myself face to face with the most intricate family tree I have ever seen. Juliet’s and indeed Lilly’s history covers every wall. I barely notice the untidy desk below, the flat screen computer, the black director’s chair with its worn leather, the overflowing waste bin. I see Lilly’s name in bold, an empty space for her future partner and children. With my eyes, I trace back. Juliet Adriana Valerio married to Roger Johnson; Catarina Pontiero to Alessandro Valerio; Lisabetta Buono to Michaelo Pontiero ... I recognise old family names that once I knew and my finger travels back along the lines as though it were some mysterious, magical path into the past. I lose awareness of time, become immersed for a moment.
‘Mum loves this. She’s been to almost every part of Italy investigating her family origins.’
‘I suppose she needs a hobby. It is a little stifling here.’
‘I guess ...’
She plays with a small paper knife with a tarnished ivory handle.
‘This was my Grandfather’s ... Mum uses it every day to open the mail. It’s never needed sharpening ...’
She sits in the leather chair swinging around slowly to scrutinise the walls. I watch her, distracted from the wall by her lovely legs as she kicks them out in front of her.
‘She spends most evenings in here. Look, I bought her this.’
She holds out a mug that says, Some Days Are a Complete Waste of Make-up, with the remains of cold black coffee inside. ‘She laughed so hard when I gave it to her. ‘That’s just me,’ she said.
‘It’s just you too.’
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’ She massages the glaze of the cup, carelessly sloshing the contents onto her dress.
‘Should I take you home?’ I ask; she looks like a fragile baby bird ready to totter from its nest.
‘I’m not sure where that is anymore ...’
I turn away, give her room. Do I need to tell her, her home is with me? I never considered how hard this would be for her - or me. I return to scrutinising the wall. Cognomi, Corana - all good family lines.
‘This is my history, my past ...’
I glance at her.
‘Even if ...’ She blinks. ‘Things have changed ...’
I wait.
‘My mother, she values the past so much. I think she tries not to think about the future or the present. Except, perhaps, when I might fill my section, my part of her history, with her grandchildren. But that’s not going to happen now. I mean ...’ She looks at the floor.
‘What are you asking?’
She doesn’t answer for a moment but a million possible questions bubble into her eyes and disperse.
‘Did you feel like this?’
‘I felt -’
On the desk, the in-tray catches my attention. A photocopy of an ancient letter once sent and lost. Dear Padre ...
I take it up, read it; absorb every word.
Please father, why do you reject me so? You promised. You promised we could all live together once more ... When did I last see this?
My eyes fly back to the wall, searching; not casually anymore. Lilly stands.
‘What did you feel?’ She seems aware now that my mind has left her and she sinks back into the chair, back into herself, alone. I am too selfish to comfort her.
‘Where did your mother get this?’ I hold out the letter, eyes still searching. ‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
My desperate gaze is frantic.
‘Marguerite ...’
‘Oh yes.’ Juliet enters behind us. ‘That’s as far back as we have been able to determine. Marguerite Ysabelle Lafont ... There is some reference to her before she married Antonio Di Cicco and there was the brother, Gabriele ... Oh, you have the same first name ... What a coincidence. He died very young, poor boy, never married. However we can’t find their parents ... There’s some reference to a serving girl, Ysabelle Lafont, who was a likely candidate for mother, but the father ... we just don’t ...’
As the floor sweeps up to meet me Lilly grabs my arm.
‘What is it?’ she asks in a whisper that only my ears can hear; I shake my head.
I compose myself as Juliet continues talking.
‘See here ... copies of the San Marco Basilica birth registers. Gabriele and Marguerite were twins. Ysabelle doesn’t list a father, so we drew a blank and it has so far proved impossible to find her origins. We came across that letter you are holding and the handwriting and signature matches other letters that we have validated. It is written also around the time that her brother died ... so there is obviously a connection. Unfortunately the original did not contain readable details of the father’s name.’
‘That’s ... interesting.’
‘Do you think we may have some relations in common?’ Juliet asks.
‘I ... I’m not sure ...’
Lilly looks at the letter, but quickly discards it; she’s read it many times and does not understand its significance.
‘Look Mum, we have to go. It’s been great.’ Her voice is weary and she is eager to finish this final parting.
‘So soon? Lilly, I know you find this boring, but one day you will thank me for researching our history. It will be something to pass on to your own children ...’
‘Yes, Mum. I know, and I do appreciate it. Thanks for lunch. I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘Dad ... The row ... Everything.’
‘Don’t worry, these things are soon forgotten. You know your father ... He’s just ... well ...’ For a moment Juliet scrutinises Lilly. ‘Are you alright?’
Lilly hesitates before kissing her mother; her arms hold her too tight.
‘I love you.’ She pulls away with difficulty. ‘Tell Dad the same ... I just can’t.’
Juliet’s expression pales. ‘You’re different, somehow.’
‘Thank you,’ I say numbly, recovering my composure. ‘Don’t worry about her; she’s going to be fine ...’
Lilly takes my hand, pulls me back and we seem to move in slow motion until we reach the door, where suddenly she hurries, throwing it open. The wind has picked up and it blows the fallen leaves around in mimicry of a mini tornado. Behind me the sounds of the school intensify as the girls within prepare for dinner. Showers switch on, the snap of a towel pulled from a hook, the laughter of a group of girls as one stumbles and falls. Lilly struggles to step over the threshold to the outside world as if some invisible force grips her, holding her back. This is the umbilical cord of her old life but I am a jealous lover - I can’t allow the past to have her now. I pull her, stumbling, out of the door and down the steps. She’s mine and I’m damn well going to keep her.
In the room beyond the Heritage Room, Juliet presses her hand to her mouth and whimpers softly; Lilly has changed and her worst fears have been realised. I am once more the thief who robs a parent of their hopes and dreams; she knows as I do, that she is never going to see her daughter again.
Silence fills the car o
n the return journey. The visit should have been closure for Lilly and yet it has opened so many raw wounds.
Inside, I know she grieves for the first time, truly understanding that her old life has been left behind. She has even forgotten my lapse, my moment of despair and confusion. The antagonism with her father is swept away with the knowledge that she has to leave them behind. I don’t ask. I don’t need to. Her sorrow echoes in the tiny space we inhabit. She is entitled to her thoughts and I have enough of my own. Besides, I don’t trust myself to speak; I need to think. I need to consider how I feel.
Because the letter is important, the letter I lost so long ago when I left Padua or Verona or some such place, though I cannot quite remember where. It was one of the last links I had with her; my darling daughter, Marguerite. And now I know she lived on. Married, had children and Lilly - is a direct descendant of my child. What can this mean?
Chapter 25
‘Come, my lord. This way.’
The military academy for young aristocracy held little more luxury than any army camp. I was led through a dark hall filled with straw pallets where sleeping bodies lay. The sweat and urine smells in the room overwhelmed me and I covered my nose with a white lace handkerchief until we reached the other side. We left the dormitory and continued down a corridor where I saw evidence that the military academy occupied the household of a disgraced count. I vaguely remembered some rumour about how the Duke had used the issue of a few outstanding debts in order to seize what remained of the count’s inheritance. He’d then auctioned them to the highest bidder. Along the corridor expensively carved wood panels were vandalised where the count’s coat of arms had been eradicated from the walls. A portrait of a man in a General’s uniform was disfigured, probably by the military boys, its gilded frame scratched and damaged like all the other along the route. It was therefore impossible to identify the previous owner, but the academy had been housed here for some twenty years; was well established and renowned.
It had been on this reputation that I had decided to send Gabi. We entered a hall. Fencing equipment, including a few rusty rapiers, was scattered haphazardly on the floor. A pair of thick gloves lay discarded on one of the wooden benches that circled the room. A bulky vest, used as practice armour, rested on a chair as though still worn. A fire, left unattended, fizzled out in the huge fireplace and although there were several torches around the room, the darkness of the corners swallowed the light. Ahead a door swung open and an elderly servant carrying yet another torch beckoned to us.