Siena Summer

by Siena Summer (retail) (epub)

  *

  The day of the August Palio was a day of still air and blazing sunshine. The vast arena of the Piazza del Campo was once more a carnival of noise and colour beneath a burning sky. If any of the party who had driven in from the Tenuta had expected that this second event might, by reason of being so close, not have lived up to the tensions and excitements of the first, any such thought was confounded from the moment they entered the city. The place was vibrant with energy and expectation, glittering with colour, ringing with music. Once again Sunto’s iron tongue rang out its summons to the devotees of the Contrade, once again the proud and cossetted mounts were led through the streets, coats gleaming in the sun, to their moment of glory, once again the great theatrical procession came together and the picturesque confusion of the city was tamed to pageant.

  In the Martelli house the happy coincidence of the race with Poppy’s birthday had been taken advantage of to the full. There were presents, flowers and a candle-decked cake. The place was, if anything, more packed than before; there were people she had met and people she had not, yet all seemed as eager to congratulate and celebrate, and the food – that must, she estimated bemusedly have taken a week to prepare – and the generously flowing wine did much to contribute to the festive atmosphere.

  Robbie, with his tangle of blond curls and wide, flower-blue eyes was made much of; petted and fondled and kissed upon the cheek until, in disgust, he crawled under the table, pulling Dog with him, and refused, to much charmed hilarity, to come out. Peter, still pale and a little withdrawn after his unexpected bout of illness, answered politely when spoken to but did not, Poppy noticed, apart from that make much effort to socialise with the other children. Even given the language barrier, this was unusual.

  ‘Peter? Are you all right?’ She laid a hand on the thick, shining hair. ‘I must say you still do look a little poorly.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ There were dark rings beneath his eyes, and his voice was listless. ‘I just keep getting bad headaches, that’s all.’

  She was concerned. ‘Is it too noisy for you? Do you want to lie down?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, honestly. I’m all right, I promise.’

  ‘Poppy – come. You must blow out the candles on your cake. And a wish – you must make a special wish.’

  The crowd parted to allow her to the table, where Giovanni stood beaming his handsome smile beside the cake. He held up his hands for silence. ‘Uno!’ he called as Poppy drew breath, and the crowd picked up the count enthusiastically. ‘Due! Tre!’ The audience broke into loud applause as, on the count of three Poppy extinguished the candles in one go. ‘You have made your wish?’ Giovanni demanded exuberantly.

  She nodded, smiling.

  He wagged a finger, playfully serious. ‘Then tell no one! Or it will not be fulfilled.’

  For one second Poppy’s eyes encountered Michel’s and, mortifyingly and very prettily, she found herself blushing. Obviously at least one person in the room had come close to guessing what she had wished for; she could not for the moment decide if that were a good thing or a bad, and her shy colour deepened.

  Outside in the square a trumpet sounded. All heads turned. There was a rush to the balcony. Poppy, as guest of honour, was settled with some ceremony in the best seat by Giovanni, with Michel behind her as before, his long fingers moving very gently, stroking the slender bones of her shoulder. Poppy, her face hidden by the wide brim of her flower-decked sun-hat, closed her eyes for a moment, aware in that all but perfect moment of nothing but the closeness of his body to hers, the perilous, almost hypnotic pleasure engendered by those stroking fingers. The bustle on the balcony subsided and, in common with the rest of the onlookers, all eyes were turned to the opening through which the Corteo Storico would enter the Piazza. It was very hot; and Poppy had drunk far more wine than was usual for her. She leaned back a little, pressing her body into Michel’s, and was rewarded by a quick, acknowledging squeeze of his hand. His fingers, warm and dry, slipped beneath the collar of her shirt, stroking the skin of her neck.

  The procession, a gaudy feast to eye and ear, burst upon the Piazza to an ecstatic roar of applause.

  *

  Perhaps because of the wine, or perhaps because of what came later, Poppy never could remember clearly the events of that afternoon – neither the procession nor the formalities, nor the race that followed except as a kaleidoscopic and dizzying muddle of colour and movement, of heat and excitement, of deafening noise and surging, chanting crowds.

  Only a few clear memories stayed with her, indelible images to haunt her.

  The feel of Michel’s fingers stroking the skin of her throat.

  The heat of the sun on her bare forearms.

  The roar of triumph that greeted the winner of the race.

  The uncomprehending moment of horror and shock when, at the moment that the victorious Contrada rioted out of the square to the Cathedral to celebrate their victory, the splintering of timber and the crash of falling masonry mingled with shrieks and cries as the upstairs balcony collapsed into the steep and narrow alley beside the house.

  The hideous sight of a small, broken body lying amongst the wreckage, Dog still clutched in a bloodied hand.

  And, in the pandemonium that followed, her sister’s distorted, horror-stricken face as she screamed and screamed and screamed, harrowingly and monotonously, as if she would never – could never – stop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a long and difficult labour and one that, in such cruel circumstances, did not at first bode well for mother or for child. For twenty-four hours the shocked household attended the exhausted and grieving Isobel. Kit, with a fortitude and strength that could only draw admiration, stirred from his suffering wife’s side only when absolutely necessary, to help the city officials who were investigating the accident, and to start the arrangements for the funeral.

  In sober truth, for all the horror of the thing, there was little to investigate; the facts spoke for themselves. The child, energetic and inquisitive, had had the run of the house. Far from there being too few guardians, there had been too many, and no one had thought to question his whereabouts for those few fatal minutes. One of the workmen, horrified and grieved at the result of his carelessness, came forward to admit that it was more than likely that he had once more forgotten to lock the window that led out on to the balcony; might indeed, he acknowledged, even have actually left the thing open. It was sheer luck that no one else had been hurt – the crowds had still been in the square, and the alley had been empty at the time of the tragedy.

  ‘Poor little boy.’ Poppy’s head ached from weeping, and the tears still would not stop. ‘Poor, poor little boy – and poor Isobel—’ She laid her forehead upon Michel’s shoulder, her own shoulders shaking.

  Gently he stroked her hair, his face sombre. ‘My darling, I hate to have to leave you like this—’

  She stepped back from him, blowing her nose furiously. ‘Don’t be silly. You have to go. We must think about Peter. This is no place for a child at the moment. He needs you, and we can’t keep him here any longer. He’ll make himself ill if we don’t get him away. No, you must take them home.’

  ‘You’ll get word to us? About Isobel?’

  ‘Of course I will. Umberto is staying with us. He’ll come to you when there’s news.’

  ‘How is she?’

  Poppy shook her head, tears brimming again, said nothing.

  ‘Michel?’ The voice from the doorway was quiet. Eloise, collected and exquisite in black, stood there holding Peter’s hand. The child, pale and stricken, stood silent, his eyes huge and desolate in his drawn face. ‘We’re ready to go.’

  Michel hugged Poppy very tightly, and kissed her wet face. Poppy bent to Peter. The child’s cheek was cold as marble as she kissed it. She said nothing; there was no comfort to be given.

  ‘Goodbye, Poppy.’ Poppy was grateful that Eloise neither kissed nor attempted to touch her. ‘Look after Isobel.’
>
  ‘We will. We’ll send news when there is any.’

  Poppy watched them leave, then turned to go back upstairs to where her sister, agonised, terrified and all but demented with grief, struggled to rid herself of her burden.

  At three o’clock on the morning of the following day Isobel bore a daughter; tiny, fragile, but miraculously whole and alive. Isobel herself, torn and at the limit of her endurance, lay like one dead as doctor and midwife worked over her. Poppy held the tiny, sleepy scrap in her arms as Kit, on his knees beside his wife, chafed her hand between both of his, murmuring to her; words of love, words of grief, words of encouragement. At last the bruised blue eyes opened, fixed upon Kit’s. ‘The baby?’ she asked, her voice hoarse with exhaustion.

  ‘A little girl, my darling. A beautiful little girl.’ Kit stood, took the baby from Poppy and laid her in her mother’s arms. Isobel turned a haggard, haunted face to look at the child and, through the silent tears that trickled into the sweat-darkened curly tangle of her hair, very faintly she smiled.

  Kit, defeated at last, dropped back to his knees, buried his face in the bedclothes and cried as if his heart were broken.

  *

  There was no question that mother or child could be moved, and even if there had been, the Martellis would not have heard of it. The third floor of the house was given over to the Enevers and Poppy and to the nurse who had been brought in to tend to Isobel and her tiny daughter – who, despite her size and a tendency to sleep for overlong periods, showed no sign of anything but a stubborn determination to live and thrive. Lucia it was who, concerned about the state of Isobel’s health, found a plump and motherly wet-nurse who had just herself given birth to a daughter. Isobel, still worn out, could not pretend to anything but relief.

  ‘Have you decided on a name?’ Poppy asked, the day after the birth, after having seen Umberto on his way to the village to take news to Eloise, Peter and Michel.

  Isobel, head tiredly propped on pillows, nodded.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘After Mama.’

  Poppy leaned to kiss her, and gently to touch the baby’s soft warm head. ‘What a lovely idea.’

  ‘I wanted a little girl so much.’ The words were a whisper. Isobel’s eyes were on her daughter. ‘But now—’ She trailed off, the tears of weakness coursing again.

  ‘Darling, don’t.’ Poppy took her hand. ‘Please don’t.’

  She bit her lip, knowing that at the moment words, no matter how well intentioned, no matter how much meant to comfort, could only make things worse. Little Robbie had not yet been buried. And the grief at his loss could not be buried with him.

  With Giovanni’s help Kit had made the final arrangements for the funeral, to be held at a small English cemetery to the north of the city on the following Monday. A couple of days before, Poppy drew Kit to one side. ‘If you’ll hire a calesse for me,’ she said, ‘I’ll go back to the Tenuta for a couple of days. The others need to be told about the funeral, Isobel needs some of her things, you and I need clothes for the funeral.’ She hesitated. ‘And – someone has to—’ the hesitation was infinitesimal ‘—straighten up the house,’ she added.

  ‘Poppy – no—’

  She shook her head stubbornly. ‘I insist I’m not needed here, you’ve plenty of help, and Isobel needs you, not me. You can’t leave her. I’ll do it. It’ll make me feel at least a bit useful. Michel’s there. Umberto’s there. It was pretty silly, actually; if I’d been thinking straight I would have gone back with him. I shan’t be alone. And there are things that need to be done. You know it.’

  Tiredly he sighed, pushing a hand through his hair.

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Ask Giovanni to find me some transport. I’ll get my things together.’

  *

  It was the most melancholy journey of her life, and the loneliest. As she travelled the now-familiar road every turn brought its memory; of the flower-blue, limpid eyes, of the baby chuckles, the droop of a fair, sleepy head on his father’s shoulder. A few short days before they had driven down this valley in laughter and happy anticipation. Now Robbie was gone, and all was changed. It was an oppressively hot day, with thunder grumbling in the distance and no breath of air stirring. Even the spanking pace of the calesse did not generate any cooling breeze, but rather a stifling warmth, like the breath of an animal, in her face. The driver hunched upon his seat, keeping the pony at a trot, intent upon executing his errand as quickly as possible. Not a word passed between them for the whole of the journey.

  They reached the village as it lay in its midday stupor. Shutters were closed, doors curtained. Smoke from cooking fires hung heavily in the air. The driver slowed his pace. A child cried. A woman called. Chickens scratched in the dusty road. The temptation to stop as they passed Umberto’s house, to search out Michel, was almost overwhelming, but she resisted it. She had set herself a task, and it was a task she had to do alone. Her own concerns would come later. She had time this afternoon to do what needed to be done; her reward then would be time with Michel. Time alone. Time, perhaps, to escape, for just a little while, the desperate weight of grief and regret. But not yet. First she must face the house, and the memories that it held.

  The taciturn driver set her down outside the gate, accepted the money she proffered with grunted thanks – the first words he had spoken – swung the pony round and trotted back down the hill.

  Poppy picked up her bag, crossed the still, hot courtyard with. its uneven paving stones and dilapidated buildings and walked round to the back of the house. The huge old key to the door was in her bag. She fitted it into the lock, turned it with both hands, and the door swung open upon the familiar kitchen. Despite the fact that the range had long gone out it was suffocatingly warm, and there was a stale smell to the place. She propped the door wide, threw open the windows. The dull, stormy light was eerie, the silence complete. It was, she thought in morbid fancy, as if the house itself had died.

  She shook her head. ‘Come on, Poppy Brookes,’ she said. aloud, brisk and sharp. ‘Soonest started, soonest finished. Or something like that. Stop moping and get on with it.’

  She relit the stove before going to her room to change into a loose shirt and an old pair of slacks. Then, on the principle that if one starts with the worst then things can only get better, she went straight to Robbie’s room.

  She threw nothing away. Several trips to the attic saw the room cleared and tidy, with only the furniture left as a reminder that the place had ever been occupied. It was not done without tears. Just once, as she surveyed the pathetic little box of toys and clothes that she had packed so neatly and carefully, she almost broke down entirely. For a moment she dropped to sit on the top stair of the attic flight, knuckling her eyes like a child. She sat so for a long, still moment. In the stuffy atmosphere perspiration plastered her hair to her skull, trickled uncomfortably from her hairline, ran down her cheeks. At last she stood, went slowly down the stairs, paused for one last look into the room she had just cleared before firmly shutting the door and going on down into the kitchen, where, with no compunction whatsoever, she poured herself the last of Kit’s whisky before setting about what needed to be done there.

  As she worked, the storm grumbled nearer, the sky darkening, thunder beginning to echo along the hillsides. A few heavy drops of rain splattered through the leaves of the vine outside the window, forerunners, she assumed, of a downpour. Oddly, neither the weather nor her own isolation, alone in the vast house, bothered her. On the contrary there was something about the storm that seemed entirely appropriate to the day. She stacked away the last plate, looked at the small pile of crockery and cutlery she had left on the table – a baby plate and dish, a cup and a mug, a tiny spoon and fork. One more trip to the attic, and she would be done. Kit and Isobel could look at and cherish these things at some later time, when hopefully the pain would have eased. But at least they would not have to face them until they were ready to. She reached for the cardboard
box and old newspaper she had set beside them and packed them carefully away. As she picked the box up and turned to the door the rain, as if a floodgate had been opened, began in earnest, and with it came a quick, gusting wind. Thunder rumbled in the valley and lightning crackled. She set the box back on the table and went to the outside door to close it against the sudden onslaught. And caught her breath, startled, as a tall figure, head down against the rain, hurried around the corner of the house and into the yard.

  ‘Michel! Michel!’ Idiotically, instead of waiting for him to reach the door, she ran to him, out into the rain and wind, into the vice-hug of his arms, and stood there, safe at last, at least for the moment, from the need to be strong, from the need to be alone. His kiss was fierce and tender, and left no room for doubt that he was as happy to see her as was she to see him. The rain was warm and wonderfully refreshing after the sweaty heat of the day. They took their time; it was a long, lovely moment before, without words, they turned and walked indoors.

  He held her hands, looking at her with that gentle, quizzical smile that she so loved. Like her he was drenched, his dark hair plastered to the neat, high-domed skull, rainwater gleaming on the sharp bones of his face, glittering upon his lashes. ‘Hello,’ he said.