The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  I hear a noise behind me and turn.

  ‘Hey, Daphne,’ I say, and she trots up behind me and tentatively nudges me. I rub her in between the ears, then turn back to the vegetable plot. It’s very overgrown, but I manage to walk round it, stumbling in parts over brambles and divots. I spot what I think might be onions, and peppers, though I’m not advanced enough to be able to identify types. But I have no idea what these bushes are, especially that one from The Jungle Book. I’m flicking to and fro in the book.

  ‘Prickly pear.’ A voice startles me and makes me jump, and then my heart sinks. I’d recognise that deep, disapproving tone anywhere. Marco Bellanuovo has a very strange effect on me; a bit like coffee. It smells nice and is fine in small doses, but otherwise it makes me sweat and my heart race and gives me a headache. He’s on the other side of the wall, his hands in his pockets, leaning on an olive tree, looking up at the house.

  ‘Sorry?’ I bristle and stiffen. I probably shouldn’t even get into conversation with him, but I can’t help it. How dare he? ‘Are you talking to me? What did you call me? Excuse me!’ I persist as he stares up at the masseria. Honestly, it’s like being back in school. Well, I didn’t like being bullied then, and I’m not going to start now.

  He pulls his gaze away from the house and stares straight at me, like he’s wondering whether to say it again. Then he straightens up, lazily, as though I’m dragging him away from his favourite TV programme, keeping one hand in his pocket. He walks towards me and I have to remember he’s grieving. At my grandfather’s funeral there was a punch-up between his best mate and his son over the darts score. I’m thinking that maybe I should just walk away when suddenly he points to the bush.

  ‘It’s a prickly pear,’ he repeats. ‘The tree.’

  I look at him blankly, suddenly embarrassed that I was so ready for a row and that I have no idea what a prickly pear is. He takes a hankie from his pocket and reaches over and pulls one of the round purplish fruits from the tree. With a small penknife, he peels away the outer skin and then slices the fruit open and into segments. He holds it out to me.

  ‘Try it,’ he says. He’s not smiling and I daren’t say no. He takes a slice and bites into it. Hesitantly, I do the same. Then he wipes his chin with the back of his hand. I do the same. He has very blue eyes and he’s looking at me as if he’s trying to suss me out. I can’t blame him for being suspicious. I mean, I rock up here on my own with no obvious skills and a bucketload of foolhardiness. But what about him? What is it about this house that’s got him so riled? We stare at each other as we finish sucking on the prickly pear and wiping the juice from our chins. Neither of us letting the other in on what we really want to know.

  ‘Prickly pear,’ I confirm. So, not me then, the fruit. ‘It’s good,’ I say. He nods in agreement. I wonder if this is him trying to be neighbourly, and think I should do the same. ‘Um, look . . . I know this hasn’t turned out the way—’

  ‘Marco!’ Anna-Maria calls. He turns.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m needed to help with the cooking,’ he says, and is gone.

  Well, really! That man is so infuriating, and rude! He wanted to do the neighbourly bit and now I feel like I’ve been left hanging.

  Feeling ruffled, I slam my book shut and head back to the house for my toolkit. That’s the last time I try and make small talk with Marco Bellanuovo. I have a ceiling to sort out.

  I stalk round to the trullo, checking the barn as I go. I notice that the milk and egg has gone from the dish, and mamma cat is licking her paws contentedly in her bed in the nets. But she hisses at me anyway.

  The sound of chatter from next door is very much muted on this side of the house. At least I won’t be able to hear the laughter as Marco tells them how I was trying to immerse myself in Italian life with the help of a Dr David Hessayon self-help book and a camera. I find an old wooden fruit-picking ladder in the barn and take it to the trullo along with the toolbox, determined to lose myself in work and not think about the flat above the gallery with the view of the sea where I wrote my name in the sand in my mind and now am watching it being washed away by the rising tide.

  That night, after an afternoon of rubbing down and filling in the cracks in the trullo roof, I open my laptop and start work on some designs for Brandon. But while seagulls and white weatherboarded cottages play out in my mind, on paper I’m doodling trulli and prickly pears.

  Judging by the cool air and the mist rising off the olive trees when I push open the shutters early in the morning, it must have rained again in the night, leaving puddles of water everywhere. August has turned to September and this is an unwelcome reminder that autumn is waiting just around the corner.

  It’s been two weeks since the funeral, and I’m beginning to find my way around. I’ve dragged an old iron bed into my makeshift bedroom, and I’m using a wooden barrel from the barn as a living room table, complete with a small lamp. I’ve bought a three-piece suite off the man in the market, at tourist prices no doubt, and have even treated myself to a new mattress. I’ve barely seen anyone except for when the delivery truck got stuck in the lane and Anna-Maria and Nonna and the little sheep herder up the road and his son came to offer help, waving hands and shouting directions.

  I yawn and stretch, breathing in the wonderful fresh air, and head downstairs for coffee and a slice of focaccia. Sophia at the bakery may be sour-faced, but she makes great focaccia and it is the closest shop to me. Who said food has to be made with love, eh? Certainly not in this case.

  I’ve got into a routine of going into town to pick up bread from Sophia’s shop at the end of the lane. The smell in the place is amazing, warm, inviting, like a big cashmere sweater covering you in comfort, which is more than can be said for Sophia. Hard as I try to make conversation, telling her how much I love the small, soft milk rolls I buy for breakfast, or the potato bread that I slice and toast, she never responds. There are jars and jars of brightly coloured sugared almonds behind the counter too. Everything about this shop should shout joy. But Sophia never raises a smile.

  I was beginning to think it’s just me she doesn’t like. Until the other day – market day – when I was standing at the big vegetable stall trying to work out how to order just one punnet of strawberries, fragola. It was busy; there were people jostling all around me, talking loudly and shouting their orders. The smell from the strawberries was amazing and sweet. There were only three punnets left, and I knew that the stall owner would make me take all three, bundling them into a bag before I had a chance to tell him I just wanted one. I still hadn’t managed to stop him doing that.

  I decided to pick up a punnet and have the right money in my hand. That way, he had to understand me. I dug into my bag for my purse, but I only had a ten-euro note. I was going to have to show him I only wanted the one. I reached out to pick one up, but as I did, a long arm stretched practically over me and made a grab for all three, calling to the stallholder. I looked at the gold-bangled wrist and knew instantly who it was. That jewellery, those big dark-skinned arms, that perfume, thick, strong and cloying. Anna-Maria. Oh God, now what was I going to do? Was I going to have to fight her off with a cucumber? There had obviously been a run on strawberries that day, and now there was a chance I wouldn’t get any.

  Almost as soon as her hands were on the punnets, however, another hand came in from the other side, right across my body, making a claim on the same strawberries. I looked down at the fat fingers claiming victory.

  ‘Scusi!’ I said loudly, waving my ten-euro note at the stallholder, not wanting to be bullied out. I live here too, I thought, and I need to start behaving like I do, rather than like the new girl in the school playground. I could feel the tension around me and looked up to see Anna-Maria’s set face. Eyeing me, her expression became more determined than ever, and suddenly I wasn’t sure I could fight her. I already had something she wanted: the masseria. I stepped sideways to le
t her through, but as I did, I was blocked by the woman on the other side of me. I turned to see Sophia from the bakery. Her face was set too. I wondered if letting her have the strawberries would encourage her to be more friendly when I next went to her shop.

  I looked from one woman to the other. The air around us chilled and I was now completely invisible. The two women glared at each other and I realised it wasn’t just me that Sophia had a problem with. It was Anna-Maria as well by the look of it. Then I suddenly remembered the meal at Anna-Maria’s, and the funeral. Oh God! Of course, Sophia was Filippo’s aunt and Anna-Maria’s sister-in-law, and from the face Filippo had pulled and their behaviour at the funeral, they didn’t get on.

  The cheeky stallholder for once looked uncertain, glancing from Anna-Maria to Sophia. His palms were held out, his shoulders up. He looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights; clearly, both women expected his undivided loyalty. I felt caught in the crossfire and wanted to hold my hands over my head and crouch down until it all passed. But I was stuck. Trapped between two large sets of intimidating bosoms. There was only one thing I could think of doing, and it might have been rash but I wasn’t sure of any other way to escape the situation unscathed. I threw my ten-euro note in the direction of the stallholder, who scooped it up gratefully before stuffing all three punnets into a blue bag and handing it to me. ‘Grazie, mille grazie,’ I heard him say as I hurried away. I couldn’t see the two women, but I knew that their fury was now directed at my back rather than each other as I moved swiftly out of the market and back to my car.

  Well, at least I knew why Sophia was so off with me now. If Anna-Maria was incandescent that I’d bought the masseria, I’m guessing Sophia was too. It had thrown a hand grenade right into the middle of an already raging war.

  I give a little shiver at the memory of ‘strawberry-gate’ and wonder whether to try and light the fire again. I’m going to have to get to grips with it soon for heat and hot water. I’d give anything for a bath. I wash and wash up with water boiled in the kettle, but that keeps making my hand go funny every time I use it, sort of numb.

  I take my breakfast outside and put it down on the barrel I’m using as a table. The seat is wet from the overnight rain, so I dry it off with a tea towel and sit and enjoy the rising sun on my face. The quiet is breathtaking.

  Most days after I’ve got my groceries I walk to the café to use the internet. Brandon has gone very quiet on me, despite me sending through some Italian designs and lots of cheery emails. I’m starting to worry they’re not what he wants at all. Maybe I should take some more pictures today.

  Then, the shattering noise of a drill sears through the early-morning peace. I look around, trying to work out where it’s coming from. I don’t have any close neighbours apart from the Bellanuovos, and I’ve barely seen any of them since the funeral.

  I stand up and strain to see in the direction of the noise, over the overgrown veg patch. It’s him, Marco Bellanuovo, at the trullo on the other side of the stone wall. I thought he’d gone. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, old ones. The T-shirt is rippling at the back in the tiny hint of a breeze that makes this September morning just gorgeous. Well, it would be if he wasn’t taking off the trullo door with a large drill and a hammer; and it’s not even eight in the morning. I daren’t say anything. Instead I march back into the house. He might have a three-coned trullo, but I have a single one of my own to be working on, and it’s really coming on.

  Pulling on light dungarees, and a plain white shirt , I grab my toolbox and my bag of odds and ends from the ironmonger’s and head out of the front door. I let Daphne out of her pen and she nearly topples me over with a run and a butt of her head.

  ‘Oomph! Hello to you too!’ I laugh once the shock subsides. I rub the top of her head, put down the toolbox and go to feed her. In the corner of the shed, the little grey cat stretches and stands, hoping to be fed too. Her little ones stay tucked behind her as I put some cat food in her bowl.

  ‘At least someone’s pleased to see me,’ I say, setting down the bucket of feed for Daphne. I run my hand along her back and rub her wiry fur, then pat her behind. She snorts and throws back her head, showering grain everywhere. I step away from her, still not entirely used to her eccentric ways. As I pick up the toolbox and head for my trullo to start work, there is still the sound of drilling from next door.

  I spent yesterday evening working up some new cards for Brandon and a wedding invitation for a couple getting married next summer. It won’t pay much. I need the rental income this trullo could bring me from holidaymakers. I’m pleased with how it’s looking already, and actually I’ve loved doing it. The masseria’s a big job, but the trullo is a perfect project. It’s like playing dolls’ houses. I can see all the potential. It’s like I’m painting a picture and it’s turning out just how I wanted it to be.

  I’m up a ladder with the overhead lights on full. I adjust my head torch – a Valentine’s present from Ed last year when I was thinking of doing a plumbing course. Shame he didn’t cook an Italian meal when I went for Italian instead. My arms are aching as I reach up and fill the crack. Thankfully it isn’t too high; I’ve already filled it once and smoothed it over. I’m just going back over it now, really working in the filler. I want to do the best job I can. Then I’ll give it another lick of paint.

  I decide to take a breather and a slug of water. Outside, the day is warming up, but inside the trullo it’s really cool. I’ve got the windows and door open, trying to get rid of the smell of paint and damp. I’m sure it just needs a good airing. I sit on the little plastic chair by the table and look around proudly.

  There is a kitchenette on the left as you walk in through the front door, and I’ve polished up the sink and washed and ironed the curtains over the cupboard below it. Behind that there’s a shower. I’ve regrouted the tiles and put up a new shower curtain. In the main room there’s a fireplace, and an alcove beside it like a dome that just fits a bed. I bought a new mattress for here too, and a table and chairs. I’m going to take out the chest of drawers and use it in my bedroom for now. It’ll make more space.

  It’s a perfect little love nest for two, I think. I must get it on to Owners Direct. Trullo Bellanuovo. Bellanuovo means beautiful and new. New beginnings! Perhaps I could advertise it as the perfect honeymooners’ cottage. I’ll plant up some window boxes, and make an outdoor dining area in the courtyard, though first I’m going to have to get it cleared of the overgrown brambles.

  I stand up and climb the ladder again, switching my head torch back on. I reach up and press at the filler to see if it’s dry. I’m standing on tiptoes, and it occurs to me that if I had an accident, no one would know. It’s not as if anyone’s going to drop by and check how I’m doing, after all.

  Suddenly there’s a sharp rap on the front door.

  ‘Hello! Ciao!’ and a large figure is bending to come into the trullo. I jump and grab hold of the ladder. My heart starts its caffeine-style racing and I grip the rung tightly.

  ‘Marco!’ I look down at him and blow out a long sigh of relief.

  ‘Scusi, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He holds up his arm against the glare of my head torch.

  ‘You didn’t scare me. I’m just . . . not used to people walking into my house,’ I say, bluffing.

  ‘I see you’re doing some repairs.’ He nods at my handiwork and I feel myself swell a little, pleased that I’ve made a good job of it and pleased that he’s noticed. Not just the silly Englishwoman now, eh?

  ‘Yes, and I hear you’ve started some of your own,’ I reply more sharply than I intended. I’m still on my guard with him. I’m not going to start chatting just for him to wander off again.

  ‘Look, I wonder if I might talk to you,’ he says, ignoring my comment.

  ‘I don’t think we have anything left to say, do you? You don’t like the fact that I bought your family’s masseria.
There’s nothing we can do about it, even if we wanted to. The deal has been done and the money has gone.’ I spell it out.

  He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t move either.

  I sigh and turn off the light on my forehead. He slowly lowers his arm. He’s holding something in one hand. It looks like a tin. He sees me looking at it and holds it out.

  ‘A peace offering.’ He smiles, and it changes his whole face. He is a very attractive man. I wipe my brow and realise how rough I must look: hot, shiny and not a lick of make-up. Not that it matters, I think quickly. The last thing I want people to think is that I’m looking for a man. Especially after the scowling look I got from Rosa the other night. She’s obviously quite possessive over Marco.

  I have a red and white spotted bandanna round my head, and I pull it off and wipe my face and hands as I’m coming down the ladder.

  ‘My mother made it.’ Marco pushes the tin towards me.

  ‘Leftovers, is it?’ I laugh before watching his face fall and realising I’ve put my foot in it again. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘British humour.’

  He waves away my comment and smiles again.

  ‘It’s lemon cake. I thought perhaps we could have coffee and a slice.’ He points towards the masseria.

  I’m on my guard but I don’t want to refuse the hand of friendship. I accept the tin.

  ‘Grazie,’ I say, trying to start over in a more civilised manner. I point the way out of the trullo, where he seems to take up a lot of space. He’s also holding a bottle. It’s deep green in colour. The colour of moss. ‘And this,’ he holds it out to me, ‘is Nonna’s secret recipe. A digestif, made with bay.’

  ‘Grazie,’ I say again, and lead the way back out into the bright sunshine and to the house. I put the tin down on the work surface and try and quickly flick the switch on the kettle so it doesn’t make my fingers buzz. This time it does more than make my fingers buzz. It gives me a huge kick and sends me reeling back across the kitchen.