The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  The trullo has three cones. The walls are uneven. On one side there is a stone stairway up the outside of the building, leading to the roof. Unlike mine, these roofs are still intact. There is a solid white surround round the front door. The tops of the cones are grey concrete but may have once been painted white. They have decorative balls on the top too. Across the doorway there’s a piece of wood, presumably to stop any dogs or goats wandering in. I step over it, dropping lumps of soil from my shoes as I do.

  ‘Hello!’ I try again, and just like when I first arrived at the masseria, my eyes are immediately drawn upwards to the unique ceiling. The cream stones are exposed here, unlike in mine, which was plastered – ‘was’ being the operative word. They form perfect lines, working their way round and up to the tip of the cone. I turn around as I stare and marvel at the craftsmanship. To one side of this main room is a wide archway and to the other side a low corridor. The floor is rough rubble and there are alcoves in each of the walls of various sizes.

  ‘Hello?’ I try again and duck down through the corridor, running my hand along the cool stone wall. I feel like Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole, and wonder what I’ll find at the other end. There’s another conical roof, this time smaller, with an archway, a deep one, just big enough for a double mattress. There are tools and cut stone on the floor, and by the looks of it a new doorway has been knocked through. I poke my head through the opening, wondering if Marco is here. But I can’t see him anywhere, just a large pile of rubble and a small dome-shaped room with small windows but no frames.

  ‘Buongiorno, posso aiutarla?’ I recognise the voice behind me but it still makes me jump and bang my head as I quickly turn back into the room, feeling like a snooper.

  ‘Oh, um, buongiorno, um, I was just . . .’ and I have no idea why I’m feeling quite so tongue-tied. I have come to find him, after all. ‘I, er . . .’ I clear my throat and straighten myself up, giving my head a quick rub. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘And you’ve found me,’ he says, looking vaguely amused. He’s looking very different as well, in combat trousers and lace-up boots splattered with whitewash. His loose T-shirt is covered in stone dust. His dark wavy hair has a light dusting in it too.

  He puts his hands on his hips.

  ‘This is becoming a habit, me finding you in my family’s property. You’re not going to tell me you own this one too, are you?’ he says, amused, and I’m furious that he seems to make me feel like a silly schoolgirl.

  ‘No, sorry, I . . . knocked. I thought maybe you couldn’t hear me.’ I put out a hand to lean against something and knock over a sweeping brush. ‘Sorry, sorry . . .’ I tail off. What on earth is wrong with me? I look around. I can’t help myself, I have to say something.

  ‘This place is really amazing,’ I tell him. ‘But then you probably know that already. People must say it all the time.’ He shrugs, with what I assume to be indifference. I’m stunned. ‘You do think it’s amazing, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose we’re just used to having them here. Tourists are fascinated by them. We seem to forget what we have.’ He wipes his hands on a cloth. ‘It needs work, but it’ll do me for now.’

  ‘For now? People pay a fortune to stay in something like this.’ I look around again, imagining it finished, in soft whites and greys.

  ‘What, people like you?’ He raises a dark eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry?’ My back suddenly stiffens up and I’m not tongue-tied any more. In fact, I’m quite clear about what I want to say. ‘What do you mean, people like me?’

  ‘People who think the sun and wine will solve all their problems.’

  ‘No! I came here because I always wanted to live in Italy and I . . . saw a window of opportunity and went for it.’

  ‘And now? Maybe you’re not so pleased you “went for it”?’

  ‘Like I say, I realise there might be somewhere else I should be.’

  ‘What? Home?’ He raises that eyebrow again.

  We stare at each stubbornly. I know I should just back down and tell him he’s right. That’s always been my problem. It’s the reason Ed and I stayed together so long. I was too stubborn to admit we just weren’t right for each other. I thought I could just keep working at it and it would finally come good.

  ‘Have you always loved old houses?’ He suddenly breaks the moment.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I’m thrown for a moment but regain my composure. ‘I’ve only ever lived in flats, purpose-built blocks, y’know. Even the last one was an ex-local-authority flat, just in a good location, for London. But I guess I’ve always wanted to renovate a house, make it a home again.’

  ‘Put the heart back into it, you mean.’ Those intense blue eyes look straight at me again, and my heart starts banging, riled. I have no idea why this man has this effect on me.

  ‘I just meant that I wanted to take something that had been neglected and turn it back into a home. This place came up and I thought I could do it . . . until my roof collapsed, that is.’

  ‘But a home isn’t a home just by its decoration. A home is a home because of the heart that’s in it.’

  Oh now he wants to argue about my use of the word ‘home’. He really is too much.

  ‘I’ve come to tell you that—’

  ‘You’re going to accept my offer.’ He folds his arms across his chest and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘That I’ve decided to sell after all.’ I cross my arms pointedly too.

  ‘Well, that is good news. Please let’s discuss it over a drink.’ He leads the way back through the low corridor, and I watch as the top of his head brushes the low roof.

  ‘No, I don’t think you understand,’ I explain as I duck through after him.

  ‘Mamma will be delighted. And Nonna. I believe this is the right thing for all of us, especially now the trullo roof needs repairing, and of course with its position.’

  There he goes again, banging on about the position. He’s gathering up dust sheets from a table and chairs and carrying them out into the sunshine.

  ‘Wait, please, you don’t understand,’ I say again.

  He stops suddenly and turns to me, still holding the table.

  ‘I think I do. You said you will sell; you’ll accept my offer, no?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head, frowning and squinting in the sudden sunlight now that I’m outside. This is harder than I thought it was going to be.

  ‘First I need to get the trullo roof fixed, and then I’m going to sell the masseria.’ I hold my hand up against the sun’s rays as I explain.

  He puts the table down. ‘I’m perfectly capable of fixing the roof. I’ve been looking after trulli since I was a boy. I’ll get on to my cousin’s husband, the lawyer, and get the paperwork sorted. You’ve made a very sensible decision, really.’

  I am being sensible. I’m selling up and going home. But I can’t help but feel very, very flat. I take a deep breath, determined to get it out this time.

  ‘I am going to have the roof fixed and then I’m going to sell the masseria, but not to you. Not for that price.’ I hold out the cheque.

  He looks at it and then back at me. This time it’s his turn to frown.

  ‘Then who are you going to sell it to?’

  ‘I’m going to put it back on the market. If I wanted it, someone else will. I have a friend who knows someone who helps British buyers find holiday homes. She’s contacting him for me.’ I hope Lou’s been able to speak to him like she said she would after our lunch, and that he’s agreed to take my place on.

  Marco looks down at the cheque. I notice there’s a faint shake in my hand. Then he looks back at me. He smiles suddenly, a lopsided, lazy smile in the corner of his mouth, and then his shoulders shudder. He’s laughing!

  ‘I don’t think you heard me right. I am selling, but not
to you, Marco,’ I repeat, confused by his reaction. I glare at him as if trying to prove to Ed and my family that I’m not going down without a fight. ‘No deal!’

  ‘I tell you what,’ he replies quietly and oddly gently, ‘hang on to that cheque until you’re ready to sell.’

  What! What’s wrong with this man? I bang the cheque down furiously on the table and march away. I’m not accepting his offer! No way! I’d rather sell to anyone other than Marco Bellanuovo. I slip and slide across the field, thick clods of earth clinging to my feet, slowing me down, and leave red footprints on Anna-Maria’s white stone drive, giving her yet another reason to hate me.

  I stomp back up my drive, shaking off the rest of the thick soil clinging to my shoes, which are now dyed henna red. There’s a truck parked outside the house and Daphne is marching up and down, her radar on full alert. It’s early evening and the sun is beginning to sink in the sky, taking the heat out of the day.

  I squint at the van and hope it’s not the local businessman and his mate again, looking for more taxes. I look around but can’t see anyone. I speed up, breaking into a jog. Not easy with lead weights on my feet.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Ciao?’

  What on earth can be happening now? Not someone else who wants to tell me I shouldn’t be living in my own house? Well I certainly wish I’d never bought the bloody place. This is the very last time I will be impulsive and silly and led by my heart. Ed and my mum were right. There, I’ve said it, even if it is just to myself. They were right and I was wrong. This is a bloody nightmare, not some sodding romantic dream.

  ‘Ciao! Who’s there?’ I call out.

  ‘Hey! Ciao!’ A head pokes out of the door of my trullo and I jump before breathing a sigh of relief and finding myself breaking into a smile. It’s Ryan, from the ironmonger’s.

  ‘Hello,’ I say inquisitively. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hi.’ He waves a hand. ‘Still odd speaking English. Maybe I’ll actually give my family a call.’ He comes out of the trullo and straightens up.

  ‘Don’t you speak to them then?’ I put a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun again. He shakes his head.

  ‘Na. Left years ago. Didn’t get on with them. Thought it was best to get out of there.’ Marco’s words about people thinking that a bit of sun and dolce vita will make their problems disappear play over in my head. Ryan turns and looks back at the trullo roof. ‘But then if you’re hiding out in rural Puglia, you’re probably running away from something too,’ he says, as if reading my mind.

  ‘I’m not . . .’ I reply, and he turns and gives me a big smile, which helps shoo away all the agitation I was feeling leaving Marco’s.

  ‘Just joking,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I heard your roof needed looking at. I was in Bar Antonio earlier.’

  I look blank.

  ‘Lou’s husband? He told me about your roof.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, of course.’ The penny drops.

  ‘I can fix that for you.’ He nods towards the roof, his bleached blond curls bobbing brightly.

  ‘Can you?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure.’ His curls bob again. ‘I did some work for a guy in Alberobello. Showed me how to do it.’

  Finally, something’s going my way. I smile widely now. This man has a habit of making me feel so much better about my day.

  ‘That’s great. When could you start?’ I clap my hands together.

  ‘Tomorrow if you like. I can clear some space.’

  I brighten even more.

  ‘This is a big job.’ He suddenly gets a lot more serious.

  ‘Is it?’ and I suddenly get a lot more worried.

  ‘Yes, it’ll be worth me putting the other stuff on hold. Just some olive tree maintenance.’ He’s smiling again and walking round the trullo. ‘Looks like you’ve got a lot of work on here. I can turn my hand to most things if you need help. I mostly look after olive trees for other people, but I’m happy to have a go at anything. ‘

  ‘When you say big job,’ I swallow, ‘how much are we talking exactly?’

  ‘Well . . . I do have a lot on.’ He wavers and I realise he wants to get his money’s worth here.

  ‘Oh no, please, I’d be really grateful if you could help me out,’ I say quickly, because right now this man is my ticket out of here. I have to grab this chance.

  ‘Tell you what, let’s have an aperitivo and I’ll see what I can work out for you,’ he says, grabbing a pad and pen from the dashboard of his dusty van. He smiles again and I know that I should feel happy that I’ve found someone to help me out until I can sell, especially someone as lovely as Ryan. He’s friendly, he speaks the same language as me, he understands what I’m going through. He’s very attractive. And he’s doing me a favour by pushing other work out of the way.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say.

  That evening, I’m still in shock about the amount of money it’s going to cost to repair the roof. I’ve been into town to see if Brandon has any work for me, but it seems he’s found a couple of graduates from my old college who he’s ‘bringing on’. More like employing them for half what he pays me. I’m furious with myself. If I hadn’t moved out here, I’d still have a steady stream of work, as well as the chance of the job in Cornwall. This is all my own fault. I can’t even afford to have the internet installed, especially not now the trullo roof needs repairing. According to the electrician who looked into it for me, I would need a huge booster on the roof and it would cost a fortune. Furiously I drive back to the masseria at speed and start to clear out some of the rubble in the trullo, trying to work out my frustration. Hopefully, too, it’ll make my final bill with Ryan cheaper if I’ve done the donkey work.

  Having pulled out some of the bigger stones, I drag out the chest of drawers. Not only is it covered in dust, but it’s damaged where a stone has hit the left-hand side leaving a large chunk of wood missing. I drag it across the courtyard. It’ll still do for my bedroom if I clean it up. Might as well use it. It’ll look better when I show viewers round the place, rather than having my clothes still in black bin bags on the floor.

  I dust it down in the dining room and start dragging it up to my bedroom. I’m about halfway up when I stop, out of breath and arms aching, wondering if I’m going to make it to the top, and what will happen if I don’t. I have to do it, that’s all there is to it. I give an almighty heave and the chest bangs noisily up the next three steps. I turn to see that there are just three to go. I’ve managed another one when the left-hand drawer shoots open and a load of old black and white photographs fly out and spill down the stairs.

  Oh bugger! That’s all I need.

  I manage to heave the chest into my bedroom and put my clothes in the drawers. Then I gather up the photographs from the stairs. They’re all of the masseria and the surrounding area. They’re old and worn, but amazing. I pour myself a glass of rosata and call it a night on my labouring, then sit down outside the back door in the setting sun. As I sift through the pictures of how this place used to be, it starts to come alive in my mind. The noise and chatter of that first night at the Bellanuovos’ is the soundtrack to the images playing in my head as I look at the big old olive tree reaching out its branches as if embracing the family, and imagine the happy times they must have had here.

  The next morning I’m sitting outside the back door, with a coffee and some toasted bread and jam, staring at the quote Ryan left me. It’s more than I have in savings just to fix the trullo roof. It’ll leave me nothing to live off unless I can get some more work from Brandon. I have no idea how I’m going to pay for it and I certainly can’t ask my mum or Ed for a loan.

  Daphne has finished her breakfast and is lying in the sun in the courtyard, along with three little grey kittens who are playing round her and sometimes over her. But she doesn’t seem to mind. Mamma cat is just out of sight, keeping a
n eye on her young, ready to pounce on predators.

  I try and put the trullo out of my mind. I’ve done all I can to tidy up the mess in and around it and have now shut the door on it. There’s no way I can afford to have it done. I’ll have to ring Ryan and tell him later. Right now I’m going to tackle some brambles before it gets too hot. I’ve had a text message from Lou’s agent friend, who has people in the area wanting a holiday property, a project to do up and rent out. I need to get this place looking the best I can.

  I grab the old pair of shears from the barn, oil the joints and then head out the back door. I plan to get this patio looking fabulous. My large floppy hat protects me from the sun and from seeing anything else; especially Marco working on his trullo over the wall. But I know he’s there, probably watching my every move. Honestly, I thought Mrs Davis in the downstairs flat knew all our business back in Tooting but it’s not half as bad as living a field away from a Bellanuovo. It feels like he’s right there the whole time. I stick my headphones in and shove my phone into my cut-off jeans pocket.

  I attack the brambles with gusto, cutting and chopping, and it’s making me feel a whole lot better until suddenly a bramble flicks up and whacks me in the face.

  ‘Ouch!’ I put one hand over my eye like a patch, pulling out my headphones. I can hear the thumping and banging of rocks and boulders being moved. I daren’t look over, I don’t want to catch Marco’s eye. In fact, I can’t.

  Daphne staggers to her feet from her sunbathing position and trots off round the side of the house to the courtyard. I listen again. It sounds like the banging is coming from the front of the house, my house.

  I drop the shears and follow Daphne. Someone is working in the trullo. There’s dust and rubble flying out the front door. ‘Oh God, Ryan. I’m so sorry,’ I shout. ‘I thought we’d agreed.’ I dip my head in through the trullo doorway. ‘I said I’d ring you when I had the money sorted . . .’ I stop, seeing a familiar back stacking stones by the front door. He turns to face me. It’s Marco Bellanuovo.