by Jo Thomas
‘The roof needs fixing.’ He shrugs and throws some more fallen plaster into a pile outside the door where I’ve just tidied and swept.
‘I’ve got someone lined up to do it,’ I blurt.
‘Who? Your Australian friend? What does he know about trulli?’
‘He’s worked in Alberobello,’ I say defensively.
‘These roofs take years of understanding. My family have been caring for them all their lives. It isn’t possible to learn about them in one summer.’
‘Oh don’t tell me, he’s another one just like me!’ I wish I could think before I speak, or act for that matter. I seem to lurch from one self-inflicted disaster to another. I buy a house I haven’t seen, without internet access, lose all my work and now my only other source of income.
Another shrug and he gets back to piling up the stones and plaster.
‘Look, I don’t know . . .’ I daren’t say I don’t know if I can pay him, ‘how much you’re charging.’
He stands up and dusts himself down, taking a swig of water from a big bottle.
‘Let’s just say I’m doing us both a favour.’
‘I don’t understand. I can’t let you do it for nothing. I have to pay you. But I have to know how much.’
He takes another swig.
‘The paintings. Your paintings. The ones I saw on the table the day you arrived . . .’ He must be talking about my college work. ‘You’re a good artist.’ He puts the lid on his water.
‘Thanks. Was a good artist, and painting’s not going to pay the bills.’
He wipes his hands on a rag.
‘It’s my grandmother’s birthday at the end of October, just before the olive harvest. She’s been very upset by . . . all this business.’
I bristle and want to shout that it’s not my fault. But I don’t.
‘Perhaps you could do a painting of the masseria for her. To remember the old days.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s it. In return, I will mend your trullo roof. You pay for the materials, I’ll do the work.’
‘You want me to do a painting . . .’
‘For Nonna, si.’ He nods and smiles, a wide, relaxed smile.
‘For Nonna,’ I repeat. ‘And in return you’ll mend the roof if I buy the materials.’ I say it slowly, looking for the catch.
He nods again. ‘Si. It’s a deal?’ He holds out his hand, and slowly I hold out mine.
‘Thank you. Grazie. That would be fine,’ I say, still a little unbelieving. If this is true, it’s the only way I can afford to have the roof done. ‘I’ll call Ryan and tell him I have help,’ I say slowly, hoping it won’t affect . . . well, things, whatever that might be, between us. I’d still like to have him as a friend, and who knows, maybe still have that dinner sometime.
‘Ryan,’ Marco says with a laugh. ‘Okay, you call Ryan. I’ll get on.’ He looks up at the ceiling. ‘And some coffee would be good too.’
I stop as I’m stepping out of the trullo and shake my head, but really I’m feeling relieved. I can actually get the roof fixed and then sell up and leave.
I go back into the house, put the kettle on and compose a text to Ryan. Then I pull out one of the old photographs of the masseria that I was looking at last night. I reach for my paintbrushes and run the bristles over my hands, then set up the easel up by the glass doors at the back of the dining room and put a canvas on it. I pin the photograph to the easel and get a faint memory of the excitement I used to feel when I was just about to start a new painting at college. A fresh canvas, a new beginning. I smile. I’m going to enjoy doing this.
I make the coffee and take it out to Marco, who has put the table and chairs under the big tree in the middle of the courtyard. There’s so much work to be done here. The wall around the courtyard is lovely but crumbling in places; I wonder if the new owners will repair it or perhaps take it down completely. However, it feels like a small part of the wall between me and Marco has come down, and it feels good. A pair of dragonflies bob their way past me, dodging and sidestepping each other in the lazy heat of the last of the summer days.
I pour two cups and he comes out of the trullo wiping his hands.
‘So how long do you think it will take you to do the roof?’ I ask, sipping the hot black coffee.
‘About two weeks. How long do you think it will take you to do the painting?’ he asks back.
‘Um, about two weeks,’ I reply. ‘Look, Marco this is very good of you. And I know you said you want the painting for your . . .’
‘Nonna.’
‘Nonna,’ I confirm, ‘but I still don’t know why you’re helping me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very grateful. But I mean, I’ve told you I’m putting it on the market.’
He smiles, and it grows into a gentle laugh. My mouth starts to tug at the corners, his laughter infectious.
‘Well, I want the roof to be in good shape for when the house is mine again. When you sell it back to me, of course.’ He knocks back his coffee, then picks up his small pickaxe and returns to work without another word.
I freeze with my cup halfway towards my mouth. Words fail me, actually fail me, and I shake my head and return to the house to start Nonna’s painting.
‘I see Ryan’s making a start on the trullo, then. That was quick,’ says Lou with a cheeky wink. We’re having what is becoming a regular lunchtime meet-up. ‘I wondered if you two might get on,’ she grins.
‘Actually,’ I say, putting hot toasted bruschetta rubbed with garlic and drizzled with golden olive oil on to a warm serving plate, ‘it’s not Ryan.’ I chew my top lip with my bottom teeth.
‘Who is it then?’ She pours the rosata from a plastic container from the cantina into a jug.
‘It’s Marco,’ I say quickly, and grimace, embarrassed.
‘What?’ She stops pouring. ‘Marco Bellanuovo?’
I nod, turning to look at Lou. After everything that’s gone on, Marco is doing me a huge favour, even if he does think he’s doing it for his own benefit.
‘How did that come about?’ Lou says, looking amazed.
‘We did a deal.’ I attempt a Mediterranean shrug and actually, I think I pull it off. ‘He’s doing the roof in return for a painting.’ I toss the salad and put it on the tray with the plates and knives and forks.
‘A painting? What painting?’ Lou grabs the glasses from the old Formica top that I’ve cleaned within an inch of its life, so there’s practically no pattern left on it at all.
‘It’s for his nonna, for her birthday. I think it’s actually part of my penance for being here. He wants me to paint the masseria for her, a memento.’ I pick up the tray and start making my way outside. ‘I haven’t painted anything in years. It’s bound to turn out to be terrible.’
‘Have you started it?’ She follows behind me. ‘I’d love to see it.’
‘It’s just by the door.’ I nod to the easel and she goes over and peers at it. Suddenly it matters to me what she thinks. What if I can’t do it any more? What if it was all a complete waste of time, years at art college, and I was never actually any good at it? My brother thought everything I painted was rubbish.
‘It’s fabulous!’ she says, and I break into a broad smile. It feels good, very good indeed. ‘I love it. So bold. Is it acrylics?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I nod, still smiling, and join her to look at the picture. The masseria is in the middle of the canvas; its walls are terracotta, not faded pink like they are now. I’ve painted in the olive grove around it, showing their green and silver leaves and the red poppies that grow in May across the deep red soil. I like to fill the whole canvas with colour. I used to like painting people too, but I’m not sure whether I still can.
‘Are you doing anything like this for the card company you work for?’
I s
hake my head and shrug again, realising it’s a habit I’ve picked up from Marco. My smile drops.
‘I can’t get any kind of answers from my boss. Seems like I just slipped off his radar once it became hard to get hold of me. I haven’t heard a thing from him and nothing has gone into my bank account recently. I’m living off the savings I had from the flat sale, and there’s not much left now. And I’ve still got to pay for the materials for the trullo.’ We sit down at the barrel table, which I’ve covered with a red and white cloth I bought in the market.
‘Well, I’ve spoken to the estate agent I know and he has some buyers coming out in just over a week’s time. He wants to show them this place,’ says Lou, helping herself to salad.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’ I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Hopefully the trullo will be finished and I can get a big push on and get the rest of the place cleared out and cleaned up.’
‘It’s looking fabulous out here.’ Lou glances around at my hard work and effort. ‘And in the courtyard.’ She nods her head sideways.
‘Oh, I found something I wanted to show you when I was cutting back the brambles there.’ I put down the salad servers, grab my wine glass and lead Lou round into the courtyard. When we reach the corner where I’ve uncovered three lemon trees, and have the scratches to prove it, I point.
‘Wow! Look at that mosaic.’ Holding her glass carefully, Lou steps across the soft soil to study it. She rubs her hand over the smooth pieces of boldly coloured ceramics. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘It was behind a whole load of weeds and stuff. Marco will probably tell me I’ve cut down all sorts of important plants, but it’s lovely, isn’t it?’
‘It looks like the masseria. I wonder if it was some sort of family crest.’
We both stare at it and then straighten up and look around.
‘Oh, and I’ve got some pictures to show you.’ I lead her back round to the table and bring out the photographs I found in the old chest of drawers. We slowly work our way through them as we eat and drink, recognising parts of the house and the land, deciding where we think the pictures were taken and discussing who’s in them.
‘That’s by the forno, over there.’ Lou points at Marco’s trullo and the stone oven beside it.
‘And that’s the big tree in the courtyard,’ I say.
‘That must be Giovanni,’ says Lou.
‘And Anna-Maria.’ I point at the slim, attractive young woman with a baby in her arms.
‘That’s Sophia!’
‘No way!’ We look at the stunning young woman .
‘Wow! Time hasn’t been kind to her,’ says Lou, and I give her a gentle clip round the arm, but we both allow ourselves a little smile trying to match up this stunner with the very large, bad-tempered Sophia.
We turn to the next picture and my heart suddenly makes an unexpected and surprising lurch as I immediately recognise a young, good-looking Marco, with another man who is quite possibly his father. There’s also a young man about the same age who looks like he could be Marco’s brother, with his arm around Marco’s shoulders. They’re smiling and laughing.
We keep working our way through the pictures and I’m getting a very different picture of the Bellanuovos and how family life used to be here. It looks like it was a home.
‘The house looks amazing,’ I say as we spread out the photos. And a painting that’s been forming in my head at night starts to come into clearer focus.
‘You’ve done so much here already,’ says Lou, looking around, breaking into my thoughts.
‘Thanks. I mean, I’d’ve loved to have really got stuck in here. There’s so much more work to do, but I think it’s the sensible thing to sell up. I’m never going to belong here. I know that now. I’m not a Bellanuovo,’ and we both laugh.
‘Where will you go?’ Lou runs her finger round the edge of her glass.
‘I might go and stay with my friend in Cornwall for a bit. See if that job’s still going. Fingers crossed. If not, it’s back to my mum’s settee until I can sort out a flatshare.’
Lou pulls her mouth downwards.
‘Well, I’ll miss you, that’s for sure,’ and she raises her glass. ‘And I’ll miss your piccalilli! But here’s to your first viewing. I’ll ring and make the arrangements if you like.’
‘That would be great.’ I raise my glass too, though I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment that I couldn’t make a go of it. But a bit like my relationship with Ed, I have to learn when to give up and walk away. It’ll be an amazing place when it’s finished, but it’s not my home. I need to go, find somewhere of my own.
I decide to ring my mum once Lou’s gone. I can’t let my pride get in the way any more. I have to tell her I’ve made a mistake and that I’m coming back. I raise my eyes, hoping that the tears that are prickling under the surface don’t spill, and force a smile.
Marco got up as soon as he woke. It was dark in the trullo but he kept the shutters open to see the sun as it started to rise. He jumped into the hot shower and made coffee before heading out to the masseria. He was keen to start work before Ruthie got up. He didn’t want her to think he wasn’t putting in the effort, and he wanted the roof finished on time.
He stopped in at his mamma’s house.
‘Filippo!’ he called in a half-whisper. But there was no answer. He went up to his brother’s room. He could have done with his help finishing off this morning. But Filippo wasn’t there either.
‘Ciao, bello!’ Anna-Maria came out of her room and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘He’s staying with friends in town,’ she added, nodding at Filippo’s door. ‘Looking for jobs in the UK again, no doubt.’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
‘You have to let him live his own life,’ he told her, and she shook her head again and headed downstairs. Marco followed.
‘Coffee?’ she asked, putting a hand out to touch his face.
‘No, I have to get next door to finish the trullo roof.’
Anna-Maria pulled a face. ‘How much longer?’ she said, putting the kettle on. ‘You know, that house will make a lovely home for you and Rosa.’
‘Oh Mamma. Don’t start that. Rosa is a good friend . . .’
‘Yes, who you have known since school.’
‘I have a job in Naples. Rosa lives here,’ he said.
‘And she and her family own the olive press and the land around it. This family could be a big name around here again if you were to marry. And her father is keen to retire. He would be delighted if you were to take over.’
‘I think Rosa is quite capable of taking things over herself,’ Marco said, looking at his watch. ‘I have to go, Mamma. I have work to do.’
‘Don’t be late. I’ve invited Rosa and her family over for aperitivos. A chance to talk about the future. Think about it, Marco.’
Marco rolled his eyes and looked at his watch again. He wasn’t thinking about Rosa; he was thinking about Ruthie. She’d be hard at work already. She hadn’t stopped since he’d started on the trullo. In fact, she hadn’t stopped since she’d got here. The place looked totally different. He was beginning to think he’d got her all wrong. She really did want to put this place back to how it was. But why? Why would you move to a different country, where you couldn’t speak the language?
Whatever her reasons, she was throwing herself into it. She’d even taken on Nonno’s goat!
He’d be sorry to see her go, he realised. Not just because she was very capable – and beautiful too, though he knew nothing could happen; she would go home eventually. But she had already made such a difference. She’d been good for the community, reminding them how the masseria used to be. It made him feel proud. He wanted to help her. Yes, she was feisty and a bit bossy, but he got the impression that was just a cover. It couldn’t have been easy coming here all on her own, and she
was still driving a hard bargain. She knew what she wanted. He’d been impressed by her, intrigued.
He realised that he and Filippo hadn’t spent this much time together in ages either. He enjoyed working outside again instead of in an office or lecture theatre. He felt more alive than he had in months and he knew that was partly due to Ruthie Collins being here. Perhaps he should try and persuade her to stay after all.
Marco has been working his socks off these past couple of weeks, and there’s no way I want him to think I’m working any less hard preparing for the viewers. I’ve been whitewashing all the rooms, cutting back the brambles and weeding in the courtyard and the veranda outside, jet-washing the white stones and planting red geraniums. I’ve even blacked the woodburning stove, though I still can’t light it.
Marco works from seven in the morning, sometimes earlier, on the trullo roof, stopping for a few hours when the sun gets too hot, when he goes back and works in his own trullo. I use the time to carry on with the painting. Then he returns and works into the evening. Sometimes he brings Filippo with him. Filippo always makes me smile. He’s a funny young man, playful, flirting and teasing. Marco is forever telling him to stop messing around and pulling him back into line. And he obviously loves being with his big brother.
The electrician comes back every so often, turning up at the most peculiar hours, late in the evening or early morning, fitting me around his other jobs as he works his way through the house. And every time he leaves, I give him another jar of piccalilli.
Now that two weeks have gone by, my hands are red raw from scrubbing, my hair is pebble-dashed with white paint and my arms are so scratched I look like I’ve been thrown to the lions. As I drift off to sleep each night, my mind fills with the painting I can’t seem to shake the thought of. Last night I dreamt that the house was full of guests and family again, and there was laughter in every room. It’s the sort of dream you don’t want to wake up from. But Daphne put paid to that by kicking at her pen door to be let out early in the morning.
‘So, are you nearly finished?’ I ask Marco when he arrives. There’s a nip in the air. Summer is on its way out and autumn is letting us know of its imminent arrival. ‘I have viewers at five o’clock this evening,’ I tell him, feeling nervous, which probably makes me sound more bossy than I mean to. ‘Lou organised an estate agent to bring them over.’