The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Not Ryan?’ he says, not looking at me.

  ‘No, not Ryan,’ I say carefully, not sure why he’s asked. ‘I haven’t seen Ryan for a while,’ I realise and then wish I hadn’t said it out loud. Marco’s tight jawline seems to relax slightly. I look away quickly and gaze at the roof instead. It seems complete from the outside, but Marco hasn’t let me see inside, insisting that I wait till it’s done.

  His little dog, Lucia, is at his feet, as she always is, looking up at him. All day she sits outside the trullo waiting for him, and only moves when he does. Daphne on the other hand has been patrolling the front of the house as if her life depends on it. I bend to pat Lucia, and although she lets me, she is still staring up at Marco.

  ‘She’s a very loyal dog,’ I say, rubbing her ears.

  ‘Yes, she hates it when I go away.’ He smiles at her. ‘I don’t like to leave her, but the city is no place for her. And I am out all day long. She’s better off here.’ He straightens up. ‘Just a few finishing touches. I’ll call you when I’m done,’ he says. ‘It’s almost ready,’ he adds with a mischievous smile, and I’m sure he’s just saying it to wind me up. I’m as nervous as I was the first day I arrived here.

  I’m still in my paint-splattered three-quarter-length dungarees and I have some final sweeping-up to do before I attempt a shower. The shower is temperamental: sometimes hot, depending if I can get the fire to light, but mostly cold, and sometimes it doesn’t work at all. Another thing I’d sort out if I was staying. I’d certainly have to get to grips with the wood-burning stove. But right now I just have to get the place looking its best.

  I’ve weeded around the worn cobblestones at the front of the house and along the drive. I’ve tried my best to straighten the gates and have given them a lick of red paint. I’ve put pots either side of the front door and have more pots with geraniums in them for the front of the trullo when Marco’s finished. I’ve covered the remaining junk in the barn with a tarpaulin and taken all the rubbish from the house to the dump.

  I’ve added a few bits of furniture I’ve bought from the market, but have left the little church as it is, because it’s so beautiful. I’ve just put a bunch of olive branches on the altar in there. I’ve swept everywhere, opened all the repainted shutters and mopped down the walls and floors.

  The patio is now stripped of its brambles. I’ve tried to tidy up round the vegetable plot, but I have no idea what I’m doing there. If I was staying, of course, I’d repaint the outside of the house. And I’d do the walls around the courtyard too, but there really isn’t time. I put some more olive branches in an old wine carafe on the plastic table in the cavernous dining room, then I stand back, brush down my hands and admire my work.

  Not bad for a fortnight! The kitchen is bare and basic but clean. I’ve rehung the cupboard doors that were listing. But just taking all the junk away has brightened the house no end. I feel hot and as if I’ve got dust in every part of my body. I run my hands down my dungarees and look around again. One last thing . . . I hurry out to the covered patio and put out a bottle of wine, two glasses and a little dish of olives that Lou gave me from her own olive grove. I would’ve loved to have been serving up my own olives, but it wasn’t to be. I look around for Daphne, who seems to have disappeared. I need to find her and coax her into her pen in the barn. Typical that she chooses now to disappear. Usually she wouldn’t leave the front door.

  I decide to shower and then look for Daphne. Upstairs the basic bathroom is more like a wet room: white-tiled, with a shower on the wall. Not a big expensive shower head, just a hand-held one. There is a low white wall separating the shower area from the toilet and basin. I hope the basic facilities won’t put my buyers off. I love the space this bathroom has, I think as I stroll across the room and turn on the shower. And the view from the window, which is ajar to stop any condensation, is amazing, over the tops of the olive trees as far as I can see. I put my hand under the shower. Today the water is cold, constant cold. But that’s okay. I’m hot, and after the initial shock, the trickle cools me down.

  I decide against more dungarees and instead put on the short lime-green dress I bought in the market. I put my two-euro sunglasses on my head and slip on the black ballet pumps I got in the supermarket, showing off the small star tattoo on my ankle. I go to add a scarf, but change my mind and leave it with the other ones Ed’s mother bought me. Scarves never were me, no matter how hard I’ve tried. I look in the mirror. My little diamond nose stud glistens. My freckles have come out and my face is lightly tanned, even though I’ve spent most of my days inside, cleaning and painting. My hair dries quickly into soft, shiny curls and smells of the olive oil shampoo I bought in the supermarket. It’ll be back to Head & Shoulders when I return to the UK. With a final look in the mirror, I go downstairs and look at the time. Just over an hour to go until the viewers arrive. Now all I have to do is get rid of Marco and find Daphne.

  It looks busy at Anna-Maria’s house. She’s obviously got guests coming. No doubt she’ll be wanting Marco home.

  Marco is just sweeping up as I go out the front to find Daphne. I sigh with relief. He stops and leans on the broom, cocks his head and raises an eyebrow in what looks like pleasant surprise.

  ‘You look very . . . Italian,’ he says finally. I blush, not knowing if it’s a compliment.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and find myself smiling. He nods and smiles gently back. I blush some more and try and quickly move away from the subject.

  ‘Have you finished?’ I ask, suddenly sounding schoolmarmish again, but wanting to give him the painting and get him gone so I can be ready for the viewers.

  He nods towards the trullo.

  ‘Come and see.’ He steps back and holds his arm out for me to step inside, still smiling. I go towards the door. I’m very aware of him as I stand in the doorway. He’s hot and dusty, but I can still smell the citrusy aftershave he wears. I’d know that smell anywhere now.

  ‘Come,’ he encourages.

  The first thing I notice as I bend down through the doorway into the trullo is how clean the floor is. Brushed and mopped and the room emptied and tidied of any debris. I breathe a huge sigh of relief and feel my shoulders relax. I look around at the clear space just crying out to be a wonderful little self-contained cottage. Then I let my eyes drift up to the ceiling. It’s beautiful. The plaster’s all gone and now it’s just exposed stone; absolutely gorgeous cream stone.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I breathe.

  ‘If you want, we can plaster it on the inside, but I quite like it like this . . . natural,’ he says, his arms folded casually across his chest.

  I feel nervous. It must be the thought of the buyers coming. The masseria is looking lovely. It’s like a blank canvas for someone else to paint their Puglian picture on. In mine, there would have been the forno puffing out smoke, holidaymakers staying in the trullo, and who knows, one day a wedding in the church and a celebration in the courtyard, with lanterns and fairy lights and the happy couple drinking Prosecco and eating olives from the grove. Maybe I’ll paint it one day, just for the sake of it. I’ve enjoyed getting out my paints again.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Prego,’ he replies just as quietly, and I don’t look at him. A small cluster of butterflies whizz round inside me, and my hand moves to cover my tummy . . .

  I clear my throat. ‘I have the painting for you.’ This time I do turn. I’m determined not to end things badly. ‘Why don’t we have a drink? I’ll bring it to the table under the tree.’ I nod towards the old olive tree in the middle of the courtyard.

  I bring out the tray with Nonna’s duck poo aperitif, two glasses and a small bowl of Lou’s olives and put it on the rusty round table, which wobbles on the uneven ground. Marco grabs it and pushes it round to stabilise it. I’ve got a bottle of rosé in the fridge but I felt it would be a good move to drink his gran
dmother’s home-made stuff.

  ‘Wait!’ He holds up a hand and eyes the bottle. ‘I have something else, far better,’ and he jumps up and heads over the wall to his trullo. I’m intrigued, and slightly relieved to be able to put off the duck poo moment.

  I go back into the house and pick up the painting and the box of photos, which Lou has scanned for me on her computer and given me copies of.

  Marco returns, carrying a bottle. ‘Here,’ he’s only slightly out of breath, ‘I think we can save Nonna’s for . . . a really special occasion.’ He looks at me seriously and I don’t know whether he’s joking or not. Then his face breaks into a smile, and so does mine. He pours the light yellow liquid into the glasses.

  ‘How’s the book coming on?’ I ask, as he pours. Things are much easier between us since he’s been spending so much time here.

  ‘Slowly,’ he says, handing me a glass. ‘I’ve been working on two trulli.’

  ‘Ah yes, sorry,’ I say apologetically, taking the glass.

  ‘Don’t be. I enjoyed it,’ he says, still smiling.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I feel as if it’s helped me reconnect with the land. I’ll write better for it in the long run. Salute.’ He raises his glass.

  The sun catches in my eyes through the branches of the tree. I hold my hand up. All I can see is his silhouette. I can’t see the expression on his face. Suddenly I feel slightly shy, so I take a sip of my drink. It’s lemony, not too sweet, and warming as it slips down.

  ‘That’s gorgeous!’ I say, realising too late that I sound surprised. He laughs. It’s strange hearing him laugh. I haven’t heard it before now. It’s deep and rich and, frankly, quite sexy. But this is Marco Bellanuovo we’re talking about; he is not a man I’m going to find sexy. Frustrating, infuriating, bolshie, but not sexy.

  ‘Here.’ I pick up the picture from beside my chair and hand it to him to stop myself thinking ridiculous thoughts. I mean, I’m sure someone finds him sexy: his girlfriend, the one I met the other night at supper, Rosa. He’s still standing when he takes the picture from me, and I can’t see his expression. He’s not saying anything and I’m suddenly filled with nerves and feel light-headed and queasy. Oh God! He hates it! What if it is rubbish and I can’t paint any more? I’ll have to pay him for the work after all. Maybe he wasn’t expecting it to be quite so bold and bright. Maybe he was hoping for a soft watercolour. I should have done a soft watercolour . . .

  ‘Look, if you don’t like it, I can redo it. I just wanted it to be how it was in the picture I had, big and proud . . . Look, really, I’ll do it again.’

  He sits down heavily on the seat next to me, and suddenly I can see his face. He’s staring at the picture, holding it and just staring. I’m cringeing from my toes upwards, slowly dying inside.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he finally says softly, still looking at it.

  ‘Really?’ I wonder if he’s doing that joking thing again and is about to break into laughter and tell me it’s awful. He turns to look at me, but no laugh follows.

  ‘Really,’ he says. ‘Just beautiful.’ There is a glistening in his eyes, which may be the sun catching them, or it may be that I’ve hit a nerve. ‘I will give it to Nonna on her birthday.’

  Relief floods through me. ‘Here, I found these photographs whilst I was clearing out too. They’re your grandfather’s, or yours, or . . . well, the family’s anyway. I hope you don’t mind. I took some copies as a memento of the place.’

  I hand him the tin. He puts down the painting and takes it and opens the lid. He runs his hand over the black and white pictures sliding and jostling inside.

  ‘Grazie,’ he says.

  I take another sip of my drink. I can feel it lifting my spirits, and I sit back and look at the masseria as Marco glances through the photos.

  ‘I’ll study them more tonight, grazie,’ he says finally, putting the lid back on and topping up our glasses. I should stop him – I have viewers coming – but it is so nice to actually be sitting here and being civilised. It would be churlish to say no. Anyway, it can’t be that strong.

  ‘This is lovely,’ I say, as if I’m enjoying a quarter of sherbet lemons.

  ‘It’s made from the lemons here.’ He points to the trees by the mosaic and crosses his long legs, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the big tree.

  ‘Really? Wow! Maybe I’ll . . .’ And then I stop. I won’t have a go at making any myself, because I won’t be here. With any luck, I tell myself, I’ll be in Cornwall eating fish and chips and hoping there is still room for me at the art gallery, where I’ll be enticing rich clients to buy complicated bits of artwork.

  ‘Ah yes, of course . . . you won’t see the fruits of your labour, so to speak,’ he says lightly.

  ‘No. No I won’t. I’ll be back home,’ I say, looking up at the tree too.

  ‘Where is home for you, Ruthie?’

  ‘Well, London. I was brought up in London, just me, my mum and my brother.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Clapham. But then I moved into a flat in Tooting with my partner. Ex-partner,’ I correct myself. ‘It was a former council flat but surrounded by glorious buildings. And of course it needed loads of work on it.’

  ‘And is your partner—’

  ‘Ex-partner,’ I correct him and then am cross with myself. Why am I making a big deal of the fact that he’s my ex? It’s not like I’m looking for a new relationship. Well, that’s not entirely true. I think Ryan and I could have had fun together. It’s a shame I haven’t heard from him. But I’m not looking for anything serious. I want to stand on my own two feet and not have to share my life or my home with anyone else.

  ‘Does he enjoy doing up old houses?’ Marco nods at the masseria and for a moment I wonder if he’s talking about Ryan, then realise he means Ed. I laugh.

  ‘No,’ shaking my head and sipping at the glorious limoncello. ‘I did the work on the flat. I think it all stemmed from working from home. I’d be designing cards and watching daytime TV.’

  He looks blank.

  ‘It’s all DIY shows, doing up old properties. I did a couple of evening classes and then started on the flat.’ I sip again, thinking I should stop talking now, but my mouth has other ideas. ‘When we sold the flat, I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy a place on my own and I didn’t fancy flat-sharing again, so . . .’

  He says nothing but is listening. I sigh. I might as well tell him now that I’m leaving.

  ‘I was selling our furniture on eBay, and that’s when I saw it. This place. I thought it was everything I wanted.’ I look wistfully back at the house.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up. Lots of people do it.’

  ‘I just thought I was different.’

  He smiles and seems to agree, ridiculously making me blush again.

  ‘You’ve done a great job of tidying it up. It has been neglected, I’m sorry to say. But with me away working and the rest of the family here not interested, and then my cousins living away and, well, with them not . . .’ Seems like I’m not the only one whose tongue has been loosened. This time I top up the little glasses and look at him questioningly.

  ‘They don’t really speak. My father’s side and my uncle’s side. They’re not alive, my father or my uncle, but still it goes on.’

  Before I have a chance to ask more, he’s changed the subject.

  ‘See this tree.’ He looks up at the big olive tree we’re sitting under. ‘This is the oldest tree in the whole Bellanuovo estate, when it was an estate. It’s over two hundred years old.’

  ‘Wow! That is old.’

  ‘It has seen families come and go. My grandfather was born here.’ He nods to the trullo, with its new roof. ‘All my family were born here and grew up here.’ He nods in the direction of the masseria this time, then reac
hes up and snaps a branch from the olive tree.

  ‘And now you have come and are going. You helped it get back on its feet, Ruthie Collins.’

  I’m confused. One minute he doesn’t want me here; the next he’s thanking me like I came in and did a job and am leaving again.

  ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he says. He’s almost frowning at me. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t here.’

  ‘It’s just I was offered a really good job at home. And what with my work drying up . . . Well, it seems the sensible thing to do. I wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for, well, the money,’ I say, lifting my chin. He laughs and I want to be offended, but it’s hard when he’s so laid-back.

  ‘Come on, really?’ he says, still smiling. Maybe it’s the limoncello that makes me laugh too.

  ‘What?’ I say, trying to be on the defensive but failing.

  ‘Well, a single woman, in a foreign country, running an olive grove, not to mention the work that still needs doing on the house.’

  For a moment I’m gobsmacked. I’m not sure if he’s joking or if he’s serious. He’s smiling, but still . . .

  He shrugs. ‘Look, I’m really impressed by the way you’ve thrown yourself into this, but I’m just saying I can understand why you’d realise it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘I told you, it’s because of the job. That’s the only reason I’m going.’

  ‘So you have a job to go back to?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, no. I’m hoping it might still be there.’

  He shrugs and laughs some more and tops up the glasses. ‘Okay. Maybe we should agree to differ.’

  ‘No, no.’ I can feel myself starting to build up to full-blown picket line with placards. Stubborn to the last, that’s me. ‘I really wanted to make a go of this place . . .’