The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Be honest,’ he goads, ‘you wouldn’t have made it to the first olive harvest.’

  ‘Yes I would.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No you wouldn’t.’

  Suddenly Daphne appears and I jump up.

  ‘Quick! Stop her going that way!’ I shout. ‘I need her in her pen before the buyers get here.’

  Marco follows. We both crouch slightly and start herding the goat towards the pen. She tries to duck this way and that. My tongue is poking out of the corner of my mouth and Marco is smiling, clearly enjoying the chase. Finally we close in on her and she has no option but to run into the pen. Marco closes the gate and I bolt it, and as I do, our hands touch. Is it my imagination, or was there just a spark between us? My stomach suddenly flips over and back again. It can’t be that I fancy him. He’s Marco Bellanuovo, the bane of my life. Maybe it was static from the gate. There really couldn’t be any attraction between us, could there? But today, he seems very different. Maybe now he knows I’m going, he’s happier to be around me.

  He dusts down his hands.

  ‘Well, I must be going. The viewers will be here soon,’ I say, confused and feeling inexplicably nervous.

  ‘Yes, and I have some sheep to see to.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had sheep,’ I say. I’m surprised, as I know he hasn’t been living here.

  ‘A neighbour has been taking care of them for me. Luigi, the goat man. He cares for my olives too, with his son. You might have seen them around.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  ‘I need to go and move them this afternoon. Keep them closer now that I’m staying around for a bit.’

  ‘Right, well . . . good luck,’ I say, suddenly tongue-tied.

  ‘And you, Ruthie Collins.’ He smiles at me, then pulls the olive branch from his top pocket and hands it to me. ‘Good luck, and I hope you will forgive me.’

  I put out a hand slowly and take the branch, not knowing what to say. Marco nods goodbye and turns towards the wall, jumping up and over without looking back and disappearing in the direction of his trullo.

  I look down at the olive branch. Feeling a little light-headed, I decide there is just time for a really quick siesta before the viewers arrive, so I step into the cool of the masseria. My hand tingles and I rub it, still holding the branch, remembering the little static shock by the gate. Maybe I can forgive him after all, I think as I head upstairs.

  I wake to the sound of horns honking and sheep baaing and my phone ringing from somewhere downstairs. My head is thick, like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool while I was napping. I grab the clock on the old wooden crate that serves as my bedside table, nearly knocking it over in the process. Bugger! I’ve overslept! Am I dreaming these noises? My head starts banging like there’s a skiffle band starting up in there. I screw up my eyes against the sunlight. There’s more baaing and honking. Don’t tell me Daphne’s escaped. The afternoon aperitif was lovely, but boy, I’m paying for it now. That limoncello was way stronger than it tasted. And I should know better at my age! I’m not a teenager knocking back alcopops.

  I throw myself off the bed and out on to the landing, pulling open the window overlooking the front drive. I blink, rub my eyes and look again, wondering if it’s the limoncello giving me hallucinations. There are sheep all over my front drive, jumping and tumbling over the wall and running with a mixture of confusion and joy into the shade of the olive and almond trees.

  Just inside the gates are two cars, surrounded by sheep. They’re honking, making the sheep run, but not enough to clear a pathway through. One is a small Fiat, the other a brand-new bright red Alfa Romeo.

  Shit! The viewers! The driver of the Fiat gets out, scattering sheep with his door. He’s followed by the driver of the Alfa Romeo, who’s wearing large sunglasses and a blue and pink polo shirt with the collar turned up. He’s shouting at the Fiat driver, who is trying to placate him and holding his phone to his ear. I hear my phone ringing from downstairs again.

  Shit! Double shit! I need to get down there and explain that this is just an accident. But how on earth will I do that? In between me and my prospective buyer is a sea of sheep. I’ll never be able to reach him. I try and shout and wave, but he’s too far away. Then I spot Marco. He’s standing by the crumbling wall holding a long thumbstick. Thank God! At least now we’re on speaking terms he can help. There’s no way I can sort this one on my own. I need him to herd the sheep away from the cars, and quick.

  My heart’s racing. I can’t let this chance get away. I feel like my winning lottery ticket has blown out of my hand and is fluttering along the ground in front of me. I need to chase it and jump on it. Whatever it takes. Even asking Marco Bellanuovo for help. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. A little voice in my head begs to differ, sounding remarkably like Ed’s.

  ‘Marco!’ I shout and wave. ‘Aiutatemi! Help me!’ I wave again, but he doesn’t seem to notice or hear me. ‘The sheep!’

  The agent turns and looks up at me, as do the Alfa driver and his passenger, a blonde woman in large dark glasses who sticks her head out of the window and looks to be mouthing something very rude. Taken aback, I call to Marco again.

  ‘Marco! The sheep! Help!’

  He looks up at me, smiles and waves back.

  ‘Buonasera!’ he calls back over the baaing, and then, quite unbelievably, goes back to watching the sheep jump, chase, stumble and leap around the front drive.

  ‘Marco!’ I shout again. The agent shrugs at the Alfa driver, who makes a dismissive gesture and then holds his hand on the horn. He’s exchanging words with his passenger, who’s telling him to get back in the car by the looks of it.

  Oh no! I turn and run to the stairs, taking them in tiny fast steps. By the time I get to the front door and fling it open, there are more sheep outside, a whole bloomin’ woolly blanket of them. Anna-Maria, Nonna, Marco’s sister, Rosa’s family and Luigi the goat man are all standing by the wall watching the car trying to reverse through them. Young Luigi and Rosa are standing together, slightly apart from their families, by the gateposts. Young Luigi is leaning towards Rosa, sharing the joke. It’s the first time I’ve seen Rosa smile. They’re pointing and laughing, all of them. This can’t be happening. Surely they can see I need their help.

  ‘Shoo, shoo!’ I wave my arms at the sheep and then above my head as I run across the worn cobbles. ‘Shoo!’ Surely now Marco and his family will help, but they seem to be laughing even more. Even Nonna is showing off the gaps in her teeth. Only Marco isn’t laughing; he’s just standing there doing nothing. I dive into the woolly blanket, waving and barging them out of the way.

  Now that I’m closer, I recognise the man standing in the open door of the Alfa Romeo, or at least I think I do. He looks like that rugby player turned TV chef who’s been in all the papers recently, something about an affair. And he was on the front cover of OK! magazine. I bought it coming over here, and read the article about how he and his wife are having a second honeymoon. These are serious buyers. Cash buyers, no doubt. And by the looks of it, they are not happy, not happy at all.

  The man is leaning against the car. Nonna lifts a hand and points, and they all turn and laugh as one of the sheep jumps in through the open door behind him, making the blonde woman scream. Maps, papers and cardigans fly about as the woman tries to get away from the sheep. The growing crowd of neighbours hoot with laughter. Anna-Maria has tears rolling down her cheeks. Now he’s trying to get the sheep out of the car, but he chases it on to her lap instead. Oh good God! At last she opens the door on her side and tumbles out head first, shrieking. The sheep follows and leaps over her. She staggers to her feet, brushing droppings from her white jeans and screaming hysterically at her husband. Marco’s dog is barking furiously, adding to the chaos that is unfolding before my eyes.

  ‘Marco, please. I need to move these sheep. My viewers are her
e,’ I say, hoping he’ll appreciate the urgency. For a moment he looks at me and I think he understands. But he still doesn’t move.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help.’

  I puff out my cheeks with rage. He is so bloody annoying! And childish! What’s his problem? Why won’t he help me? I stomp down the drive, shooing sheep to each side of me and trying to avoid the droppings that now litter the ground. The sheep jump away and then trot back as though they’re in a maypole dance, skipping in and out in front of me. I can still hear the baaing, and the revving of engines, but most of all I can hear the Bellanuovos laughing at me.

  A sinking feeling washes over me as realisation smacks me in the face. Of course Marco isn’t helping me. I turn to look at him. He’s not smiling. He’s had his joke, it seems. He’s not helping me because they’re his sheep! He did this! I stop and glare at him, but I can’t tell him exactly what I think of him while there’s still a chance of getting my viewers down the drive and into the house.

  There is now a crowd by the front gate. For a quiet lane, I’ve got quite an audience. The local businessman Franco Pugliese is here with his family, and some tourists have stopped and got out of their car to watch the commotion. Everyone is laughing at me and I have never felt more alone or homesick in my life.

  ‘Please, wait!’ I call to the reversing Alfa Romeo. I wave my hands madly above my head like my life depends on it, and frankly, it does. I’m not sure, but I think the driver gives me a single-fingered wave back as he speeds off in a cloud of dust and scattering locals. I turn to look at the agent, hoping he’ll do something. But he shakes his head, gets back in his Fiat and reverses out behind the Alfa Romeo.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I call through his open window. ‘Perhaps set up some more viewings for next week. I’ll have all this sorted by then. I promise.’

  He looks at me, shakes his head in annoyance and disbelief and then follows the Alfa, chucking up more clouds of dust.

  ‘No, wait! Please, I can explain! It’s the neighbour . . .’ I trail off. ‘He’s a complete pillock!’ That’s when I realise there’s no hope of them coming back. I mean, who’s going to buy a house with a complete pillock for a neighbour? I did! I think. That little voice in my head again, telling me how stupid I’ve been.

  The Bellanuovos and their guests and neighbours are still gathered, still enjoying the spectacle. Still reliving and retelling the tale of the sheep that got into the celebrity chef’s car, and of his hysterical screaming partner. I’m not sure if it was his wife or his girlfriend in the end. What I do know is they’re not coming back. And the agent won’t be bringing any other of his well-heeled clients either.

  I watch the tail lights of the little Fiat drive away, down the dip and up again along the lane back towards the main road and the town. When I can’t see the lights any more, and every ounce of hope has left my body, I turn very, very slowly back towards the masseria. My fists are clenched into tight balls, my nostrils taut and flaring.

  ‘How dare you!’ I say slowly in a low voice that I don’t recognise. ‘What on earth were you doing letting your sheep on to my land like that? You knew I had viewers coming. You don’t want me here as much as I don’t want to be here. What the hell were you thinking?’

  Everyone has stopped laughing and there’s a hush that falls across the gathered audience, apart from the sheep, who just baa a little less.

  Marco clears his throat.

  ‘You may own the masseria, but I’m afraid you don’t own the land in front of it.’ He pulls a piece of paper from his back pocket and holds it up.

  What? I really am in no mood for any of this nonsense. My heart is ripping in two and I just want to go inside, shut the door and get very, very drunk on Nonna’s duck poo.

  ‘Here. It was in the will. I was left the trullo, and this strip of land.’

  I snatch the paperwork off him. It’s all in Italian, but there is a plan, with a red line around his trullo and the area in front of the masseria. I don’t doubt its authenticity. I didn’t really check my plans. I was too busy hoping not to miss my flight home. I can hear that little voice again. I only have myself to blame. I knew I was taking a chance when they told me the road was blocked and I wouldn’t be able to see the masseria that day. It was sign now or leave it. I signed. I know! Mad!

  ‘You have ruined everything!’ I wave my arms around and in the direction of the departing viewers, then hold both hands to my head. The paperwork flaps around.

  ‘Officially, you’re trespassing.’

  ‘Oooph!’ I let out an explosion of frustration.

  ‘Bravo!’ shouts Nonna.

  ‘Nonna says you look like a real Italian now,’ Filippo translates helpfully.

  Nonna nods and smiles and goes back to her seat on the veranda. The gaggle of onlookers starts to break away, until it is just Marco and me and some much quieter, happily grazing sheep.

  ‘Now what am I going to do?’ I say, feeling really quite tearful.

  ‘You said you’d stay if it wasn’t for the job,’ Marco says, reminding me of my earlier words.

  ‘You said I wouldn’t make it to the olive harvest.’ I remind him of his.

  ‘So then, stay until the olive harvest. Prove to yourself and your doubters.’ He raises an eyebrow.

  I say nothing. Did I tell him about Ed, Mum and all the others who thought I couldn’t do it? That they all thought I’d give in as soon as it got tough?

  ‘Tell you what, if you make it until the end of the olive harvest, I will give you this piece of land. Then you can sell the masseria and the land to whoever you want and go home.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But if you decide to wimp out and leave early, you sell it to me at the price I offered.’

  ‘Half what I paid for it!’

  ‘Exactly. So you can stay and try and prove to everyone that you can do it, or you can go and sell to me.’

  I let the information sink in. I can leave now and lose my money and, frankly my pride, or stay and get my money back, maybe more, and prove everyone wrong. Do I really have a choice?

  ‘Where I come from, we call it a ransom strip. But anything to wipe the smile off your face,’ I say and put out a hand.

  His face does indeed break into a broad smile.

  ‘We have a deal then?’

  I nod, knowing that as soon as I shake, my dreams of a little flat and a job in Cornwall will disappear for good.

  ‘Would you care for a drink, to settle the deal?’ he asks, and I shake my head. I’m exhausted. I turn back towards the house.

  Daphne, who has somehow let herself out, looks like the queen bee with her new gang to keep in line.

  ‘No! Not my geraniums!’ I shout at the sheep at my front door.

  ‘You may own the drive, but you don’t own this bit!’ I call back to Marco.

  I open the door and stamp in. Looks like this is where I’m staying for the time being, and I’m going to have to show them all I can do it. I slam the door shut.

  The sheep were still all over the front drive in the morning. Trying to get the car out was going to be nigh on impossible. So instead I walked to market, balancing along the low wall between me and the Bellanuovos to get to the front gate and avoid walking through sheep and sheep droppings or on Marco’s land. I don’t want to give him any excuse to pull me up. This way he can’t accuse me of trespassing again.

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘Honestly, there were sheep everywhere.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Lou looks concerned.

  ‘I’m so sorry, what with you setting up the meeting,’ I say, touching her hand.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll explain that it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to know your pillock of a neighbour was going to herd his sheep over your land,’ she says, putting a forkful of food into her mouth. I
’m grateful for her understanding.

  ‘No, and I never realised they were so big!’

  Lou can’t help but laugh, nearly choking on her orecchiette, or little ears, as I’ve learnt it translates. Pasta covered in pomodoro sauce: rich red tomatoes cooked in garlic and olive oil, sitting in little pools in the pasta with a scattering of green basil. She takes a big sip of red wine and shakes her head disbelievingly.

  I can see my own reflection in her sunglasses and laugh too. The September sunshine is warming our faces. It seems to be so much kinder than August’s. Warmer, softer, instead of the harsh, intense heat we’ve had over the past couple of weeks.

  ‘And then he bet you?’ she asks, still incredulous.

  I nod, ‘Uh-huh,’ and dig my fork into my pasta: broccoli, garlic and chilli, with cherry tomatoes, in shiny linguine. I take a big mouthful, letting some of it fall back into the bowl; juice collects in the corner of my mouth and I lick it away.

  I have a new ankle bracelet that I bought in the market that catches in the sunlight and just sits below my tiny tattoo. I would never have worn an ankle bracelet in the UK; Ed would have told me I looked cheap. But I like it. It looks like olive branches linked together. Just as I like the new black and gold sunglasses I’ve bought. Bigger and with more bling than the last pair, and I don’t feel a bit out of place wearing them.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  I shrug. ‘Stay, I guess,’ and give a little sigh, thinking about the email I’ll have to send to Beth.

  ‘What will you do for work?’

  I shake my head and shrug again. I’ve just tried to email Brandon again but he hasn’t replied. He doesn’t these days.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say with a hint of panic in my voice.

  ‘You’ve got to look to what you’ve got. At least you’ve got the trullo now.’

  ‘But that won’t be any use until May. The holidaymakers are all leaving.’ We both look around at the relatively quiet bar. The usual people are there: Franco Pugliese and his sidekick; Luigi and some of his friends; the old men I saw that first day at the ironmonger’s. They’re still nodding and talking about me and the sheep, no doubt. It’s so much quieter than when I first arrived. This is it. Holidays are over. For those left behind, it’s real life.