by Jo Thomas
‘You know you have your olives,’ Lou says, picking at a bowl of olives in front of us.
‘I know, but I haven’t really given them much thought. It was the house I wanted to do up. And the harvest isn’t till . . . When is the harvest exactly?’
I throw my hands up and we both laugh. I shake my head.
‘This is great. I don’t even know how long my bet is.’
‘November . . . ish. It all depends on the weather. You want to leave it as late as possible so they turn from green to black, but not too late. Leave it too late and the frost will have them.’
‘Oh God,’ I sigh, taking it all in. This isn’t what I signed up for. Yes, I knew the place had an olive grove, but I was thinking about the house, what I could do there.
‘And then what?’
‘You take them to the press and either sell them there, for them to use in their lower-grade oil, or get them pressed and keep the oil and sell it yourself: Puglian extra-virgin olive oil!’
‘But I won’t get any money until the oil is sold, right?’
Lou nods, dipping her finger into the bowl and licking it. My heart sinks. Then she says, quietly and thoughtfully, ‘Unless you sell it beforehand.’
‘What do you mean?’ I frown. ‘How can I sell what I haven’t got?’
‘Look,’ she’s warming to an idea, ‘why did you come here?’
She’s put me on the spot and I feel a bit on my guard. She’s the very last person I expected to chip in with criticism.
‘Because . . . I fell in love with Italy, with everything about it. Because I loved the house.’
‘Because you fell in love with the idea of Italy,’ Lou says, straight to the point as usual.
I feel slightly affronted and take a big slug of water.
‘Oh, I’m not having a go.’ She puts her hands up and I feel slightly better. ‘I’m just saying that’s why you wanted to come here, and that’s what you should be selling.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘All I’m saying is, you sell the dream . . . in a bottle.’ She’s grinning at me like a Cheshire cat and I still don’t get what she’s talking about. ‘I’ve heard about it done with wine. You sell your harvest before it’s harvested.’
‘How?’
‘You’re the creative one! Get your computer out.’
I do as she says and open my laptop. Lou starts typing into the search engine.
‘Bingo!’ She shows me a wine maker’s page. ‘There! “Rent a vine”. That’s what you do!’ She sits back and folds her arms like her work is done.
‘What? You buy a tree for the year and you get the oil from that tree at harvest time?’ I’m suddenly feeling a flutter of excitement.
‘Exactly!’
‘Oh my God! That’s brilliant!’ I say, wide-eyed and feeling positive for the first time in ages.
I start searching other rent-a-tree schemes while Lou goes to the ladies’. It looks great, but I have no idea if I’ll be able to do it. Suddenly a new message pings into my inbox. It’s from Brandon.
Sorry love, I just haven’t got anything for you. You know how it works. The jobs come in and I get someone on to them. I can’t wait for you to get in touch. I’ve taken on another couple of designers who I can get in contact with when I need them. Hope Italy works out for you. Brandon.
So that’s it. There really is no more work. I can’t believe it. I’ve worked for Brandon for years, and now he’s dropping me, just like that! I need that job! No notice, no pay-off. Nothing. I feel like I’ve been abandoned in the middle of the Gobi Desert with no idea which way to start walking.
I hold my head in my hands. If I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be in this mess . . . any of this mess. All my plans have been ripped up and tossed to the wind. I shake my head from side to side in my hands. When I look up, I see Lou, back from the ladies’. I look at her concerned face and take a deep breath.
‘Looks like this rent-a-tree scheme really is my only option now.’
‘Prosecco?’ Lou doesn’t ask twice and waves to the girl behind the bar.
‘Why not?’ I say. I feel like a runaway fairground ride that’s come off the rails and is heading for who knows where. I’m hurtling towards either a great adventure or a huge big crash.
‘Duo Prosecco, per favore,’ Lou says. You’d never think she was Welsh when you hear her speak Italian. I wonder if that’ll ever be me, and then remind myself I’m only here till the harvest. We sip the Prosecco and it tastes fabulous.
‘I bet you have loads of London friends who’d be up for a few bottles. That’d show Ed you’re serious too.’
She’s right, of course. If I could pull this off, it would show Ed and my mum that I’m not just a hot headed-fool. And that bit of the plan really does appeal.
‘I could do the labels and a newsletter too.’ I sit looking at the computer, planning the design already. Lou is gathering her stuff.
‘I must go. I have to get back to work.’ She finishes her drink.
‘Okay, I’ll stay and start work on a Facebook page, maybe look at putting it on Gumtree too.’ I start tapping away on the keyboard, then stop and look at Lou. I realise there’s just one small problem.
‘I have no idea how to look after the trees or anything like that.’ My heart sinks again. ‘It’s never going to work.’
‘But I know someone who does.’ She waves in the direction of the bar, and I turn to see Ryan, who’s just walked in. A little wave of excitement shimmies through me. He walks over and kisses us both on the cheek, and I get a flutter of butterflies in my tummy.
‘Hey!’ he says, smiling, showing his lovely white teeth; his shaggy, sun-bleached curls bounce as he nods his head towards me. ‘Heard you had a few problems with some sheep the other day.’ He points to the old men at the bar and the smiling barmaid wiping coffee cups with a tea towel.
‘Oh, nothing I couldn’t sort out.’ I find myself joining in good-naturedly, and Lou raises her eyebrows with a cheeky smile.
‘I told you, if you ever need a hand, call me,’ Ryan says, giving me another card.
‘Actually,’ I look at Lou, who nods. ‘You know a thing or two about olives, don’t you?’
‘Yep, got a few customers out your way. I look after their trees and land and in return I get their oil. Look after some of the Bellanuovo land, actually.’
‘Marco’s land?’
‘His cousins’ actually.’
I’m surprised. I would have thought Luigi would have looked after them.
‘Did you want me to do the same for you?’
‘No, I don’t want you to take the oil. Sit down. I’ll explain,’ I say a little excitedly. I’m not sure whether my excitement is down to the rent-a-tree idea, or the fact that Ryan and I are finally having a drink together. I gesture to the chair.
‘What was it you were saying about it never going to work? Looks like it will now.’ Lou pulls her bag on to her shoulder and slips out with a ciao and a kiss for her husband. I clear my throat and my thoughts and look back at Ryan.
‘I think I might need you to help me with the harvest and all that,’ I say, having no idea what ‘all that’ might entail.
‘Sure, no worries. Whatever it is, I’m your man. Another?’ He points to my empty Prosecco glass, and I know I shouldn’t but he smiles and orders it anyway and I don’t resist. Because if I am to make this work, I’m going to need some expert help, and it looks like Ryan is just the man for the job. If he knows what to do with the olives, I can go ahead and finish designing my Facebook page and get this started today.
‘Cheers,’ he says.
‘Salute,’ I reply. I feel like I’m stepping on to the first bricks of the road home and I may just have found a travelling companion.
It’s getting
colder, and this morning I try again to light the wood-burning stove that’s going to give me hot water and some heat. I fail, again. It’s like my worst enemy; in fact I’ve renamed it Marco. Talking of which . . . there is something I need to do. I stand up and leave the smouldering fire, picking up Nonna’s painting from the table, wrapping it in my painting shirt and tucking it under my arm. I have to head next door and deliver it.
I swallow and take a deep breath. My heart is racing and I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because I know that as soon as I knock at the door, the dogs will career around the corner at me. I’m still getting used to being around dogs. It’s not that I don’t like them. I loved Dudley. I’m just not used to them as a gang. We never had pets when I was growing up. I did have a goldfish from the fair that came through Clapham Common every year, but it died. In fact, I’m pretty sure my brother may have done something to it. I specifically told him not to overfeed it, but I swear he was sprinkling titbits into the bowl all night long. I spent ages building it an underwater home with little toys I’d collected and weeds I bought from the pet shop. But the next morning it was floating on its back. I didn’t get another one.
I put my hand up to the big, dark wood door and then stop myself. I can hear a voice. It’s Anna-Maria. I can’t really make out what she’s saying, but she’s talking about Marco and l’inglese. I’m guessing that’s me. I still can’t tune into her fast way of speaking: something to do with stupido and the masseria, I think. I wonder if she’s cross about the bet. A slightly mischievous side of me can’t help but give a little smile. Sounds like it’s caused even more ructions in the Bellanuovo household. I can’t help wondering why he made it. If he wanted me just to go, he had his chance. He could’ve kept quiet about the strip of land, like my solicitor did to me. But Marco doesn’t strike me as the dishonourable type, no matter how infuriating he is. He shifts up a notch or two in my estimation.
There is still more arguing coming from behind the door, and actually, I realise, I don’t want to hear what they’re saying, even if I could understand them. Let’s face it, they’re not going to be suggesting they invite me round for supper again any time soon.
I knock loudly and firmly. The talking stops and the dogs start barking, and I brace myself for their arrival, clutching the paint-splattered shirt closer to me. It used to be Ed’s, but I used it to paint in when we were still students. It’s got a strangely reassuring feel about it right now.
The door flies open and I jump. Anna-Maria is standing there. She doesn’t smile. Nonna is sitting inside, a large white handkerchief in her hand, in contrast to her black outfit. Filippo is there too, and the rest of them. Yep, looks like I’ve interrupted a family meeting.
‘Is Marco here, please?’ I say in Italian, and Anna-Maria insists on replying in very poor English.
‘He very . . . how do you say? Nonna?’ Nonna shrugs and blows her nose loudly.
‘He’s out,’ says Filippo with a smile and a raised hand.
‘He’s out. At the press, with Rosa,’ Anna-Maria says with a smile that looks like it took effort. ‘I can help?’ She holds out her hand and gestures to the shirt under my arm. I hold it tighter and she eyes me suspiciously.
‘No, it’s fine. I . . . Grazie.’ I turn to go.
‘They are very close, him and Rosa. The masseria will be a lovely family home for them.’ This is more English than I’ve ever heard Anna-Maria speak before. I don’t turn back. I don’t need to. I’m being warned off. But that’s just fine, because I really have no desire to jump on Marco, or him on me: that much is obvious. Suddenly an image of Marco flashes in front of my eyes. Only he’s not outside his trullo, he’s in my bedroom; the windows are open, there’s a soft breeze. He’s smiling, one of his rare smiles. I shake my head and carry on walking. Like I say, ridiculous! The image is replaced by him and Rosa, and three happy children running round my dining room table. She is cooking; he’s writing and smiling at his family playing. I don’t know which image is more shocking or frustrating.
I can feel Anna-Maria’s eyes on me. I don’t want to climb over the wall whilst she’s still watching. I hold my head a little higher and set out on the road into town.
I stick to the grassy verge and the low, uneven stone walls as I walk. Dotted in amongst the small square houses are the trulli, most of them standing idle, left abandoned whilst families move into modern houses in town. I pass a small house with a veranda covered by a vine. The washing is out in the early-morning sunshine. An elderly couple stop what they’re doing and look at me. It’s Luigi, the goat man, I realise, turning over his vegetable plot. He’s wearing dark trousers, braces and a flat cap. His wife, just as short and stout as him, in black, is hanging out large sheets on the line. They stop and stare as I pass. I raise a hand. They nod back. I can’t help but glance at the wonderful vegetables he’s got growing. I wish my vegetable plot looked like that.
‘Ciao,’ I say, but it’s a bit half-hearted, as is their response. They probably think I’m the mad inglese too. I walk on, the sun starting to beat on my neck, my spirits sagging.
At the forno, Sophia doesn’t raise a smile either, or even speak as I buy my focaccia. At the café, I sit outside and open up my laptop. I might as well have three heads. They are all staring at me. I’m still the novelty round here. But I carry on. I need to find out if my rent-a-tree idea has taken off.
One taker. It’s Beth, and much as I’m grateful to her, my heart sinks even lower.
There’s another email from Ed asking if I’ve come to my senses yet. Honestly, I don’t know why he’s so bothered. He’s with Annabel now. For someone supposedly so loved up, he’s spending an unhealthy amount of time worrying about what I’m doing. It’s like he can’t bear the fact I’ve moved on or might be happy. Maybe if he’d been this interested in me before, things might have gone differently between us. I don’t reply to his email; instead I attach a link to my ‘rent an olive tree’ Facebook page. I might be feeling like I’m drowning in quicksand but I’m not going to let him know that. Feeling reckless, I press send. There, Ed, that’s what I’m up to. What about you? And I try and tell myself that that’s made me feel better and that I’m not beaten yet, even if I feel it.
I close the computer and leave the café and decide to have a walk in the last of the warm sunshine, hoping it’ll lift my spirits. It doesn’t. But as I near the single-storey concrete building that’s the school I can hear happy, excited chatter that gives me a little lift. I can see children sitting under a big bamboo-covered area with drawing boards, sketching. Lou is walking amongst them slowly, encouraging and pointing to their work.
I stop and take out the bottle of water from my bag and take a sip. I think I’m feeling a little envious of Lou. I must have spent too much time on my own in that house, with only Anna-Maria’s unwelcoming glares and the watchful eye of Marco for company.
Lou looks up, sees me and waves. I wave back. She waves again and then beckons me over. I don’t need asking twice. I’m delighted to see a happy face.
‘Ciao,’ she says and kisses both my cheeks
‘Ciao,’ I reply. ‘Wow! This looks great,’ I say, looking at the children. Lou introduces me and explains that I’m an artist. I try to correct her but she brushes my excuses away.
‘And this is my son, Giac.’ She puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder and rubs his smartly cut mousy hair. He ducks away from his mother’s fussing and I can’t help but feel that pang, the same pang I felt when I thought about Marco and Rosa and the children they will one day have. It hasn’t happened to me, and by the looks of it, it won’t. I have to throw myself into getting my life back on track, and that means getting the olives to harvest. I look up at Lou and see there are tears in her eyes.
‘Lou, is everything okay?’ I’m suddenly cross with myself for being so self-obsessed. See, I’ve definitely spent too much time on my own.
L
ou sniffs and turns away from her son, who looks up, worried.
‘It’s the bar. It’s going to close. Antonio just can’t keep it going.’
‘Oh Lou,’ I say, and without thinking put an arm around her shoulders as she blows into a tissue. ‘It’s definite then?’
‘Landlord came to see us last night. He’s putting the rent up, like doubling it. There’s no way we can afford it now.’
‘That’s terrible! Isn’t there anything you can do?’
Lou shakes her head and gives a derisory laugh.
‘It’s how things work round here.’ She blows into her tissue and I rest my hand on her shoulder. ‘I wish my dad was here. It’s hard at times like this, being so far away, y’know? I know we’ve got Antonio’s family, but when the shit hits the fan, you just want to be at home.’
I nod but say nothing. My throat closes up. I know what she means, which is why I’m determined to get through the next few months and get home. I’ll start over again in the new year and this will all be a distant memory.
‘Can I do anything?’ I finally manage to say. She blows her nose one final time and then slips her dark glasses back down. Her phone rings with the Welsh national anthem.
‘Oh, that’s my dad calling now!’ She looks at the phone she’s pulled from her pocket. ‘Actually, could you just keep an eye here for a moment. I could really do with taking this. I know he’s worried about me. I won’t be long.’ She holds the phone to her ear.
‘Um, sure . . .’ I say, feeling really unsure. I know nothing about teaching or kids, and frankly my Italian doesn’t seem to be up to much either. I put down my shopping and lean the painting against the big grey wall, obviously part of a new extension.
‘Hi, Dad, just hang on,’ and I notice Lou’s accent has suddenly got a lot thicker. ‘Just help them with their paintings and it’ll be a good chance for you to practise your Italian. Children are far less judgemental than adults.’ She smiles at me.