by Jo Thomas
Suddenly I hear a car in the drive. My heart skitters and tumbles over itself like a Labrador puppy at feeding time. Marco! At least now I don’t have to go over to his house to ask him to join me for dinner.
I run down the stairs and open the front door with a smile.
‘Hey! Wow! You look great. You been working out?’
It’s Ryan.
‘Something like that,’ I say, but instead of leaping for joy at the sight of Ryan’s friendly face, my heart dips and collapses into a disappointed heap.
‘Looks like you’ve been doing some work around here.’ He swings around, taking it all in.
‘You could say that.’ I’m wondering if I have to invite him in. Of course I should! I smooth down my hair by running my hand over it and smile. I look around for Marco’s car. It’s still there, next door.
‘Come in, come in.’ I step back and he walks into the house. The fire is making a tiny attempt to stay in, gently flickering against the cooling evening. Across the olive trees at the back of the house there are little plumes of smoke from trulli chimneys. Everyone is starting to prepare for autumn and the harvest to come.
‘Wow, you have been busy,’ Ryan says, looking at the olive grove. ‘Really, you didn’t have to.’
‘I wanted to,’ I say quickly.
He steps out through the back doors just as Luigi and Young Luigi are passing by the back of the house on their way home.
‘Buonasera, Signorina Piccalilli,’ Luigi says and waves.
‘Buonasera, Luigi.’ I wave back.
Marco is right behind them.
‘Buonasera,’ he says and stops. At first he looks at me and I can see he’s realised I’ve made an effort to dress for dinner. He nods appreciatively, then he looks at Ryan.
‘Ciao,’ says Ryan, reaching forward to shake Marco’s hand.
‘Buonasera,’ Marco replies stiffly.
‘They’re looking good, these trees.’ Ryan slips his hands into his back pockets and his combats slide down again.
‘That’s because they are well cared for,’ Marco says bluntly, surprising me. Was that a compliment? ‘Have you come to check on the crop? You’ll find it in order.’ He nods to me.
‘I can see,’ Ryan says cheerfully. ‘Actually I brought the weedkiller and I’ve booked a slot at the press for next week.’ He beams.
‘Next week?’ Marco practically spits. ‘That’s far too early.’
‘But I thought you wanted to get it done.’ He turns to me. ‘The faster it’s done, the faster you get home, you said, Ruthie. Back to London.’ He gives me an impish grin.
I blush, realising how things have changed for me. I’m not in any rush right now but I can’t say that. I don’t want to think about leaving right now.
I clear my throat and take a deep breath. It’s time to stand up for what I want. Just like with the painting, I can’t always worry about pleasing other people. I have to do what my heart is telling me. ‘I want to put off the harvest, for as long as possible.’ I give a little cough and can’t look at Marco.
‘Well, it’s a busy time,’ I hear Ryan say, and suddenly my new-found confidence leaves me.
‘But you’ll still be able to do it, right?’ I look up at him with a mild whiff of panic.
For a moment he doesn’t say anything, looking from me to Marco, and then suddenly he breaks into a big grin.
‘Yeah, course! I’ll get your harvest in, promise.’
I look at Marco. His face is set. He’s looking beyond me to the lit fire in the house, and the table laid with a candle, a bottle of Prosecco and a bowl of nuts and olives. He looks back at me.
‘I can see you have plans,’ he says stiffly. ‘You’ve worked hard. You should take time to relax.’
‘Yeah, we could go into town. I know a great little restaurant that does fantastic fish and chips. Cheap and cheerful,’ says Ryan. But instead of my heart doing a happy dance, it dips a little more. This is what I wanted, me and Ryan, dinner, plans to meet in London. But not tonight, tonight I wanted to just put things right with Marco.
‘Oh I don’t know. I thought I’d stay here. Have a quiet evening.’ Now that’s come out all wrong. Just when I thought I had a grip on this think-before-you-speak malarkey!
‘I see. Well, whatever. I hope you enjoy,’ Marco says tightly. I’m furious that he’s misunderstood.
‘No, I mean . . . going into town would be lovely, but I was just planning something different . . .’ I’m digging a deeper and deeper hole for myself.
‘You should go. Like I say, you need to take time to enjoy life too. I must go, I have work to do.’ He gives another tight smile. ‘And eat. Don’t forget to eat,’ he adds seriously. ‘Have a good evening. Enjoy your date,’ he says like a father to his daughter, making my hackles rise.
It’s not exactly a date! I want to correct him. But Marco has marched off to his trullo and my plans for a reconciliation dinner have gone with him. He now thinks I’ve got dressed up for Ryan and am going on a date with him. And by the grin on Ryan’s face, so does Ryan. A few weeks ago, this would have been just what I wanted. A dinner date with this good-looking, friendly Aussie. But now, for some reason, I’m not so sure.
‘Wait! Marco!’ I have to say something. I run after him and catch his arm. ‘I wanted to say thank you,’ I try and explain.
‘Be careful, Ruthie. Make sure you can trust your olive man. He can’t let you down.’ And then he turns and jumps the wall back to his trullo.
I turn back to the masseria. Of course Ryan isn’t going to let me down. Marco’s just saying that because . . . because . . . Why would he say that? Not jealousy, that’s for sure. Is he just trying to unnerve me? It is a bet, I remind myself. Whatever he means, I do need to make sure that I keep Ryan on my side. I need him.
‘So, shall we go?’ Ryan says, pointing towards his van. I nod and smile politely.
I close the vent on the fire, like I watched Marco do, and hope it will stay in, then pick up my jacket and wind my scarf round my neck.
‘Look after things, Daphne,’ I tell the goat as she sits in the last of the sun’s rays on the front step. This wasn’t how I planned the evening at all, but then I don’t know what I expected really. I need to make the most of it.
I need Ryan to help with the olive harvest so I can go home. And he’s so good-looking and lovely. He and I could be just right for each other. But Marco’s words of warning are ringing in my ears. More than anything, I realise, I need to show Marco I can get something right. Do something right, make a right decision. I want to show Ed and my mum too that something good has come of my time here. That I can move on.
The next morning, Marco’s car has gone. I drive into town to work on the mural. I can’t help but wonder where he is but I know it’s not my business, so instead I think about the night before. It was fun. Ryan was good company and his stories were funny. Never a dull moment, no awkward silences like me and Ed ended up having. Admittedly I didn’t do much talking. But I listened.
The little fish and chip restaurant was sweet. A small cellar place, with curved cream ceilings. We had simple home-cooked antipasti to start – rice balls, that smelly ricotta cheese with tomatoes, mozzarella knots and grilled peppers – and Ryan told me about when he first moved out here. Then we had fritto misto – mixed, lightly fried fish and, yes, chips. Over a jug of red wine, Ryan told me stories of his travels before he came to Italy.
Afterwards we walked back through the town. Ryan made several attempts to put his arm round me or hold my hand. It should’ve have felt like the perfect time and place, with just about the perfect person, to start a romance. But something was making me hold back. Marco’s annoying warning words kept coming back to me, no matter how hard I tried to forget him and enjoy my evening with Ryan.
I didn’t invite Ry
an back for coffee, though, explaining instead that I had to be up early to work on the mural. I was shattered, trying not to yawn on the way back in the van as Ryan told me about life back in Australia. I didn’t want to seem rude, but by then I was even finding laughing hard work and my mind kept slipping back to my painting. That’s what I need to focus on, not Ryan or anyone else for that matter.
And for the next couple of weeks that’s what I do. I get up, go to school, paint, come home, sweep around the trees, weed the veg plot and fall exhausted into bed. I dream about the mural, the masseria, the trees, and the one tree in particular where I gave Marco the painting and he gave me the olive branch. I lose myself in the mural, living and breathing it, sketching the faces that keep haunting me; the ones that seem to live in the walls, the fields and the fabric of this place. Faces that all have a story of their own to tell.
One morning when I wake there is condensation on the window panes and a chill in the air. I go downstairs and get down on my knees to light the woodburner. I open it to find there is still a spark glowing in the grate. I quickly scrunch up newspaper and throw on twigs.
Suddenly the little fire sparks into life. I actually give a cheer, and then hold my hands to my mouth as the sparks turn to big orange flames. I know there will be hot water later. No more washing up in cold water. I want to tell Marco I’ve managed the fire, but he’s still not here.
That evening, after a day at the school, the fire is still in and I eat toast and jam in front of it. Then I pull on my fleece over my dungarees, add a bandanna around my neck for good measure and walk out to the olive trees.
As I’m sweeping, I look across to Marco’s trullo. I feel disappointed. I know it’s ridiculous. It’s time for me to stand on my own two feet now. It’s like someone’s taken the stabilisers off my bike and I must now ride alone.
As I’m sweeping, something drops behind me. There is a breeze in the air, rustling through the trees. I turn to see olives falling to the floor where I’ve swept. There is a scattering all around me.
‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘They’re falling! They’re falling. The sweepings!’
I look to Marco’s trullo again, but I’m on my own. All I have is his instructions: You must keep this very clean. Clear away the bonfire ashes. And when you have enough olives, take them to the press.
The harvest is coming, I tell myself. It’s nearly time. But instead of feeling elated, for some unknown reason I feel incredibly sad.
Driving back along the twisting, potholed lane I feel a strange mixture of joy and sadness. I’ve finished the painting. Well, I say finished, I could carry on tweaking for ever. But tomorrow it will be unveiled and I’ve done all I can for today. I’m feeling so buzzed that I’ve done it, my painting, the one I never thought I would be brave enough to do, but sad too, because it’s over and I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to paint again, if ever.
I raise a hand and give a toot to Luigi and Young Luigi as they move the sheep out of the road into a field so that I can pass. Luigi is dressed for winter. But his smile is wide and genuine despite there being so many black holes where his teeth once were. Mrs Luigi waves as I pass their little lamia. She’s not here as much these days, preferring to stay in their apartment in town. It’s been two and a half weeks since Marco left, according to Filippo to go back to his job at the college, and in that time autumn has well and truly settled in.
I see the familiar white car of Rocco the electrician coming towards me, and we wave as we squeeze past each other, stone walls on one side and kissing wing mirrors on the other. I’ve taken to telling him where the key is so he can come and go when he can. And I leave jars of piccalilli out for him when I know he’s coming.
The sun is deep and low and red in the sky. There’s a nip in the air. It’s a beautiful autumnal evening and more than anything I’d like to throw some more wood on the fire and sit down and watch Coronation Street, but I have trees to sweep. Marco told me that with just a little kindness, ‘the tree will repay you handsomely up top’, meaning the more I do, the bigger my harvest. As I swing round the corner, I can see the masseria through the trees and Marco’s trullo behind it, and if I’m not mistaken, Marco’s car! My heart suddenly and unexpectedly lurches into my mouth and starts thrumming loudly, playing a hip-hop beat in my ears. He’s back! Suddenly everything I have tried to stop myself feeling comes rushing at me at once. Oh God! I realise. I’ve missed him. I’ve really missed him.
I reach the drive, my hands shaking, and stop the car. I get out, my legs not really working in unison, and lift and open the sagging gates. Once I’ve driven through, I pull in and shut them again. It’s part of my daily routine now, just like climbing the stairs to my mum’s flat when the lift was broken. And I need to keep acting normal.
As I drive towards the house, I see him straight away. He’s standing outside his trullo, underneath one of the olive trees, the last of the setting sun forming an orange glow around him, and my heart’s suddenly pumping to a techno beat. He’s got a table out and is concentrating on something; looks like he’s working. I stop the car and just look at him for a moment, unable to believe that it’s Marco Bellanuovo who’s making my heart race like this. His broad, muscular shoulders are creating ripples under his long-sleeved white T-shirt and his tanned hands are holding what looks like a bottle at arm’s length. I have no idea why he’s making me feel like this, or if he feels the same about me. I don’t know how long he’s here for. Is he just back to collect the rest of his belongings? I swallow, only to discover there is a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat.
I pull up and get out, scratching Daphne’s head by way of a hello and trying to act as normal as possible.
‘Buongiorno,’ I call, much more high-pitched than I was expecting it to come out. He turns round as if I’ve taken him by surprise and smiles widely. That’s a good start.
‘Ciao.’ He waves a hand, almost shyly.
For a moment neither of us knows what to say and I’m guessing he doesn’t want me to disturb his work. But as I turn to go into the house, my heart crashing around in my chest, he walks purposefully towards me, jumps the wall and stands in front of me.
‘You’ve been away,’ I say, with a mouth as dry as the desert, trying to sound as if I’ve hardly noticed when actually I’ve counted every day, I realise.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he says, shyly again, no hint of arrogance at all. It’s all very different, very strange.
We’re both nervous and not sure where we stand with each other. Well, he did storm out of my house the last time I saw him, claiming I was some kind of oil adulterer. You’d think I’d been running a brothel, he was so disgusted.
‘I had to go back to Naples, organise some more leave,’ he explains, and I hear a voice in my head shouting, ‘Whoopee!’ and feel my heart doing little jumps of joy. ‘Just until after the harvest . . . until Christmas. Then they want me back,’ he explains.
Christmas. I’ll be gone by then, I suddenly realise. No more sweeping or weeding. It’ll be Mrs Brown’s Boys Christmas special and a box of Celebrations on Mum’s settee. I try and push the thought out of my head.
‘So you’re back. In time for Nonna’s birthday, I suppose.’ I suddenly realise that’s why he’s here. Not because of me, of course not! It’s Nonna’s birthday and I suddenly feel both silly and very nervous about the unveiling of the mural tomorrow.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘The whole family is looking forward to it.’ He smiles and I feel even more nervous.
‘So what’s all this?’ I try and distract myself, nodding at the table of bottles and cups. ‘Sorry, I mean, it’s none of my business. Actually, I have sweeping to do.’ I realise I need to get a grip, get control of these feelings. I turn back towards the house.
‘No, Ruthie, wait.’ He steps towards me and catches me by the elbow. My breathing quickens. ‘I’m sorr
y. I must have seemed very rude when I left here last time.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I try to be light-hearted and turn away again. I cannot work out why I feel like this around this man. He makes me so tongue-tied and nervous.
‘No, I want to explain,’ he says, catching my other elbow and turning me to him. And as much as I don’t want to, I can’t help myself. I slowly look up at him, his face lit by the orange and red rays of the sun. He has a very beautiful face when he’s not scowling at me.
‘It’s just . . . the oil.’ The flash of pain shoots across his face again, though not so deeply this time.
‘I know, I know, merda!’ I remember and raise my arms dramatically, then drop them, trying to make a joke of it. It works; he laughs.
‘Merda,’ he nods. ‘Lamp oil. It . . .’ He stops suddenly. ‘There’s history,’ he says eventually. ‘I don’t . . . I can’t talk about it really.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. But it’s not. Maybe if he explained how he felt, he wouldn’t feel so frustrated and angry. And I wouldn’t feel like I do now. Lost and wondering if he feels the same way I do about him.
‘Look.’ He holds his hand out to the table. There are bottles and little tulip-shaped glasses. It must be research for his book.
‘You’ve started writing?’ I smile, feeling pleased for him but disappointed that he doesn’t want to share whatever upset him the other night. It’s confusing the hell out of me. When he left, you could barely have called us friends. Just neighbours trying to get along. A neighbour who seems to turn my whole mind and soul upside down every time I see him.
‘What? Writing? Sadly, no. But this is for you.’ He nods his head and holds out an arm, pointing in the direction of the table. ‘If you are to be an olive farmer, you need to know about olive oil.’
‘But I . . .’ I start to remind him that I’ll be watching Coronation Street with my Celebrations by Christmas, but he’s leading me towards the table on the other side of the wall, under the tree, just by the old forno, the outdoor oven. He steps around the other side of the table. A slight wind lifts the corner of the tablecloth.