by Penny Feeny
Alex said, ‘Actually, kiddies, we were thinking of going to Santa Margherita. Dolly has a friend who’s moved into a new house and she wants us to take her some goodies.’
‘Is Dolly coming with us?’
‘No, she’s too busy. That’s why we’re being her messengers.’
Lily had only visited her birthplace once before and that was by accident. It had been a rainy day a couple of years ago and the outing hadn’t been planned. They’d been driving aimlessly around the valley and the windscreen wipers had been having trouble keeping up with the torrents of rainwater, when they’d found themselves on the fringes of the town. They hadn’t even got out of the car, but sat and stared at the ruined houses gleaming in the wet. Lily had thought in disbelief; how could I have been born here? Jess and Alex had watched her face carefully as if they were worried she might get distressed or have what they called a meltdown – though that hadn’t happened for a while. She would have liked Alex to show her where he had found her, but he’d said he couldn’t work it out. He had tunnelled such a long way into the blackness, orientation was impossible, even at the time. There was no point in going and getting soaked just now.
They set off the following day, with a cardboard box full of treats sitting snugly between them and the car windows open to let in a breeze. There wasn’t a speck of rain on this occasion; there hadn’t been for weeks. The sky was a brilliant blue and the road was a chalky ribbon snaking through ripening fields and olive groves.
The journey wasn’t a long one and when they arrived it was evident the town was still in a mess. The streets were riddled with pot-holes. There were small corrugated shacks, with roofs like tin lids that could blow off in a strong wind, and unfinished apartment blocks with gaping windows, imprisoned in scaffolding. Along one side of the town square stood the façade of a grand palace. Jess told Lily this had belonged to a duke who’d written about it in a famous book, The Leopard. He had called the palace Donnafugata, which was the name given to the whole valley after the Queen of Naples fled there. In the story two of the characters, a young man and a pretty girl, had played hide-and-seek in its hundred rooms.
Lily found it almost impossible to envisage so many rooms and you couldn’t see them now because they had fallen down in the earthquake, like the rest of the town. The grounds were to be turned into a park for the local children. When Lily heard phrases like ‘local children’ she would gulp and think incredulously: that could have been me. But the leap of imagination required to transpose her from Highbury Fields to the palms and lemon trees of Santa Margherita was even harder than imagining hide-and-seek in a hundred rooms. She simply couldn’t do it.
Dolly’s friend lived in one of the apartment blocks that had been completed. These were painted in ice-cream shades of strawberry and apricot and pistachio. Signora Agnese Fantoni lived on the ground floor and in the corner of her window pane was a black-edged card announcing she was in mourning for her husband. ‘For the rest of her life, poor thing,’ whispered Jess. Also in the window was a songbird in a cage hanging from a hook. When they rang the doorbell, it glared at them with its beady eye.
The old lady who came to answer the door wasn’t jolly and stout like Dolly. She was bent over, leaning on a stick and the knuckles of her hand, clasping its knob, rose in jagged peaks. Her eyes were sunken under her brows and spidery red lines webbed across her face. ‘Avanti,’ she said in a gravelly voice.
They followed her down the entrance hall into a hot and stuffy room. There was one easy chair, which Signora Fantoni, took and the McKenzies sat in a line on the bed by the wall, except for Alex, who held out the box. ‘It’s very good of you to see us, signora,’ he said in his best Italian. ‘We’ve brought a present to show our gratitude.’
They’d enjoyed filling it earlier that morning, raiding the kitchen for pickled walnuts and peppers and artichoke hearts. Dolly had baked some almond biscotti and they’d called at the alimentari for wafer-thin ham and a pair of caciocavallo cheeses, like miniature money-bags. It was a nice gift, but Signora Fantoni scarcely glanced at it. She was peering at Lily, studying every inch of her. Her fingers crabbed as if they wanted to reach out and pinch her arm to see if she was fat enough to eat. Lily didn’t want to meet the signora’s devouring eyes so she stared down at her shoes instead. These were black lace-ups like nuns wore, but they were bulging as if there weren’t normal feet inside them at all, but eagle’s talons struggling to be released. She nudged Harry; she couldn’t help thinking of the story of Hansel and Gretel. Surely the old lady had to be a witch?
‘Quest’è la bambina?’ said Signora Fantoni.
Alex nodded. ‘Addolorata said you could help us with some information.’
The signora acknowledged this with a sly smile as if she were the keeper of all the secrets of the neighbourhood.
Jess said, ‘I think I should take the children outside to play.’
Harry, squashed between them on the bed, was fidgeting; Lily had much better control. She’d invented a game whereby if she darted her eyes and wiggled her nose she could make something happen, like Samantha in the TV show Bewitched – who was a good witch, not an evil one.
Alex said something more to Signora Fantoni and then spoke in English. ‘We can all go. Agnese will come with us to show us the old town.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ said Jess.
‘It’s better than being cooped up here, isn’t it? The children can run around and we can have the quiet chat we’re after.’
‘You’re after…’ muttered Jess, squeezing Lily’s hand.
Agnese had to find a headscarf to shield her from the sun and a different walking stick. Then, with her uneven bow-legged gait, she started up the street. There were other black-garbed old ladies sitting on chairs by their doorsteps, flashing their crochet hooks through lace or shelling peas into enamel bowls. They called out greetings to Agnese and curiously eyed the procession she was leading. Two motor scooters whizzed past and a muzzled dog snarled at them. Harry shrank closer to Lily.
Suddenly Agnese changed direction, hobbling beneath an archway and into a dramatic change of scene. They were surrounded by the shells of buildings. No roofs, no glass in the windows, no wooden doors in the doorframes; weeds and scrubby bushes shooting out of the walls; cracked hearths and floor tiles spattered with bird droppings; staircases that mounted towards the sky and stopped in mid-air: this was what a battle zone might look like. And yet the layout of the streets was distinct, criss-crossing backwards and forwards, looking as if people might continue to gather at the intersections for a chat, as if they might lead somewhere.
You couldn’t tell one heap of stones from another, but Agnese was pointing at them as though the buildings were still standing and she could see the shutters pinned back and the women clipping their washing onto wires strung between the windows, and the sign for Salt and Tobacco hanging above the entrance to the bar and the knife grinder and the cobbler beavering away in their cubby-holes. These were familiar sights in other towns Lily had visited so she knew that they should have been here too. Here, where her first family had lived and died… And the worst thing was that she couldn’t remember anything about them. She gripped her head with both hands. It felt like the inside of a beehive, buzzing and swarming with winged creatures.
Jess said, ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ Harry started to run off and she called out after him: ‘Don’t get lost! We’re not in Roccamare now.’
‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ said Lily. ‘He won’t be able to hide from me.’
Agnese pottered another hundred yards ahead, poking her stick at dried clumps of grass, striking the remains of a doorstep. She was talking about the butcher’s shop, which must have been nearby. Lily recognised the word ‘macelleria’.
Harry leapt out from behind a gaping hole in the stonework and shouted, ‘Boo!’
Lily gave him a pitying smile. She felt infinitely superior and infinitely sad. ‘You mustn’t do that, Harry,’ she said.
<
br /> ‘Because I frightened you!’
‘You didn’t frighten me at all. It’s because it’s dangerous. If the walls fell down and crushed you, you’d be like a squashed fly, wouldn’t you?’
‘Can we play terrorists instead?’
‘No, we can’t.’ Peace marches hadn’t made as strong an impression on Harry as they had on Lily. She considered for a moment. ‘Why don’t we have a treasure hunt?’ There wasn’t much prospect of treasure in this forlorn abandoned site but Harry wouldn’t know that.
‘What are we looking for?’
She spotted the glint of a chocolate wrapper. ‘Gold,’ she said. ‘Or silver. But you have to find it out on the streets. You’re not allowed to go into the houses because it would be cheating.’
‘That isn’t fair!’
‘It’s the rules. I’ll be kind and give you a clue.’ She jerked her head towards the chocolate wrapper and his eyes followed her.
‘That’s paper.’
‘It’s silver paper. The person who finds the most wins.’
Harry scuttled about, swooping onto random pieces of litter. Lily felt pleased with herself and expected her parents to be pleased too. But they didn’t even notice when she ran up to them. They were listening intently to Agnese and Alex was translating for Jess. Agnese was talking about the baker this time, the fornaio. Lily tugged at her mother’s hand. ‘I found Harry,’ she said. Jess whirled around with a look of dismay. Lily said, ‘He didn’t hurt himself. He’s over there, hunting for treasure.’
Jess seemed distracted, but in a different way from normal. She nodded and craned forward to listen to Alex.
‘I’m struggling a bit with this,’ he was saying. ‘There’s a lot of Sicilian mixed in with the Italian and I’m not sure I’m following her properly. Who’s who and who survived and who didn’t.’ He turned back to Agnese. ‘Anche una sorella?’ Sorella, Lily knew, meant sister.
‘Sì sì,’ said Agnese. ‘Si chiama Carlotta.’
‘Carlotta?’ His voice rose. ‘Sicura?’
Agnese nodded. Yes, she was certain.
‘And this sister’s still alive?’ said Alex. ‘Ancora vive?’
‘Certo,’ said Agnese. ‘Abita Palermo.’
‘She lives in Palermo?’ Alex gave a low whistle. He said to Jess, ‘Did you get that? It was the guy’s sister who was called Carlotta.’
‘Really? It’s not what she told you before.’
‘In the café? No. But I’m wondering now if she wanted me to get the wrong end of the stick.’
And Jess’s mouth broke into its prettiest smile.
7
Marcello Campione’s family had invited the McKenzies to join them to celebrate Ferragosto. When she was younger, Lily had thought the festival was called Fairy Gusto; to Harry it was Furry Ghosto. They knew better these days, but kept up the joke. It was an event they always looked forward to: a whole day’s partying and feasting, the centrepiece of the summer. It made Lily wish (guiltily) that she could live in Sicily all the time because it was so much fun.
The Campiones came to Roccamare every August from their home in Milan and it was another branch of their family who were the hosts. They owned an olive grove near Castelvetrano, which was famous for its succulent green nocellara olives, as mellow and juicy as plums. They threw open the doors of a large barn once used for storage, now quietly crumbling. It had rough stone walls and holes in its roof, but its cavernous fireplace was ideal for roasting and barbecuing, for producing food on a biblical scale.
The McKenzies were among the first to arrive; dozens more guests were expected. Men were setting up benches and trestle tables in the courtyard outside; the women were in the barn, dealing with the food; a group of boys was scuffling with a football. Marcello was among them, but when Lily waved a greeting he ignored her. Piqued, she looked around for someone else she might recognise and spotted his two older sisters lolling against the bonnet of a sporty Lancia.
Marisa and Giovanna were in their early teens and addicted to glamour. They liked reading fotoromanzi, photo-strip stories of thwarted love, and they were obsessed with things Lily didn’t know much about: fashion, hairstyles, weddings, the Osmonds. She preferred David Cassidy to the Osmonds and had never been a bridesmaid. Her parents hadn’t even got married in a church. They’d both worn cream flared trouser suits to the registry office and had a party afterwards in the upstairs room of the pub where Alex organised the poetry readings. Poetry – poesia – was the only word to give this event any romance at all.
She wandered over to the Lancia and said, ‘Ciao.’
Giovanna looked up, said casually, ‘Ciao, come stai?’ and resumed her conversation with Marisa. Not exactly a rebuff, but not an invitation either. At a loose end, Lily sought refuge in the gloom of the barn, where Dolly and other matrons were trimming artichokes, podding beans, gutting birds. Dolly had brought her own rolling pin and a container full of chickpea dough that she began to roll and cut out for the deep-fried panelle. She let Lily help with the cutting, though her fingers got sticky and her shapes weren’t nearly as neat.
Marcello ambled through the doorway. He picked up a tomato and tossed it into the air like a tennis ball. He juggled with a second tomato, then a third, before acknowledging Lily. It was the first time they’d not been on an equal footing, in a neutral place. When he offered to show her around the azienda, the estate, it was in such a lordly manner she nearly refused to go with him.
‘I’m helping Dolly,’ she said.
‘Dai,’ said Dolly. ‘You should go and play.’
‘Don’t you need me?’
But her scrappy pile of panelle mocked her. And it was clear from the slow smoulder of the wood and the mounds of food yet to be prepared that it would be a long time before they’d get anything to eat. ‘Dai,’ said Dolly again and gave Lily a little push.
She followed Marcello outside. He wove through the cluster of parked cars and spurted into the olive grove. ‘This way!’ he called.
‘Wait!’
‘Catch me!’
The olive trees had been planted many years ago in long straight lines, but their limbs were bowed and twisted, their trunks sloped at unlikely angles, not quite falling over, so the symmetry was lost. The furrows between the rows were dry and uneven and Lily often stumbled. But she didn’t give up the chase. The silver foliage whispered and shimmered in the sunlight and she pretended she was in an enchanted forest as part of the game. When she reached the boundary, Marcello was nowhere to be seen.
‘I know you’re hiding,’ she sang out. In the distance she could see a curl of smoke from the barn chimney and hear the sounds of laughter but the figures were tiny and remote. She was surprised by how far she had come. Above her head the leaves rustled and she heard a strangled wail. They used to do this in their den: blow long screeching whistles to terrify each other. But that was more effective because the dinghy was dark inside; only a few pinpricks of light came through its rotting shell. ‘You don’t frighten me. Not a bit!’
‘Adesso arrivo!’ Marcello’s lithe tanned body catapulted out of the tree and landed with a graceful roll on the ground. Jess had once said he reminded her of Donatello’s David and although Lily didn’t know anything about Donatello or his David, she understood it was a compliment. He rose and brushed the dirt from his shorts.
Lily said, ‘I bet I could find somewhere better to hide.’
‘You’d get lost.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘The azienda is too big for you. Is hundreds of hectares.’ Then he boasted about his cousins, the owners, about how they made the best olive oil in the region and how it made them rich.
Lily’s parents were not interested in money, or so they claimed, though she didn’t see the harm of it if it bought you what you wanted. But her aunt Dinah lived in a large country house with velvety carpets and a grand piano and ponies grazing in the paddock.
‘My cousins are rich like yours,’ she said. ‘They have a fa
rm too.’
‘What do they grow?’
‘Wheat, I think.’ She wasn’t sure because the land was leased to tenant farmers and her aunt and uncle had little to do with its cultivation. Her uncle went to work on the train and their children were at boarding school.
‘Comunque,’ said Marcello, ‘they can’t be your real cousins.’
‘Why not? Their mother is Jess’s sister.’
‘But she’s not your real mother, is she? It doesn’t count.’
Lily was furious. He had never before tried to put her down. ‘That’s a mean stupid thing to say!’
He shrugged, unrepentant. ‘Is true.’
The olive crop wasn’t yet ripe, but she spotted some immature fruits that had fallen. She picked up a handful and flung them at him. Marcello ducked, grinning at the challenge, and collected his own ammunition. His throw was more successful than Lily’s and a couple of hard bullet-like olives thudded into her shoulder. ‘Colpo!’ he shouted. She stalked off. She wasn’t going to play a game she couldn’t win. He began aiming his shots at a rock instead.
Lily mooched along the border where the trees ended and scrubland began. Buried deep within her were recollections of the convent, of bells ringing for prayers, of the sickly odour of incense, of long rows of iron beds, of lining up on a bench with other children. There was also the sudden shock of being transplanted into a damp English winter, unfamiliar food, a foreign language. But all of this was secondary to the warmth and love she had from Jess and Alex and baby Harry, who was her brother just as much as Marcello was the brother of Marisa and Giovanna. How could the family she lived with not be real, if it was the only one she knew?
By now she was hot and sweaty and irritated and her irritation was always at its most intense and uncontrollable when she was hungry. Marcello shouldn’t have said what he did. It would serve him right if she never played with him again. She kicked at some prickly pears lying on the ground. They had dropped, like the olives, but these fruits were crimson and juicy, ripe enough to eat. She picked one up without thinking and squealed at the stinging sensation that was much worse than nettles. She let go of the pear at once but the spiny needles stayed in her palm and fingers. She couldn’t pull them out.