by Teresa Crane
‘It’s all right,’ she said, gently, more certainly.
He grunted again. ‘Arrivederci, Signora.’
‘Arrivederci.’
The door closed behind him, muffling at last the noise of the storm. She heard the sound of the heavy wheels on the gravel before they were lost as he swung out onto the track again. The house whispered around her. She sniffed the air again, puzzled, still unable to identify the faint, vaguely familiar, scent in the air. After a moment she tucked the matches the driver had given her into her pocket and, leaving her suitcases where they stood, picked up the lamp and walked to the door behind the staircase, pushing it open.
The lamplight threw dancing shadows on wall and ceiling. The shutter banged still, somewhere at the top of the house, rhythmic and monotonous.
The short, flagstoned passage that led to the kitchen was exactly as she remembered it, the old stones worn and uneven beneath her feet. She recalled that, as a child, utilising this floor, she had invented an arcane and complicated game involving marbles and ball bearings, that had kept her occupied for hours but had been perilously dangerous for anyone using the passage who might step upon the things.
She was smiling at the thought and reaching a hand to the kitchen door when suddenly, like a pistol shot just above her head, a door slammed, the noise loud in the comparative quiet of the house. She started so violently that she almost dropped the lamp, then froze, straining her ears, her heart pounding in her throat. It was a full minute before she could bring herself to move.
The wind. It was the wind. What else could it be?
Moving suddenly and briskly she pushed open the kitchen door, stepped through it. Stopped, staring; and once more the heavy, frightened thudding of her heart all but choked her. Again she could see by the trembling light of the lamp she carried that the room was as she remembered it: large and uncluttered, an iron range occupying one side, a huge dresser the other, in the centre of the tiled floor a large table, with a disparate assortment of chairs about it.
And on the table the fresh remains of a simple meal. Bread, cheese, a bottle of wine.
She stood rooted to the spot.
The room was comfortably warm; the range gave off a mellow heat. And now, suddenly, she identified the smell she had detected in the air when first she had entered the hall.
Cigarette smoke.
There was someone in the house.
She was trembling so that she could barely trust herself to move. Very, very carefully she set the lamp upon the table. The flame steadied. There was a three-branched wooden candelabra on the table; with hands she had to force herself to control she lit it, grateful for its flaring light.
From behind her came an utterly unmistakable sound; quick, light footsteps, coming from beyond the door through which she had just entered.
Catching her breath she turned, pressing herself back against the table, her hands gripping the edge. In her fear she felt as if every last drop of blood had drained from her body.
The door opened to reveal the slender figure of a young man. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment then came on swiftly into the room, stopping a few feet from her, exposing his face deliberately to the full blaze of the lamp and the candles. A thin, clever face beneath fine, tousled hair; narrow eyes, gleaming blue and bright in the light; a straight, shadowed mouth. In one hand he held a small torch, the other was held towards her, open, in a quick gesture of reassurance. There was a moment of silence. Then ‘Carrie—’ he said, ‘Carrie, don’t be frightened. It’s me. Don’t you recognise me?’
The sound that she made was something between a sob of relief and laughter. ‘Leo! Oh, Leo – of course I recognise you! How could I not? Leo, Leo! What are you doing here?’ In two quick steps she was fast in her cousin’s arms. He was at the most only a couple of inches taller than she, but the slight body was wiry and strong, the arms that hugged her so fiercely to him crushed the breath from her body as he all but lifted her from her feet, rocking her back and forth.
‘Carrie, Carrie! What in the world are you thinking of – coming here alone, and on such a night? I could have been anyone. Anyone!’ He put her from him. Tilted her face towards him. ‘Tears? Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry.’
She sniffed valiantly. ‘I’m not crying. Not really. It’s just, oh it’s been such a horrible journey – and I was – was very frightened when I realised there was someone here.’ The tears rolled on, unchecked, down her cheeks.
With a half smile and a gesture so tender that it entirely vanquished what little was left of her fragile self-control he brushed her wet face with his fingers, pulled her to him again and held her, gently, as she sobbed against his shoulder. When at last she quietened he released her, holding her hand, drawing her to the table. ‘Come on. Sit down. Have a glass of wine – don’t be silly,’ she had shaken her head, ‘believe me it’s exactly what you need. When did you last eat? I’ve bread, and cheese and some chicken.’ He slipped her coat from her shoulders, guided her firmly to a chair, talking quietly, giving her time to collect herself. ‘Eat, Carrie. It will do you good.’ He grinned, suddenly, wide and boyish, a smile she remembered so well it almost brought the tears again. ‘And while you’re eating I’ll explain what I’m doing in your house. It is your house, isn’t it?’
She nodded.
He turned, walked to the door, hung her coat on a hook on the back of it. ‘I thought it might be,’ he said, his back to her, his voice calm, almost expressionless. ‘After what happened between Grandmother and my father – well, you can’t blame her, can you?’
She watched him, a suddenly shadowy figure beyond the circle of light. ‘Leo, what did happen between Grandmother and Uncle John? Why did she—’ she hesitated, realising that she had been going to use the word ‘hate’, ‘dislike him so much? He was her son, after all.’
Leo shrugged. ‘Who knows? I never did. Just one of those things.’ He came back to the table, leaned against it, looking down at her, relaxed and smiling again, the slightly uncomfortable moment past. ‘You know how these family feuds are. Love turns to hate, and all that. There’s no one can hurt us as much as those we love.’
The thought rose in her mind, utterly unbidden; that’s why Arthur, no matter what he may think or how hard he tries, can never really hurt me.
He leaned to pour the dark wine into the glass he had set for her. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘No. Of course not.’ She nibbled a piece of chicken, picked up the glass, watched him as he pulled a worn and dully gleaming silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and extracted a cigarette with long, brown-stained fingers. Her tears had dried, her reason was asserting itself. ‘So, what are you doing here?’ she asked, undisguised curiosity in her voice.
He shrugged narrow shoulders. ‘I saw a report in one of the papers at home about Uncle Henry’s death. As I said, I guessed that Grandmother would have moved heaven and earth to prevent me from touching anything of hers.’ His voice now was matter of fact, held no rancour. He tilted his head for a moment, blowing smoke to the ceiling. She studied the sharp line of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbone; he had, she remembered, been a handsome child; the harder lines of maturity suited him even better. She recognised suddenly that for all the familiarity of him this was not – could not be – the Leo she had once known so well. The best part of half a lifetime and the survival of the brutality of war separated the two. If she had changed from the child she once had been, how much more must he have done?
He glanced down, caught her looking at him. ‘I adored her, you know,’ he said, simply, and making no attempt to disguise the sudden glint of pain in his narrow eyes. ‘I really did.’
‘Yes,’ Carrie said. She was certain it was no less than the truth; there were not many who had come within the sphere of Beatrice Swann’s complex and brilliant personality and had remained untouched. Why should the grandson who in some ways so much resembled her but whose relationship with her had always been marred by the enmity between mo
ther and son, be different?
‘So,’ he slid from the table, walked to the dresser, took down another glass, ‘I decided to come and steal something.’ He grinned again, suddenly and teasingly, lightening the mood. ‘Not a very valuable something, I promise you. But just – a little something. Something to remind me of her. I assumed that if you had inherited the place you’d sell it as it stood, goods and chattels included so to speak. I didn’t think you’d miss one small thing. A keepsake. Oh, I’m afraid I had to prise the shutters apart in the tower room to get in. That’s why they’re banging.’ He poured himself wine, lifted the glass to his lips.
She was staring at him. ‘Leo! How could you? How could you?’
The bright eyes widened and flickered at her, startled and flaring with a sudden and intemperate flash of anger. The smiling mouth straightened.
She did not notice his misinterpretation of her words. ‘Why didn’t you contact me? Why come here like this? Steal did you say? Oh, Leo for goodness’ sake you must know me better than that? If you’d asked – just asked – well, of course, you can have anything. Anything you want.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Leo, I didn’t even know if you were alive or dead. You could have contacted me. Why didn’t you? We’re all the family either of us has.’
The sudden, savage glitter had died. He controlled the faint tremor of his fingers with concentrated will. ‘I – haven’t been in England.’
‘Where have you been?’
The narrow shoulders lifted again. ‘Oh, here and there. After the war,’ he tilted his head and drained his glass, reached for the bottle again, ‘I found it hard to settle.’ He smiled again, but this time with little humour. ‘I’m not alone in that I think.’
‘No.’
He half filled his own glass, leaned to pour the last of the wine into hers.
‘Oh no, really—’
‘I insist. It will, if nothing else, help you to sleep. Take it from one who knows.’
Carrie broke off a piece of bread and picked up a chunk of cheese. She had not realised just how hungry she was; few things had ever tasted so good, and the wine was inducing feelings that were quite alarmingly pleasant. ‘Where were you? In the war?’
‘Just about everywhere. Ypres, mostly. The Somme. The Marne at one point, with the French. They had it tough.’
‘And afterwards? Where did you go?’
He made a small, dismissive gesture. ‘We can talk about that later. Never mind about me, tell me about you. What are you doing here, alone?’ He glanced at her ring finger. ‘You’ve married? Why isn’t he with you?’
She sipped her wine. ‘He couldn’t get away.’ She lifted her eyes to his. ‘Oh, Leo, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you! I was so afraid you’d been killed. Arthur was certain of it.’
He grinned, gracelessly. ‘Well Arthur, as you can clearly see, was wrong.’ He picked up the empty bottle. ‘They’re making these things smaller and smaller, you know that? I’ll open another.’
*
‘So,’ she lifted her glass, surveyed the guttering light of the candles through its dark depths. He was laughing; she had been surprised at how funny she had managed to make the difficulties of the journey sound, ‘here I am. More by luck than judgement, I have to admit. It well might have been a case of the lamb to the slaughter, I fear.’ She sipped the wine, settled her chin on her hand, turning her head to look into his face. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m perhaps not one of the world’s great adventurers.’
He lifted his glass to her. ‘With your forebears? Of course you are. You just haven’t found your own adventure yet.’
She thought about that for a moment. Smiled, delightedly. ‘Do you think that’s it?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
She yawned.
‘I should go,’ he said.
Carrie blinked. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘There’s a bar in San Marco. They have a couple of rooms.’
‘But, why? Why should you go?’
He spread his hands, smiling a little.
She blushed. ‘Oh, Leo – don’t be silly! For goodness’ sake. We’re cousins. We’ve known each other since we were children. We’re as good as brother and sister. Oh, of course you must stay. You wouldn’t – surely you wouldn’t – leave me here alone?’
‘You were ready to stay here alone before you knew I was here.’
‘Well, yes. Of course I was. But now – well now I know you’re here, and it’s different.’
‘A fine piece of feminine logic,’ he said.
She yawned again, and blinked. ‘Oh dear. I am sorry.’ She bowed her head and pulled the last of the pins from her hair, shaking her aching head. Her heavy, straight hair slid untidily about her shoulders. She rested her face for a moment in the cup of her hands. ‘I haven’t asked. Is there much left? I remember the place as a positive Aladdin’s cave. Childhood exaggeration, I suppose. Is there anything left?’
The silence was long enough to penetrate her dazed and wine-muddled tiredness. She lifted her head. He had picked up the lamp and was holding out his hand to her. ‘Come and see. Come and see your inheritance.’
He simply led her from room to room, standing at the door, holding up the lamp to illuminate the interiors.
‘Leo! What in the name of heaven am I going to do with all this stuff?’ She sat on the top stair of the curving staircase, surveyed in wonder the carved ivory ball she held in her hand, picked up at random in the swift tour of the house. Within the tracery of the intricately carved outer shell was another, within that another, and so on down to the tiniest carved sphere, bead sized, just visible within the complexities some master craftsman had produced in a place so removed, both in distance and in time that she could hardly comprehend it. ‘It will take me a month of Sundays to sort this lot out.’
‘Grandmother was certainly something of a collector.’ The wind still buffeted the house, though with a little less vigour. The loose shutter still banged. He lifted his head. ‘Perhaps I can fix that for you before I leave.’
She closed her eyes, rubbed the back of her neck tiredly. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. Leave, I mean. Really I do.’
‘You’re asleep on your feet.’
‘Yes.’ She blinked her eyes open, laughing a little. ‘Except I’m not even on my feet. I’m sitting down.’
He hesitated for a moment longer. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay. just for tonight. Come on, back down to the kitchen with you. I’ll make up a bed – no,’ he held up a hand at her half-hearted protest, ‘I’ve had a chance to find where everything is. Come on; there’s tea in the cupboard beside the sink. Go and make us a pot. I’ll make up a bed for you in the main bedroom. But tomorrow I’ll move down to the village.’
He offered a hand to help her to stand up. She held on to it. ‘You’ll help me? You’ll stay and help me sort the place out?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Carrie. I think not.’ His voice was gentle.
She was too tired to argue. ‘Don’t talk about it now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Tomorrow.’
*
A bare half-hour later, aching and exhausted, she fell into a huge wooden bed that felt the most wonderfully comfortable she had ever occupied. The sheets were damp, a little coarse. The pillow was vast, and very soft. The small night light that flickered on the washstand illuminated a musty room vast in its proportions and cluttered, as was the rest of the house, with all manner of odds and ends. A huge bookcase overflowing with books made up one side of the room and in one corner stood a large and ornate oriental jar filled with ancient, mouldering pot pourri.
She snuggled sleepily beneath the covers, grateful for the comfort, grateful above all to have the great bed to herself; not once since her marriage to Arthur had she slept alone. In some odd corner of her brain she registered the fact that it was Tuesday. She smiled, sleepily and burrowed deeper, aware that, at last, the wind was dropping, and that the rain had cea
sed to hammer against the closed shutters. The last thing she heard in the quiet of the house was the door of the tower room, along the corridor from the bedroom Leo had chosen for her, clicking shut.
During the night she jumped awake once, thinking she heard someone cry out. She lay for a moment, disorientated, listening.
But the house was still. The storm had died. All was silent.
She slept again.
Chapter Three
Carrie woke next morning in the large, shadowed room and for a sleepy moment could recall neither where she was, nor why she was there. Light glinted through the shutters. The house was very quiet. Somewhere beyond the window a cockerel crowed, challenging the world.
She stirred and stretched; looked up at the high, plastered ceiling, remembering.
Leo. Leo was here. She was not, after all, alone.
With a sudden happy burst of energy she threw back the bed clothes and on bare feet ran across the cold tiles of the floor to the window, wrestling impatiently with the unfamiliar catches of the shutters, throwing them open with a protesting shriek from the rusty hinges.
She stood quite still, her breath held.
The foothills of the Garfagnana rolled before her beneath the palest and clearest of skies. The sun had not yet topped the high rise to the east, but the air was sweet and brilliant with its light. Stormwater still cascaded down the hillsides, gleaming and sparkling, streaming from rock to ravine in glittering ribbons, disappearing into the rainwashed woodlands to join the swollen, foaming waters of the river below. The clay-tiled roofs of San Marco tumbled down the mountainside beneath her. Somewhere a woman was singing. Woodsmoke hung fragrantly in the calm air.
She rested her elbows on the sill, leaned out of the window, her hair swinging about her face like a child’s.
Bagni di Lucca nestled in its valley beneath her, the tree-shaded houses and their gardens scattered like childrens’ toys along the banks of the flooding River Lima and up the green sides of the valley. She could see the road that ran alongside the river; could trace, too, the winding track up which she had come last night as it meandered through the trees. Arched bridges spanned the torrent that was the storm-swollen Lima, the waters dashing themselves against the ancient stone supports that had stood against them for so long.