The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  From the hilltop in the east, as she watched, the first glittering rays of the sun struck in blades of light across the valley.

  She smiled in sheer delight.

  ‘Hey, sleepyhead. Aren’t you ever coming down to breakfast?’

  She looked down. Beneath her, standing on the gravel drive, hands on hips, head flung back as he laughed up at her stood Leo, in shirtsleeves and flannels, his slight figure foreshortened by the height.

  She waved. ‘I’m coming! Wait – I’m coming.’

  She flew to her cases, flung one of them on to the bed and opened it, grabbed slacks and a jumper, tumbling the carefully folded clothes in her haste, slamming the lid back down, leaving the sleeve of a blouse trailing. Almost dancing with excitement and energy she pulled the clothes on, dragged a brush through her hair, shoved her feet into a scuffed pair of sandals, hopping in her impatience as she struggled to buckle the narrow strap. Then she was out of the room and running down the stairs. ‘Leo? Leo, where are you?’

  He was in the kitchen. He looked up, smiling, as she burst in. The remains of last night’s meal had been cleared away. There was fresh bread on the table, and a chunk of cheese. Coffee bubbled on the black stove, filling the air with its fragrance, making her mouth water.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Good morning, Good morning, Good morning!’

  His smile widened. ‘That’s a lot of mornings?’

  She swung around the table to plant a light kiss on his cheek. ‘It’s a lot of “goods”, actually. Gosh, I’m hungry. As a hunter.’ She broke a chunk of warm bread from the loaf, bit into it. ‘This is wonderful. And fresh!’

  ‘There’s a baker’s in San Marco. Only a little place, but the bread’s good.’

  ‘You’ve been out already?’

  ‘Already?’ He came to the table with the coffee, laughing at her. ‘Do you know what the time is?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s ten o’ clock.’

  She stared at him, her mouth full. Swallowed. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘It is.’

  She put a hand to her mouth, stifling laughter. ‘I’ve slept till ten o’clock? Oh, Leo, I can’t have. It’s outrageous! Whatever would Arthur think? And I haven’t so much as washed my face or cleaned my teeth. Oh, I’m sorry—’ she stopped, ducked her head, sudden colour lifting in her cheeks, ‘I’m acting like a child.’

  He put out a carelessly affectionate hand to ruffle her hair. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  The silence was a long one. She put down her bread, took the coffee he offered her, not looking at him. She set the steaming cup on the table, and self-consciously smoothed her hair, twisting it into a knot that immediately fell apart.

  ‘Carrie? What’s wrong?’

  She shook her head. Nothing would have persuaded her to tell him Arthur’s reaction to what he deemed to be childish. ‘Nothing. Honestly, nothing. It’s just – this isn’t real, is it?’ She lifted a sober face to his. ‘It’s silly to enjoy something too much. It only gets taken away from you. Or, well, you have to give it up.’

  He pulled a chair to the table, the scrape of the legs on the tiled floor loud in the quiet. Sunshine flooded the room.

  Carrie picked up the piece of bread again, shredded it absently into crumbs that spilled untidily upon the table-top.

  ‘Real?’ he asked at last, very quietly, ‘What does that mean? And who takes things from you?’

  She shook her head, unexpectedly unable to speak.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s real, Carrie.’

  She glanced up at him. He was not looking at her. She found herself noticing the curl of the fine brown lashes that, gilded in the light, guarded his eyes.

  ‘Now is real. This is real. What we can touch is real.’ The lashes lifted. ‘Death is real. Death is very real indeed. If the war taught me nothing else it taught me that. When you think about it, death is the only reality that in the end we all, inevitably, share.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ she said, after a moment.

  ‘It’s the truth. The simple truth.’

  For a second or two it was as if the blue gleam of his eyes had mesmerised her. She sat silent, watching him. ‘It’s still horrible,’ she said, and had the oddest feeling that they were not the words that she had wanted to say.

  ‘So’s this coffee,’ he said, after the briefest of silences.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘It’s stewed. Remind me not to trust you to make the coffee if this is the way you like it. I’ll make some more.’ Briskly he stood, and the mood, as he had obviously intended, was broken. ‘I called in at the bar at San Marco this morning,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘They have a room. I’ll move down there today.’

  ‘Leo—’

  He turned. ‘Carrie – I’m sorry, but I insist. I’ll only be just down the road if you need me. I’ll stay for—’ he hesitated, ‘a day or two.’

  ‘A day or two?’ She spread helpless hands. ‘Leo, please. From what I saw last night it’s going to take weeks to sort this place out. I mean – where am I going to start? What on earth am I going to do with everything?’

  ‘There’s an attic full of tea chests upstairs.’ He was soothing. ‘And I’ll help you – I will help you. For a couple of days. We’ll get more done than you imagine.’

  ‘But, I have to go to Lucca – to see the lawyer — won’t you wait? Won’t you please stay?’

  ‘A day or two, Carrie. Then we’ll see.’

  *

  After breakfast they went into the garden, the two or three acres of which scrambled up the hillside behind the house in a series of varying sized terraces. It was, as Carrie had expected, sadly neglected. Ivy—smothered walls were crumbling, steps and paths were uneven and overgrown – some indeed had disappeared altogether beneath the invasion of grass and weeds, heather and brambles. Self-rooted trees grew at odd angles in the terrace banking, some of which had deteriorated so badly it no longer served its original purpose at all; in many places one terrace had slid into another in a jumble of bricks and stony soil, muddy still from the recent rain. Here and there, however, patches recognisable as a cultivated garden survived: an arbour of roses, run wild and woody, a semi—circular box hedge with a stone seat overlooking the valley, the odd flowering shrub, and everywhere the ornamental trees of which Beatrice Swann had been so fond. Many of them were old now, and past their prime; but most still stood, tall and beautiful, fresh-budded in the sunshine. ‘There’s a place,’ Carrie stopped, looking up the hillside, hand shading her eyes, ‘that I particularly want to find. I have a picture of it at home. A sort of arbour. With a fountain. You must remember it. We used to play there as children. Have you found it?’

  Beside her Leo shook his head. ‘I’ve hardly been out here.’

  ‘I think,’ she nibbled her lip, searching her memory, ‘in fact I’m sure – it’s somewhere over there.’ She pointed. ‘There was a large tree – an acacia, I think. There, you see? Surely that’s it? Let’s go and look.’

  ‘Can you get up there in those shoes?’

  She grimaced down at her feet, already filthy from the mud and dirt. ‘Not very practical, are they? Never mind. Let’s try.’

  Slipping and sliding they scrambled up a steep bank, to find themselves on a fairly level strip of terrace, at the back of which was a small flight of stone steps curving into an overgrown shrubbery. ‘This is the way, I’m sure it is.’ Excitedly Carrie pushed through the shrubbery, winced as a small branch whipped across her face.

  ‘Careful. Why don’t you let me go first?’

  ‘I’m all right, honestly. Watch your step here, it’s a bit slippery. Oh, Leo, look! There – I said it was here.’

  They had emerged into a paved area several square yards wide, sheltered on one side by a sheer, dripping rock face upon which grew ferns and lichens and tiny wild flowers and enclosed on the other three by the overgrown shrubbery through which they had just come. Above them the graceful acacia
lifted its arms to the sunlit sky.

  ‘The fountain,’ Carrie said softly. ‘Oh, Leo - you must remember it?’

  The water in the pool was dark and stagnant. The graceful nymph in whose hands once the water had splashed and danced stood, dirty, lichen covered, empty handed, but still, to Carrie’s eyes, heart-wrenchingly beautiful. The playful dolphins that tumbled at her feet had a bright life of their own, despite the dirt and slime that caked them.

  ‘Oh, and look at this one!’ Carrie ran to a small statue that stood by the rock wall; a young boy, naked, holding a jar from which the natural water still ran into a clogged pool at his feet. ‘We used to call him George. Why did we call him George, for goodness’ sake?’

  Leo shook his head, smiling.

  ‘It was always so cool here in the summer.’ Carrie perched on a rock, arms linked around her knees. ‘You surely remember that? We used to spend so much time here—’ she trailed off, her dark eyes suddenly thoughtful.

  Leo, still silent, still watching her affectionately, reached into his pocket for his cigarette case.

  ‘But then again, perhaps we didn’t,’ Carrie said. ‘Spend as much time up here as I think we did, I mean. This is the picture, you see. The one I have at home.’ She tilted her head to look at him. The sun was behind his head, sheening the sharp planes of his face, turning the fine, straight hair that constantly fell across his forehead to gold. For a disconcerting instant he was the image of the boy she remembered. Then he moved, tapping the cigarette on the case, turning his head to look at the fountain, and the impression was lost. ‘I’ve looked at it so often. Dreamed about it so much. Perhaps that’s it?’

  ‘I certainly don’t recall it as well as you seem to. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I’d ever have remembered it was here at all.’ He leaned beside her. In the silence a bird sang, and water ran musically amongst the shadowed, fern-cloaked rocks.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  She rested her chin on her knees. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come down to greet me when I first arrived last night? Why did you give me such a fright?’

  The silence was a long one.

  ‘I’m not – not complaining, you understand,’ she said at last, a little timidly, fearful she had angered him, spoiled the ease between them. ‘I just – wondered that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You have every right to complain.’ He turned, moving lightly, hunkered down beside her so that he was looking up into her face, the usually narrow eyes were wide and very blue in the sunlight. ‘First – I didn’t know it was you until you got out of the cart and the lamp shone on your face. Second—’ he hesitated. Pulled a small, self-deprecating face. ‘Second – well, to be honest my first inclination was to leave the house in the same way as I had entered it. Clandestinely through the window of the tower room.’

  ‘You mean, you would have gone? Without even talking to me?’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’ The words were dry.

  ‘But why? Oh, Leo, why would you have done that?’

  He stood up, shaking his head, half-smiling. ‘Perhaps, my Carrie, because I didn’t much fancy being caught stealing your property?’ There was a certain sardonic defiance in the set of his head, the sudden steadiness of his veiled gaze.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! I wish you’d stop using that silly word.’ She scrambled from the rock, walked to the fountain, tossed a small stone into the still water and watched the ripples widening, glimmering, in the dappled light. ‘I told you. You can have anything you want. You’re as entitled to it as I am.’

  He grinned suddenly. ‘How would your Arthur feel about that? You haven’t told me much about him, but from what little you have said—’ he spread his hands and shrugged a little, questioningly.

  For a moment her stomach churned unpleasantly. ‘What Arthur doesn’t know,’ she said, composedly, ‘Arthur doesn’t have to feel anything about. Does he?’ and was astonished at the sheer, wilful delight of simply speaking the words. Ridiculously, she wanted to say them again.

  He laughed. ‘True. Now – come on, cousin. We really can’t waste all day, you know. You said yourself that the house could take weeks to clear and you haven’t seen the half of it yet. Just wait till you see it in daylight. It’s a cross between a museum and one of those lucky dip barrels you get at village fétes.’

  As she turned to follow him something caught her eye. She bent to pick it up. ‘Leo, you’ve dropped a packet of cigarettes.’ She held them out to him. ‘Funny. They’re soaking wet.’

  He took the unopened cardboard pack from her, tucked it in his pocket. ‘Damn it. They must have fallen from my pocket. Never mind, I’ve some in my case and more in the house.’ His smile was disarming, ‘Not a habit I will ever be able to overcome, I fear. Here – take my hand – this bit’s awfully slippery.’

  *

  They decided, sensibly, that the only thing to do was to catalogue everything, room by room, and for Carrie to decide as she went along what to keep and what to dispose of.

  ‘But what will I do with the stuff I can’t keep?’

  ‘Sell it,’ he said, promptly. ‘Ship it back to England, and let one of the auction houses have it. Carrie, we took it all very much for granted but before the war Grandmother was quite a celebrated figure in artistic circles, you know. She had a lot of friends who were famous then, or have since become so. Writers, artists, musicians. It could make these bits and pieces very collectable. Advertise. Get a couple of magazine or newspaper articles written. Nostalgia’s all the thing, you know. I once met Henry James at the Hampstead house. I believe that Joseph Conrad lived there for several weeks. Shaw was one of her closest friends.’

  ‘Yes. I do remember that.’ They were in the drawing room, a large and charming room, cluttered in unlikely fashion with the kind of furniture that might have graced an English Victorian country house, right down to the grand piano over which was draped, like a faded cobweb, a disintegrating silk shawl. Every dust-filmed surface held its quota of statues, vases, dishes, pieces of glass and of silver. A filthy but particularly fine marble bust of a child gazed dreamily into space from one of the three or four small tables scattered about the room. As in so many of the rooms of the Villa Castellini a huge bookcase stuffed full of volumes of every size, shape and age took up an entire wall. Of the other three walls one was graced by the four tall windows that opened on to the shady verandah outside and the other two were all but entirely covered in pictures, some so dark and smoke stained that it was difficult if not impossible to tell from any distance what their subject might be.

  Carrie was sitting on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, surrounded by heaps of books. ‘Ouch!’ With some difficulty she stood up, stretching, ‘My foot’s gone to sleep.’ She rubbed it vigorously, then flexed it, strolled shoeless to the window, stood looking out across the hills. With the afternoon a few wisps of cloud had appeared in the sky, high and unthreatening and their shadows chased swift across the hillsides. The light was golden. In the blue distance of the mountain air a bird wheeled, gracefully, wings outstretched, gliding on the wind, too tiny, too distant to be identified. She watched its flight with something close to longing. ‘I met him once, I think. Shaw, that is. So Mother always said.’ She stood with her head thrown back, watching the bird. ‘What was it he said? About the two great tragedies of life?’ Her eyes followed still the great, free arcs of movement above her. ‘One is not to get your heart’s desire. And the other—’

  ‘Is to get it,’ he said, from the shadows behind her.

  ‘Yes.’ She turned, quickly, shrugging. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’

  He did not reply. He was standing at a table, his back to her. She heard the clink of glass. He turned, two glasses in his hand. The subdued light gleamed in their contents, almost exactly the same ruby red as the ancient velvet curtains that draped the windows.

  ‘An excellent port,’
he said. ‘The perfect antidote, I find, to philosophising.’

  She laughed. ‘I had a glass of wine at lunch time.’ He, she could not help noticing, had finished the bottle.

  ‘Why so you did.’ His voice was light, and equable. He held out the glass. ‘So it’s only reasonable to carry on as you started.’

  She took it. Sipped it. It was mellow, and sweet. She watched as he wandered across the room and stood looking up at a small picture. ‘Have you seen this?’

  She joined him. Light from the window fell upon the painting.

  ‘The only picture of her ever painted,’ Leo said. ‘She had an aversion to being painted or photographed, I believe.’

  ‘I can understand that. I don’t much like it myself.’ Carrie grinned, quickly, ‘Photos, that is. No one’s ever suggested a portrait.’ She studied the picture with interest.

  ‘Do you realise how like her you are?’

  Carrie turned truly startled eyes to his. He nodded back at the painting of Beatrice Swann. ‘Look at it. Can’t you see it?’

  She stepped closer. The hair was certainly the same, she could see it at once, recognise despite the artist’s light and flattering touch the heavy, uncontrollable, slippery weight of it. And suddenly she could see it: her grandmother’s habit of constantly, almost absently, touching and tucking her hair into pins, into combs, beneath scarves. Her own habit.

  The face was wide at the cheekbones, perhaps a little too narrow about the mouth. The smooth skin was the colour of olives – Beatrice Swann’s mother had been Italian – the dark eyes large and expressive.

  ‘Here. Try this.’ With a swift and deft movement Leo unhooked the painting from the wall and took it to where a mirror was set upon the piano. ‘There,’ he said, holding it.