The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  There could be no denying the likeness. It was not simply the hair. The skin colour – that Arthur had always referred to, dismissively, as ‘sallow’ – the shape of the face, of the brows, of the eyes. ‘How extraordinary,’ she said. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me.’ She looked back at the picture. No classic beauty this, by any manner of means. But – interesting. She had never thought of herself as having an interesting face. However, there was a difference. She leaned forward, studying the picture. Feature by feature she could see the likeness. But, indefinably, something was different. It took a moment to see what it was.

  She turned away. ‘You can see how strong she was,’ she said. ‘Something about the eyes.’

  Leo was studying the picture intently. ‘Yes. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The set of the head, perhaps. Just look at her.’ He smiled. ‘She looks like a queen.’

  ‘Yes. She does.’ Carrie looked back out of the long, velvet-draped window. The sun still shone. The bird still climbed and spiralled above the peaks. But somehow, indefinably, some part of the magic had gone from the afternoon. She gulped the last of her port; all but choked.

  Laughing now he set the picture down and came to pat her on the back.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I need some air.’

  *

  As Leo had already pointed out, the only way to get down into Bagni was either to hire a donkey, or to walk, as the locals did.

  ‘You can often hitch a lift back. There’s always someone coming up to San Marco. You’re sure you won’t wait? I haven’t a lot to pack; it would take no time to drop my bag off at the bar.’

  ‘No.’ A little alarmingly she realised that, above all things, she did not want to be here when he left. ‘I’m happy to go alone.’

  ‘Right.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’ll be back here by five?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tugged her hair. ‘I’ll be back by then. Don’t worry about supper. I’ll arrange it.’

  She dismissed the thought of Arthur, and tea at five thirty sharp; the tightened lips and tapping fingers if it were five minutes late, or if the sugar bowl were not set upon the tray in just the manner he liked it. ‘Thank you.’

  *

  The English Cemetery at Bagni di Lucca lay on a slope on the south side of the river, a quiet enclosure surrounded and guarded by tall cypress trees. A small Chapel of Rest, at the top of the hill, presided over the peaceful tombs and memorials, most of them neatly and carefully kept, some imposing, some simple. Carrie pushed open the big wrought-iron gates and stood for a moment looking around her. In the far corner someone tended a new grave, the flowers a bright splash of colour in the clear spring sunlight. Birds sang, and the faintest of breezes whispered in the branches of the trees. Two bright butterflies danced dizzily about a stand of tall, yellow flowers. Behind her the Lima still ran in spate, foaming and churning about the white rocks of the riverbed. She climbed the shallow steps that led through a cypress-lined avenue up the hillside, stopping now and again to examine the memorials that lined it.

  Sacred to the memory of the best of wives, the most affectionate of mothers – snatched after a short illness from her disconsolate family

  She had always rather liked graveyards; liked the serenity of them, the stories that sprang to mind from even the simplest of inscriptions. She stopped at another.

  Frederick Charles Philips, Esq. 13th King’s Hussars. Battle of Waterloo

  She puzzled a little over that one. Was poor Frederick actually killed in the battle? Or had he merely wished the world to be reminded that he had been there?

  Baron Julius de Sass Now there indeed was a name to conjure with, Privy Counsellor to HIM the Emperor of Russia.

  Beatrice was certainly buried amongst exalted company.

  She made her way to the Chapel, pausing by the door to read yet another simple but telling inscription.

  Nelly Erickson. Died of Spanish fever November 15th 1918, while working for the relief of the refugees in the Great War

  Poor Nelly. November 1918. Less than five years ago. Carrie wondered how old she had been when she died. Carrie herself, born with the century, had been eighteen years old when the war finished, and a year off marrying Arthur. Why had she done it? Why hadn’t she done what Nelly Erickson and the woman buried beside her – Rose Elizabeth Cleveland who had died within a week of her – had done? She stood for a long time, head bent, staring sightlessly at the two inscriptions.

  You married Arthur because, quite simply, you weren’t strong enough – brave enough – to do anything else. Lie to the world, Carrie Stowe, but don’t lie to yourself. You could not have done what these women did. You don’t have the courage.

  From the corner of her eye she saw movement. She lifted her head, suddenly and uncomfortably certain that she was being watched. On the far side of the cemetery, a shadow in shadows, a small figure stood, very still, black clad and veiled. As Carrie looked towards her the old woman turned, walking slowly and with difficulty towards the gate. Carrie followed her with her eyes, intrigued. At the gate the woman glanced back, and seeing Carrie watching stood for a moment, quite still, before turning away.

  ‘You must be Mrs Stowe?’ The light, busy voice took her entirely by surprise. ‘Beatrice’s granddaughter?’

  Carrie turned. A large lady in a floral dress and a wide, battered straw hat was beaming at her.

  ‘I – yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Mary Webber. So pleased to meet you.’ A square, capable hand was extended. ‘You’ve come to see your grandmother’s grave, of course.’

  ‘Yes. And Uncle Henry’s.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Yes. Poor Henry.’ Mary Webber leaned close, confidentially. ‘He wasn’t quite – as others are, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I do know.’

  Completely unembarrassed the other woman beamed again. ‘Oh, well, certainly you do. How silly of me.’

  ‘Could you tell me where Grandmother’s grave is? I had intended to ask my cousin, but I forgot.’

  ‘It’s over there, next to her brother’s. She had insisted that the plot be saved. By the large tree, you see?’ Mary Webber turned surprised eyes upon her. ‘Your cousin?’

  ‘My cousin Leo. He’s been staying at the Villa for a few days.’

  ‘Has he indeed?’ Nondescript brows climbed almost to an equally nondescript hairline. ‘I don’t think we knew that? And you say he’s been to the cemetery?’

  ‘Yes.’ Leo had told her that morning, when she had mentioned her own intention of visiting Beatrice’s grave. ‘He was very fond of our grandmother.’

  ‘Well, well. How odd. I spend a lot of time here, you see. My dear Cyril – he’s over there,’ she gestured, vaguely. ‘I don’t recall any strange young men around.’

  Carrie laughed a little. ‘He’s not that strange.’

  The woman looked at her blankly, then snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, good. Very good. Of course not. But, you see my dear, we’re a very small community here – the British community that is — and we all tend to know each other rather well. That’s how we knew you’d be coming. Dear Mr Fawcett is very friendly with a colleague of the lawyer you’ve come to see. Signor Bellini – a lovely man – you’ll like him. So word has gone round, you understand? You must come to supper. Soon. How long will you be staying?’ Mary Webber seemed to have perfected the art of talking without taking a breath.

  ‘I – don’t know.’

  ‘I’m at the Continentiale – a permanent resident, you know – just look me up if you need anything. Anything at all.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Webber. Thank you very much.’

  ‘No trouble. No trouble at all.’

  Carrie pointed. ‘There was an old lady over there a moment ago. By my grandmother’s grave. Do you know who she was?’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Maria. She comes most days. She was nurse and companion to Beatrice, and to her brother, when they were children – oh, donkeys’ years ago. She must be pushing ninety if s
he’s a day. She was devoted to Beatrice. Quite devoted.’

  Carrie glanced over to the gate through which the old woman had disappeared. ‘Why, of course. I remember Grandmother mentioning her, often. I had no idea she could still be alive. Where does she live? Do you know?’

  ‘Oh, yes, everyone knows old Maria. She lives in one of the houses down by the Ponte di Serraglio.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, my dear, I’m sure you will. I’ll arrange it for you if you like. She’s a cantankerous old thing, mind.’

  ‘Well – thank you.’ A little awkwardly Carrie put out her hand again. ‘It’s been very nice to meet you.’

  The other woman smiled, comfortably, and instead of taking the proffered hand slipped her arm companionably through Carrie’s. ‘No trouble, my dear, no trouble at all. We’re all friends here, you know. Come, I’ll show you the graves. Oh, and before you leave you really must see our most famous tomb – over there, see it? The small recumbent figure with the dog at its feet? Louise de la Ramée – otherwise known as ‘Ouida’ – a very famous novelist; she was born in Bury St Edmunds, can you believe it? Lived most of her life here surrounded by dogs – well, there’s no accounting for tastes, I always say. To each his own and all that.’

  Carrie allowed herself to be escorted, via the novelist’s grave, that certainly was the most outstanding in the cemetery, to the quiet corner under a vast, budding chestnut tree where three tombs, obviously of varying ages, stood above ground. The oldest was weathered and dark, covered in lichen. The inscription was brusque and unrevealing. Leonard Johnstone. b. 1842. d. 1867.

  ‘Johnstone?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘Why, your grandmother’s maiden name, my dear. Johnstone. Her father was an Englishman married to an Italian. Very beautiful, so everyone says. Beatrice became a Swann when she married.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. Silly of me.’ Leonard Johnstone. 1842 to 1867. Beatrice’s brother had died tragically young. ‘What did he die of, do you know?’

  There was a short but somehow significant silence. Carrie glanced at her companion. She was standing with pursed lips, looking at the tomb. ‘We-ell. It’s said—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s said in the village that there was something—’ the woman hesitated, ‘Well, that there was something a little strange about his death. Did no one in the family ever say anything?’ She threw a sideways glance at Carrie that was sharp with curiosity.

  Carrie shook her head. ‘No one ever mentioned him so far as I remember. I knew of his existence, of course. That’s about all.’

  ‘Very close they were, he and your grandmother. He died, oh, only a few months before she married your grandfather.’

  Carrie turned amused eyes upon her. ‘And people still talk about it? Why, that was more than fifty years ago!’

  Mary Webber laughed. ‘Oh, yesterday, my dear, yesterday so far as Bagni di Lucca is concerned.’

  ‘So, what does Bagni di Lucca say about his death? Why was it – strange?’

  The woman leaned a little closer, spoke quietly, for all the world, Carrie thought exasperatedly, as if they were surrounded by people instead of being entirely alone on a sunny Tuscan hillside. ‘He was, it seems, a very sensitive young man. People mention – suicide.’

  ‘Oh. How awful.’ Sobered, she looked again at the tomb with its stark inscription. ‘How awful,’ she said again, softly.

  ‘It’s just a rumour, of course,’ the other woman said. ‘I don’t know anyone who would say it was the proven truth. just a rumour.’

  Carrie had moved to the middle tomb. Beatrice’s last resting place was small and made of marble, wreathed and decorated with carved vine leaves. Like her brother’s, the inscription was less than flowery. Beatrice Swann. Born 1846. Died 1912.

  ‘They none of them went in much for epitaphs,’ Mary Webber said, beside her. ‘See, here’s Henry. The same. Henry Swann. Born 1868. Died 1922.’

  ‘Three lives,’ Carrie said, quietly.

  The other woman bent to pull up a stand of straggling weeds. ‘We all come to it, my clear. We all come to it.’ She straightened. ‘Well, I’ll leave you then. Don’t forget; the Continentiale. You can’t miss it, it’s in the main street. Anything you want – anything at all.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Carrie stood for a long time after the other woman had moved off into the graveyard, shoulders hunched a little, her hands in her cardigan pockets. The breeze whispered about her, stirring her hair. She rested a gentle hand upon the cool marble of her grandmother’s tomb, tracing the simple words.

  Thank you, she said in her mind. Thank you. As she left the cemetery, Mary Webber waved cheerfully.

  *

  As Leo had said, it was easy enough to get a lift up the mountain; within minutes of starting up the track a cart drawn by a plodding mule had stopped beside her. She returned the gleaming smile of the young man who drove it. On the seat next to him sat a pretty young woman, advanced in pregnancy, obviously his wife, a small child on her lap.

  ‘San Marco?’ the young man asked, pleasantly.

  ‘Oh, yes. Please.’

  He spoke rapidly in Italian, waving his free hand.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ She was embarrassed. ‘I don’t speak Italian.’ She tried the one sentence she had mastered. ‘Mi scusi. Non parlo italiano.’

  His grin widened. He turned in his seat, indicated the empty cart. Made a sweeping, courteously welcoming gesture with his hand, obviously inviting her to climb aboard.

  She laughed. ‘Molte grazie.’

  ‘Prego.’

  She scrambled on to the tailboard, sat with her legs swinging as the mule toiled on and the springless cart rattled up the winding track. Behind her she could hear the two young people talking softly. Before her, as they climbed, vistas opened, and shifted with each turn. The air was clear and cool and smelled still of the storm. Steadily diminishing streams ran and bubbled down the hillsides and across the track, washing away the soil and leaving the rock exposed, clean and bare as bone. The mule’s hooves splashed in water. They passed small huts and houses, doors and shutters open to the evening air. Chickens scratched and strutted about the yards. Dogs barked as the cart laboured noisily past. A lean cat slept upon a stone wall. A small, handsome boy in ragged shirt and trousers, a bright scarf tied gypsy—style about his neck, sat upon a rock, his herd of black goats quietly cropping around him. He lifted a hand. The driver called something and laughed, and the boy replied, laughing too.

  The sun was low over the mountains now. One side of the valley was already in shadow. The woodlands were still, and shady, and smelled of wet earth and of the sweet, unfurling buds of spring.

  Carrie took a long breath. As they turned a bend in the track she glanced up and caught a glimpse of the Villa Castellini above her; it must have been from here that she had first seen it last night. Last night! She smiled a little. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  The sun had dipped behind the mountain, leaving the sky still radiant with light.

  Leo was waiting for her. Leo, and supper, and the long, cool evening.

  As they passed the turn for the house she jumped from the cart, calling her thanks. ‘Grazie. Molte grazie!’

  ‘Prego.’ The young couple smiled and waved. She stood for a moment watching them move out of sight round the corner then turned and set off with a light heart up the path to the house.

  *

  Leo had laid supper on the kitchen table; meat, and cheese and bread and butter, with a jar of pickled vegetables. ‘Hardly a feast, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ She broke off a piece of cheese and popped it in her mouth, watching as he poured wine into two glasses. ‘What a fascinating place the cemetery is. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Hm? Oh yes.’

  ‘All those people, all those stories. The writer who lived with all the dogs – what was the name?’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘He can’t
have been all that well known if neither of us can remember.’

  She glanced at him, surprised. ‘He? No – I mean the woman – the woman with the little dog at her feet. You must have seen her? She stands out above all the others.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Louise. That was it. Louise Someone-or-other. She was born in Bury St Edmunds. And then there are the two nurses who died of Spanish flu.’

  ‘I didn’t see that.’

  ‘They’re right by the chapel. What a tragedy, to come here to help people, and then to die so young.’

  She nibbled thoughtfully at the cheese. ‘Strange, the inscriptions for Grandmother, and Uncle Henry, and Great-Uncle Leonard.’

  He stood leaning gracefully against the table, sipping his wine, his eyes veiled, almost wary. ‘Strange? How, strange?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well everyone else seems to have gone in for full-scale and flowery epitaphs; life stories, some of them. And there are our three; just their names and the dates.’

  He watched her for a moment. ‘What else do you need?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Absently she took the glass he was offering, sipped it. ‘Something. Some memory, perhaps? Some word of love?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Leo?’ she asked, after a moment.

  He looked at her, waiting. She lifted her eyes to his. And for a startling moment could neither speak nor look away.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  She blinked. Her heart was beating in a most peculiar, almost alarming, fashion. She cleared her throat. ‘I met a woman in the cemetery. A Mary Webber. Leo – had you ever heard a rumour that Great-Uncle Leonard killed himself?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Apparently that’s what people think.’

  He laughed a little. ‘Gossip,’ he said. ‘Pure gossip. If it had been so, surely we would have known it? Even family secrets can’t be kept forever and – for goodness’ sake – it must be fifty or so years ago.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pushed himself away from the table. ‘Come on. Eat. Then I’ve got something to show you. Something I found this afternoon.’