The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  ‘Is there anything here that you would like? Some keepsake – something for yourself?’

  Maria shook her head. ‘No. I have memories. I need nothing else.’ She stood looking around the room, her face sombre. ‘I need nothing else,’ she repeated, quietly.

  At no time during the tour of the house had Leo’s name been mentioned. It was not until they were seated on the terrace with a cool glass of lemonade that Maria asked, abruptly, ‘You are feeling better?’

  Carrie lifted her eyes to the astute, wrinkled face. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not. I don’t think I ever will.’

  Maria shook her head, exasperated, and muttered something in Italian.

  Carrie, unable to sit still, stood and walked to the balustrade. ‘It’s not that I’m not trying,’ she said, ‘I am. I simply can’t believe that he’s really gone. That I’ll never see him again. He loves me. I know he does. And I love him.’

  ‘And the other woman?’

  ‘Angelique. Her name is Angelique. I don’t know. I don’t understand. All I know is that I love him. And if I saw him – if he lifted one finger – I’d go to him. I couldn’t help myself.’

  She heard the old woman sigh behind her.

  ‘I know what you said the other day is true; it’s wrong. On all counts it’s wrong. But—’ she turned to face the other woman, ‘Maria, haven’t you ever loved like this? Don’t you know what I’m saying? It’s as if he owns me, body and soul. I have no control over the way I feel for him. Can’t you understand that? Can’t you understand that right and wrong simply don’t come into it?’

  ‘Si. I understand. Very well I understand.’

  A sound made Carrie turn. ‘Your nephew is coming.’

  The woman sighed again. Her face looked suddenly careworn. ‘I have something for you,’ she said.

  *

  After the cart had set off again down the mountain Carrie took the journal into the kitchen and laid it upon the table. ‘Read it well,’ Maria had said, ‘and understand.’ She had offered no word of explanation or apology, and Carrie had not expected one. She stood pensive for a moment, her fingertips resting on the leather cover. Read it well. And understand. What had the old woman meant by that? She opened it to the first page. The first entry had been written in London. ‘Rain, rain, nothing but rain! Oh how I long for the blue skies of Italy! Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle! Where are the storms of the mountains?’

  Behind her the kitchen door snicked shut, very quietly.

  Catching her breath she spun round.

  And there, on the one occasion she had not looked for him, stood Leo.

  There was a very long moment of silence. Then both moved at once and within an instant were in each other’s arms.

  ‘Carrie, Carrie. My darling, darling love forgive me,’ he said into her hair. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ His arms were so tight about her she could barely breathe.

  She could not speak. She clung to him, her wet face buried in his shoulder. The feel of him – the dear, exciting, familiar feel of him – as always had set her trembling. He put a hand beneath her chin, lifted her face to his. ‘Tears, my darling? Don’t cry. Please don’t.’

  ‘I have never cried so much,’ she said. ‘Never.’

  He kissed her then, fiercely, and his hands were on her body. ‘Let me love you,’ he licked her wet face, tasting her tears, ‘let me love you now. Let me dry your tears and make you happy again. Please. Let me love you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

  *

  The sun went down and the mountains grew quiet as he made love to her. She cried again, but the tears this time were different. The night was warm, the crickets called, woodsmoke drifted in the air and through the open window; and still he loved her, tender and sometimes savagely fierce, coaxing and sometimes ruthlessly demanding, taking possession of her, binding her to him once again. And she, racked with pleasure, did nothing to defend herself from him. Past and future slid away. What had happened, what was to happen became meaningless. There was only now, only the slaking of hunger and thirst; only the joy of being together again.

  *

  It could not last, of course, this ecstatic obliteration of the world. Dawn came, and with it the knowledge that reality had to be faced, questions asked, explanations offered. They lay together and watched the light seep into the clear sky beyond the window. In the tree outside the kitchen a bird sang, sleepily.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ Carrie asked;

  His breathing was very quiet and regular, his body utterly relaxed. ‘Because I love you,’ he said. ‘Because I want you. Because I couldn’t bear to be parted from you,’ he came up on one elbow, looking down at her. ‘Because I would starve without you.’

  ‘Then – why did you go?’

  He studied her face, gravely. ‘Because I am bad for you. Because I fear I’ll hurt you. Because there is Arthur, and England. Because I have never loved anyone as I love you, and that frightens me more than anything has ever frightened me.’

  ‘And Angelique?’

  ‘Angelique was a side issue. She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘We quarrelled.’ His lashes veiled his eyes.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You. I told her I was coming back.’

  ‘Are you certain she won’t follow you again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She traced the line of his mouth with her finger. ‘And if she does?’ she asked, softly.

  ‘I told you. She won’t.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ How often – how often? – had she asked it?

  ‘I don’t know. I only know that I can’t live without you. Without seeing you. Without loving you. Without knowing that you love me. If you go back, I’ll follow you. I won’t let you go. I’ll see you if it kills me. I told you – I love you too much. Once a week, once a month, once a year, I don’t care! I will – I must – see you, my darling.’

  ‘Don’t!’ She closed her eyes. ‘Please don’t!’

  He leaned to kiss her. ‘You’re going to have to choose, my darling. You’re going to have to choose.’

  ‘Choose? How can I choose? You know what I want. I want this house. And you. But the self-same law that Beatrice so carefully circumnavigated to disinherit you means that the house isn’t mine. It’s Arthur’s, too. He won’t let me keep it. I know it. He won’t let me leave him; he’ll never allow me to leave him. And how would I live if I did? I’ve nothing. Nothing of my own. And even you—’ She turned her head away. ‘I know that you love me. But in reality you aren’t mine, either. Are you?’

  He buried his face in the tumble of hair that nestled in the curve of her neck.

  *

  ‘What day is it?’ she asked, much later.

  He stirred. ‘Thursday. No. Friday.’

  ‘Oh, blast it. Signor Bellini’s coming.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. About three.’

  He reached a lazy hand. ‘Then there’s time—’

  Despite herself she laughed as she tried to wriggle away from him. ‘Leo, do stop it!’

  ‘—to make love again. Come here.’

  *

  Signor Bellini arrived, unexpectedly, very much earlier than the hour agreed. Fortunately Carrie and Leo were up, decorously dressed and taking tea on the terrace when the only taxi in Lucca pulled up with a self-important spray of gravel in the drive.

  Smiling, Carrie ran down the steps to greet him. ‘Signor Bellini how nice! You’ve come in time to lunch with us – my cousin and I—’ She stopped.

  The man’s face was troubled. He gripped the hands that she held out to him. ‘Signora Stowe. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this. I am the bearer of bad news. Very bad news.’ He glanced up at the terrace, where Leo sat, watching. ‘Please. You wish to sit?’

  She searched his face, puzzled. ‘Why should I sit? Signor Bellini? What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Signora, you h
ave my sympathy. I have had a communication from your husband’s employers. They did not know how else to get in touch with you. There has been a tragic accident. Signora Stowe — there is no easy way to tell such things – your husband, he is dead.’

  Chapter Ten

  The worst thing – the very worst – was the immediate, unacceptable and shaming sense of relief. Guiltily she tried not to feel it, tried to focus her mind on a life lost, a life wasted, a tragic and senseless accident that had cut short a man’s living, breathing existence; but she could not. Try as she might she could not conjure up anything but the most superficial feelings of grief, nor could she, deep in her heart, as she accepted condolences from virtual strangers – the news having run round the English community in Bagni like wildfire – and made hasty plans to return to England, repress the knowledge of what Arthur’s death actually meant to her. Awful though the thought was she could not escape it; in the moment that he had tripped and fallen on those steep, space—saving stairs in the modern box of a house of which he had been so proud, she had been set free. Whilst far from rich she was financially independent. The Villa Castellini was hers, and hers alone. No one now could force her to sell it.

  And there was Leo.

  She surprised herself by, at first, refusing his offer to accompany her to England for the funeral. ‘It’s all right. I can manage, I promise.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you couldn’t, my darling,’ he said, mildly, ‘I just thought you might find it less of a strain with me there. Travelling alone isn’t much fun at the best of times. And there’ll be a lot to do. I’d be happy to help, that’s all.’

  In the end the temptation openly and legitimately to have him with her proved too much; less than twenty-four hours after Signor Bellini had delivered the news of Arthur’s death they set out together for England.

  They arrived at Number 11, tired and cold, in the chill April dusk two days later, having been held up on the French coast by storms. Carrie pushed open the door against a small pile of letters, bent to pick them up. The house was oppressively silent, and ice-cold.

  The newel post and banisters at the foot of the stairs were broken. Someone had made some attempt to tidy them; the broken pieces were stacked neatly in the corner of the hallway.

  Carrie swallowed against a sudden terrible stirring of guilt. She had wished him dead: and here he had died. Faint nausea made her mouth dry. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’ She passed the stairs and went into the familiar, clinically clean kitchen.

  Leo put down the cases he was carrying and followed her. ‘Carrie.’

  She turned, sobbing, and buried her head in his shoulder. ‘Leo, it’s horrible. Horrible! I didn’t realise how awful it would be.’

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said, firmly. ‘No one would expect you to. You’ll come to the hotel with me – no!’ She had lifted her head and started to speak. ‘I won’t hear any argument. I won’t let you stay here on your own. It’s out of the question.’

  ‘But what will people…?’ She stopped, ashamed of her swift and automatic reaction to his suggestion.

  ‘What will people think? People will think nothing at all my darling. What do you take me for? We’ll have perfectly respectable separate rooms. I’m your cousin, remember? Your only blood relative. What could be more natural than that I should be here with you? Until the funeral is over and your affairs are in order we will behave impeccably. After that, what we do is our own business; for we certainly won’t be doing it here. Now, take that damned kettle off. I’ll use the call box up the road to find a taxi.’

  *

  Ironically, it was in the comfortable panelled office that Arthur had always aspired to occupy that Carrie heard the full story of her husband’s death.

  ‘On the first day we simply assumed that he was unwell.’ Mr Simpson, the bank’s manager, though sympathetic was clearly – and not unnaturally – finding the interview far from easy. ‘On the Wednesday, however, when again he didn’t come to work and we had no word, it did seem strange. Stowe,’ the man blinked owlishly and awkwardly behind wire-rimmed glasses, ‘Arthur, that is, was such a—’ he hesitated, ‘such a punctilious man. As you know of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carrie said.

  ‘So that evening I sent young Marlborough round to find out what was wrong.’

  ‘That was very kind of you.’

  The man made a small dismissive gesture with long, bony hands. ‘He could get no reply. He left, but called again in the morning. And this time—’ Mr Simpson cleared his throat, ‘this time he looked through the letter box. What he saw – well, he called the police.’

  ‘Arthur had fallen down the stairs.’ Carrie’s voice was quiet but steady, ‘That’s what Signor Bellini told me. And the banisters are broken.’

  ‘Yes. So it seems.’

  ‘There is to be an inquest of course. At the end of the week.’

  ‘Yes. So I had heard. But there seems to be little doubt. A carpet-rod had come loose at the top of the stairs. His neck was broken. The doctor said he must have died immediately.’

  ‘That’s something, at least. I shouldn’t like to think—’ Carrie did not complete the sentence.

  ‘No,’ the man said.

  There was a short silence. Mr Simpson stirred a little in his chair.

  ‘As I said, the inquest is at the end of the week,’ Carrie continued at last. ‘I have to wait, of course, for that, before I can make any definite arrangements. About the funeral, that is. Would you like me to let you know the day?’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course. Yes. And if there is anything I can do, anything at all?’

  Leo came out of his chair, held a hand to Carrie as she too stood. ‘We’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Simpson detested Arthur,’ he said, later, over tea in the hotel lounge. ‘It’s perfectly obvious.’

  ‘Yes. He did. And Arthur detested him. Sad, isn’t it?’

  Leo lifted a shoulder. ‘I must say I’m becoming happier by the minute that I never met your husband.’

  ‘Leo! You shouldn’t—’

  ‘—speak ill of the dead?’ He regarded her levelly for a moment. ‘Don’t fall into that trap, my darling. You spoke ill enough of the living.’

  She lowered her eyes, fiddled with the spoon in her saucer.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Feel guilty. It isn’t your fault.’

  ‘I know. It just feels as if it is.’

  *

  The verdict was accidental death; the funeral service was short, and ill-attended. It was a bright, gusty late April day, still cold but full of the fresh promises of spring. ‘Perhaps I should have hired some mourners,’ Carrie said. ‘Isn’t that what people used to do?’ She was leaning against the parapet that separated the front from the beach. Grey, white-capped rollers washed onto the sand and swirled, foaming, towards the high tide mark. Two small children, wrapped against the wind, dug sturdily, building a castle, watched over by a uniformed nanny. A shaggy black and white dog rushed in and out of the swelling waves, yelping maniacally. Carrie took off her black felt hat with its wisp of widow’s veil, turned it in her hands. ‘God, this is a horrible hat, isn’t it? I look awful in it. Why did I buy it?’

  ‘I told you not to.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ She squashed the thing flat. ‘Arthur would have liked it. It’s not exactly flamboyant, is it?’

  She had not cried. Not once. She wondered if anyone had noticed. She thought probably not. She was certain that the two neighbours who had been the only other mourners, if such a word could truly be used, and poor put-upon Marlborough, who had represented the bank, had been altogether too anxious to get away after the depressing service to analyse or even consider the bereaved widow’s apparent fortitude.

  Leo removed the hat from her fingers, dropped it neatly in a nearby litter bin.

  ‘Leo! The beastly thing cost seventeen and six.’

 
‘Will you ever wear it again?’

  She shook her head. The wind caught her hair where the pin had slipped from it and whipped it across her face.

  ‘Well then.’ He leaned, with easy grace, sideways on the parapet, facing her. She kept her eyes on the moving water, but could feel his on her, as tangible as a touch. As a caress. She felt slow colour lift in her cheeks.

  ‘When can we go home?’ he asked, softly.

  Carrie turned her head at the word, looked at him in a kind of wonder. ‘Home,’ she repeated. ‘Yes. That’s what it is, now, isn’t it? Home.’

  He nodded.

  ‘The solicitor said everything’s absolutely straight-forward. Needless to say Arthur’s affairs were in perfect order. There’s no problem with the insurance. And as you know Mr Simpson has offered to take charge of the sale of Number 11 and its contents. So—’

  ‘So we can go back to Italy when? Next week?’

  ‘I – yes – I don’t see why not.’

  He had lit a cigarette, turned to face the sea. ‘Carrie?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Do me a favour?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  He did not look at her. ‘Leave your door on the catch tonight?’

  ‘Leo, no!’ She was truly shocked. ‘Not – not tonight of all nights! I couldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes you could. If you wanted to.’ He slanted a look at her and she caught her breath, heart hammering. ‘What’s so special about tonight?’

  ‘Leo, we’ve only just buried him!’

  ‘And are you grieving?’

  She ducked her head.

  ‘Little hypocrite,’ he said, gently and with his sudden smile, touching her gloved hand with a long, stained finger. ‘Oh, what a little hypocrite you are.’

  *

  As they travelled south a week or so later it was indeed, Carrie thought, like going home. The weather, that in southern England and northern France had turned damp and grey improved with staggering suddenness. They took the night train and woke to find skies that had cleared and taken on a burnished depth of blue that dazzled the eye. The hedgerows and meadows of rural France were full of flowers; farms and small villages basked in the sunshine. Slow moving cattle gathered beneath the spreading shade of the new-leafed trees. There was snow still on the towering mountain tops of the Alps. ‘Like icing on the biggest Christmas cake in the world!’ Carrie said.