by Babs Horton
Holy Mary and all the blessed saints of heaven! What was she up to now? She’d be the death of him with all her antics!
Lissia, barefoot and still in her nightgown, was walking along the Via Porto as fast as she could go. He dressed as quickly as he could, made his way down the stairs and hurried after her.
Il Camaleonte was unaware of the door opening and the sound of soft footsteps approaching the bed.
A shadow moved across the white sheets. At the feel of the kiss on his cheek he opened his eyes with a start. No, it couldn’t be…
A line of children had crept silently into the room and were standing around his bed watching him.
Louis Abner. A tiny bespectacled boy that they’d brought out from Paris after his parents had been taken…
Next to him Douglas Abernethie. A foul-mouthed, cheerful little devil from an orphanage in Glasgow.
And there too was Rudi Abrahams and his little sister Ruth…
Dear God, he was hallucinating now.
He tried to raise himself up on his elbows but he was too weak.
He’d been reading through the red book earlier and reading all those names was playing tricks with his brain.
There was no one there…
He was all alone…
He closed his eyes.
Opened them again suddenly.
Sweet Jesus, is this what the end is like?
A bright-eyed ghost of a woman stood looking down at him, her white clothes billowing in the draught from the window…No. It couldn’t be…
What the bloody hell was she doing here in Santa Caterina?
Alicia Murphy. The Convent of the Blessed Saints, Dungonally. The poor little girl who had given birth to the baby that he’d helped get out of Ireland.
He was hallucinating again. He blinked, and the woman was gone but he could feel the imprint of her kiss on his cheek.
Somewhere a floorboard creaked and a candle flickered, grew dim then bright again.
There was a brown-faced, wide-eyed angel looking down at him now.
Angels don’t wear spectacles with sticking plaster over them. Or open and close their mouth like a landed fish.
A lemon fell with a thud outside in the courtyard.
The nuns’ voices grew louder, “Santa Caterina, Santa Caterina, Santa Caterina daughter of the brave…”
Il Camaleonte looked up at Archie Grimble then passed his hands over his eyes as if he were seeing things that weren’t there.
Archie Grimble looked down in incredulity at the emaciated face of Thomas Greswode. It was a long time before he could gain control of his mouth and speak.
“Bo didn’t kill himself,” he said. “He was murdered because he knew too much.”
The old man looked at him, stretching out his trembling hand towards the boy.
Moonlight swept into the room and they were both dappled in a shimmering, silvery light.
“Gwennie’s son came back for her.”
The old man smiled and his eyes brimmed with tears. Archie shook his head. Everything was falling into place.
Parrots could live to over a hundred years of age. The word for pumpkin in Italian was zucca.
Down in the convent the nuns were singing, Santa Caterina, Santa Caterina…
The song that Benjamin used to sing. Archie had thought it was about Santa’s cat.
He’d been surprised when William Dally had said that Benjamin’s favourite hymn was ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.
Archie Grimble looked down on Il Camaleonte, Thomas Greswode, the man of many names, and tried his very best to be brave.
“I am truly honoured to have you here at this time, Archie,” he whispered, pulling the boy towards him. And Archie Grimble buried his head in the old man’s chest and felt the trembling hands on his back. He felt the tears fall onto his face and he knew what love meant and that it came from many places and that people weren’t always what they seemed, they were usually better.
He stayed that way for a long time. Then when he felt the old man weaken he took the silver bird from around his neck and put it into his left hand and dosed the gnarled old fingers around it.
Thomas Greswode was the best left-hand bat that William Dally had ever seen. The real Benjamin Tregantle had been right-handed.
The old man’s eyes flickered.
“You found yourself a proper mystery in the end?”
Archie nodded.
“Night, Arch.”
“To sleep, perchance to dream; aye there’s the rub,” Archie said and watched as a smile crept fleetingly across the lips of Thomas Greswode, the man that Archie had known as Benjamin Tregantle.
Archie bit his lip, brushed a tear from his eye and walked slowly towards the door.
“Now be off home, you silly young bugger, and be sure to check where that last key fits.”
Part Five
June 1971
The cockerel crowed exultantly in the garden of the Casa delle Stelle and up in the convent the bells began to clang noisily. Martha Grimble awoke, got out of bed and opened the window shutters, letting in the early morning light.
She made her way downstairs and unlocked the front door with the same key that Archie had mysteriously brought out of his pocket all those years ago.
Fancy that, Il Camaleonte had been so taken with Archie that he’d left him the Casa delle Stelle. It was odd really because they’d only met for a few minutes when Lissia had gone racing up to the convent in the dead of night. Mind you, life was strange when you thought about it. She would never forget the man in Dublin who had approached her in a run-down cafe. She’d been quite desperate at the time to get Archie out of Ireland and evade capture and then this man, a perfect stranger, had ended up getting them new passports and sent them to an address in St Werburgh’s where they’d been given the keys to Bag End.
Archie’s getting the Casa delle Stelle was truly a miracle though; she’d been worried sick about how they would have survived if they’d gone back to the Skallies. She’d known that Archie was dreading going back. And just as well they hadn’t because there’d been the most awful storms there a few years later and half the place had been washed into the sea.
It had all worked out well in the end. Walter had sent a letter to the Pilchard saying he’d made a mistake and was leaving the woman he’d married; which probably meant that she’d run out of money or patience. Could you believe it! He’d wanted to come back. Huh! Not a hope in hell of that And Nan, God bless her, had returned all his mail after that saying, “Whereabouts unknown but last heard of in Western Australia.” That was the last she’d heard of him.
Martha still helped Lena with the cooking in the Ristorante Skilly and Lissia washed up and spent most of her wages on ice cream! William Dally had been out to stay several times and had taught Archie an enormous amount about growing things. Archie had worked hard and they grew enough fruit and vegetables in the garden to keep them going. God, she loved it here in Santa Caterina: it was paradise.
Lissia woke and stretched. She got up and picked up the cat from the bottom of her bed. Then she opened the shutters and peeped down through the purple flowers into the garden.
Martha was down there already, filling an earthenware bowl with peaches that they’d eat for breakfast The fountain was gurgling and splashing and the cockerel was strutting among the sunflowers.
When she was washed and dressed it was Lissia’s job to go and collect the eggs from the henhouse and then she would boil water to make the coffee.
Only two cups today because Archie was gone away.
She felt sad that Archie wasn’t at the Casa delle Stelle but soon he was going to write a letter and Martha would read it to her.
Martha said that when Archie came back he was going to a place called a University in Rome. But he wasn’t; because she knew a really big secret that no one else did…
She’d been hiding under the table up in the convent kitchen and she’d heard Sister Isabella whisper to Sister
Angelica that now he was twenty-one Archie had come of age and that he was a fine man to step into the shoes of Il Camaleonte…
It was a big secret and she mustn’t tell, ever. She was good with secrets though; she’d never told any one that the man who used to visit her at the Convent of the Blessed Saints was II Camaleonte and she never would.
She listened. She could hear someone whistling, someone coming along the alleyway that led to the house and she’d bet she knew who it was. Luca from the cafe’, with the funny moustaches. He came nearly every day now, bringing croissants and pastries for her and Martha.
Soon, when her jobs were done, the three of them would sit together at the table near the fountain and she’d pretend that she couldn’t see him holding Martha’s hand beneath the table cloth…
Down in the Ristorante Skilly Lena drank her coffee and picked up her wicker basket She loved the walk down to the market in the mornings. Tonight the restaurant was fully booked and she needed to buy peppers and tomatoes, courgettes and artichokes and maybe some nectarines; she had a real craving for nectarines at the moment and that meant only one thing.
Alfredo and Paulo were emptying the fishing nets. Alfredo looked down at his small son with delight He had the same silky dark hair and cheerful smile as his mother, the same enthusiasm for life.
Paulo was bursting with pride because it was the first time he had been allowed to go out fishing with Papa. Archie had taught him to swim before he’d gone away and now Papa was teaching him the names of all the fish just the way he’d done with Archie.
Stingrays and squid; sole and mullet; sea crickets and cod.
Lucia Galvini climbed the hill to fl Fanettiere and bought the bread. On her way back she called into the cafe. She was allowed to change the candle and light a new one in the little red glass that burned beneath the woman they called the silver bird. One day she might run away with the circus. But not today; she was only five and what she really wanted right now was an enormous strawberry gelato. Then she was going to call for lissia who had promised to take her to see some kittens that had just been born up at the convent.
It was siesta time in Le Petit Bijou. The shutters were dosed against the hot afternoon sun and upstairs the baby Marthe slept soundly in a wicker cradle in the cool bedroom.
In a downstairs room sunlight filtered through the shutters and bathed seven-year-old Pierre in a moving watery light. He was awake but his face was rosy from recent sleep and a smile played across his mouth as he thought of the dreams he had had: dreams of pirate ships and Vikings.
Next to him on the bed lay the elephant book end and he picked it up and carefully opened it, the way Cissie had taught him to, the way he would teach Marthe when she was bigger. He tipped out the treasures that he’d found this morning. A dead spider he had found beneath the fig tree and three dirty shells that were hidden in the soil near the workshop where Aunt Cissie did her paintings. Not that she worked all the time like she pretended to. He was tall enough to peep through the window now, if he stood on tiptoe. Sometimes when she said she was not to be disturbed she was in there kissing Henri from the village. Yuk!
Out in the garden a man lay in a hammock watching the sunlight filter through the olive trees. Soon, soon he would stir himself and saunter down to the village to fetch the bread and then he would wake Nan and together they would prepare the evening meal, something a little special tonight in honour of their visitor who was probably speeding along the roads right now like a bat out of hell.
Cissie dosed the door to her workshop and hid the key under a bush. Later she would creep down here and Henri would be waiting for her. After dinner they were going to break the news…
She wound her way back up the path, through the olive trees. In the kitchen she washed the paint from her hands and face in the stone sink and looked at her face in the mirror. Sometimes people said she looked a bit like Nan but that was just to be kind. Nan was pretty, she wasn’t. And anyway why would she look like Nan?
Cissie smiled; sometimes people thought that she was dafter than she was, even Nan.
She could remember the day quite clearly, even though she’d been ever so little…
It was dark and she’d been sitting in her pram, crying because it was cold and she was wet and hungry. She’d always been hungry, she was always left sitting outside while the woman who pushed her pram went inside and didn’t come out for hours.
Once someone had walked past the pram and said, “People like that didn’t deserve to have children…”
And they didn’t.
She remembered Nan’s arms reaching down into the pram and lifting her, lining her up towards the stars and men running and running. Nan had saved her.
Pierre wandered out into the garden. Soon it would be time for dinner, but maybe he could sneak off now while no one was looking and escape into the woods. After all playing was so much more fun than eating. Eating was boring. Yesterday, he and his friend Bernard had made a den and he’d found some tools down in the workshop that used to belong to his grandpapa. He was going to have another go at carving something from wood, the way Mama said Grandpapa had done. He’d already made Marine a carved dog which he was going to give her for her first birthday; it wasn’t half bad either for a beginner.
Then he remembered that Mama’s old friend Miriam was arriving this evening. Maybe he’d leave the woodcarving until tomorrow. Miriam was such fun! She told such stories about her past and Mama always laughed and told her to stop telling such lies and filling his head with daft ideas. For a nun she was something else!
In Nanskelly Agnes Arbuthnot sat at the piano in the drawing room and played. Although she was old and frail her hands skimmed the keys and she was completely immersed in her music.
“She never makes a mistake, you know,” old Mrs Smythe said loudly to her neighbour.
“I know, dear. She was tipped to be a concert pianist when she was a young woman,” Mrs Jacobson said.
“They say there was some kind of scandal,” Mrs Smythe whispered. “All to do with a young man, I expect. You know what young girls are.”
Mrs Jacobson tried to keep a straight face and winked surreptitiously at Noni Arbuthnot who was sitting across from them pretending to read.
Mrs Jacobson had known the Arbuthnots when she was young. She’d never thought that she’d see them again until her husband Solly had met a man outside the synagogue in Willesden Green who’d taken him for a salt beef sandwich in the cafe there. She stifled a tear thinking of Solly. He’d been heartbroken when his business had hit the rocks. He’d managed to pay off all his debts but there was the question of his pride. And then, out of the blue, he’d been offered the job of running Nanskelly. He’d been in his element here…
Her mind went back to the Arbuthnot girls then. A striking pair of girls they’d been although there was always something a little different about Agnes. She lived in a world of her own. Not quite able to function in the real world, but there wasn’t anything odd in that really. What was it Solly had said? There’s room for all sorts in this peculiar universe and who are we to judge? We need to accept more and judge less.
Noni had always been the life and soul of any event if she got half a chance. Then of course that terrible thing had happened.
She looked across at Agnes now, head bent over the piano. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose when she was a girl but in the end, like the worm, she’d turned. It was all quite ghastly really, a father getting that drunk and terrorizing his own daughters.
She caught Noni’s eyes and smiled. Of course, Agnes had been the sort of child who told the truth, the absolute truth however painful, and she kept to her word…
In court she’d told the truth too, said that she’d told her fattier that if he laid a finger on Noni again she’d hit him with the poker. And of course she had!
If it hadn’t been for someone employing a top lawyer, she would certainly have been convicted.
She was woken from her reverie by Mr Payne, ho
lding out his hand to her for a dance.
He was always one for a bit of fun. She got up and followed him onto the dance floor.
Noni Arbuthnot watched them with pleasure. It was good to see him enjoying himself again, he’d been real down in the dumps after his brother had passed away. He wasn’t a bad little dancer for his age, quite nimble on his feet.
Noni was feeling quite peckish and she was glad that soon it would be time for their afternoon snack. There was nothing like a stiff gin and tonic and a bowl of toasted almonds in the late afternoon. And my goodness, couldn’t some of the residents here knock back a drink. Those two little Italian nuns who had come over for a short holiday could drink like fish and the elder of the two must be pushing a hundred at least!
A cool wind came in off the sea and whipped leaves along the pavement. The door of the telephone box swung open and creaked on its broken hinges. The few shops on the village main street were closed and the front doors shut fast against the worrisome wind.
A sign pointed the way down to the Skallies and the rough track that once led from Rhoskilly Village was tarmacked now.
His first sight of the place made him catch his breath and he had to steady himself against a lamppost.
Little remained of the Skallies now, many of the ramshackle houses he remembered so well were gone, washed away in the Great Storms at the end of the sixties.
He stood where Bag End had been; only the sea-facing wall remained and the arched window where he’d looked out the night of the first full moon after Benjamin Tregantle’s death.
Opposite the ruin of his old home, Hogwash House still stood firm against the elements. The windows were brightly, painted in a deep blue; there was a shiny brass knocker on the door and colourful curtains hung at the windows. A lone gull still graced the chimney pot and a sign advertised Chameleon Trust: School Visitor Centre.
He looked around him in awe. The Feapods, Cuckoo’s Nest and the Grockles were reduced to rubble but Skibbereen had survived and the shrine in the wall was now a rusted grotto full of empty milk bottles.