Three Gold Coins

by Josephine Moon

  The next caravan site was still over an hour away. The navigation system’s calm voice had been silent for a long time.

  Her phone lit up like a torch and vibrated from where it sat beneath the handbrake, nearly causing her to plough off the road.

  Still the car followed.

  Sunny grappled for the phone, dangerous in the dark, but desperate to connect with someone.

  Mum.

  ‘Hi.’ Her voice was tight, even to her own ears.

  ‘Are you talking on your phone while driving?’ Eliza asked, her motherly voice condemning.

  ‘Yes. I don’t have much choice.’

  ‘You could pull over.’

  And have the person behind me slash all our throats in the dark on the side of a country road?

  She ached for her mother’s voice to talk her down from the ledge of fear she’d climbed to. But Eliza was already reeling with worry, for her children and grandchildren but also for her own safety, at home alone.

  ‘I can’t,’ Sunny said, trying to speak calmly. ‘I need to get this lot to the caravan park so I can put them into bed.’

  ‘Put me on speaker, then.’

  ‘No, just talk to me. I don’t want to wake them up.’ Sunny flicked her gaze to the side mirror again, knowing that the eye of the car behind her would still be there, staring back at her. The brightness hurt. She forced herself to look back to the inky nightscape ahead.

  ‘Where are you now?’ her mother asked, casually, as though it was an easy question.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you. It’s too risky. For all I know, Dave has tapped our phones.’

  Eliza paused. ‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ she said carefully. ‘He’s not a spy.’

  Sunny could imagine all too well what Eliza was thinking—that her elder daughter had cracked, that she was displaying signs of bipolar too. ‘It was a joke, Mum. A bad one. I haven’t lost the plot, I promise. But we need to stick with the plan. No one can know where we are, including you.’

  ‘I don’t agree with this,’ Eliza said firmly. ‘This whole thing has gone too far. We need to tell the police about Dave, about what he did to Midnight, and you need to tell Lara what’s going on. She has a right to know.’

  Sunny couldn’t speak for the wave of fury that rose up her chest. Lara’s rights? Sure, she had rights. But what about Sunny’s rights? She was the twins’ mother.

  Instead, with supreme control she kept her voice as even as she could. ‘The police can’t help us. We have no evidence. They’ll start asking questions. It will all go downhill. Remember what Martha told us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eliza agreed reluctantly.

  ‘We have to stay out of the legal system. And as for Lara, do you really think telling her about Dave will achieve anything? She can’t do anything from over there, and the last thing we want is for her to…’ Her words caught in her chest as she realised that she, Sunny, was on the edge of collapse herself.

  ‘Break down,’ Eliza finished helpfully.

  ‘Yes.’

  Eliza sighed audibly. ‘Okay.’

  The car behind her dropped off suddenly and Sunny’s hopes rose. She watched as it pulled over to the side of the road.

  ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t be talking and driving. I’ll let you know when I’ve got the kids settled.’

  She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat beside her and floored the accelerator, praying like mad that no stray cows would be wandering the road. She didn’t know who was driving that car or what they were doing now—maybe it was Dave, maybe it was a random lunatic, or maybe it was all in her imagination. But she wasn’t going to waste a second trying to find out. The engine roared and the wheels gobbled up the road, every kilometre inland taking them just that bit further away from Dave’s reach.

  55

  Lara

  Downstairs in the kitchen of Giardino dei Fiori, the men were already awake, Samuel sitting with a mug of black coffee on one side of the wooden table and Henrik on the other, his foot up on a chair.

  ‘Well, good morning to you both!’ Lara squeezed Samuel’s shoulder gently and was more than touched when he raised his hand and placed it over hers, patting it briefly.

  ‘Good morning,’ Henrik said, looking the most cheery she’d seen him, the remains of crinkles around his eyes as though he’d been smiling and laughing with Samuel just before she came in the door. He was still wearing dark blue pinstriped pyjama bottoms.

  ‘I better just head out to milk the goats, then I’ll be right back,’ she said, tying up her hair to keep it out of her face.

  ‘We have already done it,’ Samuel said happily.

  ‘Oh! I was looking forward to seeing the girls again,’ she said. It had been dark last night when she and Matteo got home and Henrik had already milked Meg and Willow, able to perch on a stool to do it while Samuel assisted as necessary. Lara had heard the goats saying hello to her—meh, eh, eh, eh—from inside the barn while she’d leaned against the car with Matteo, kissing him slowly, sad that their special week had come to an end, wondering where they would go from here.

  ‘Well, I’ll do the milking this afternoon,’ she said, laying claim to the job. She inspected the lump of bandaging under the thick sock poking out of Henrik’s open-toed shoe. ‘Oo! Is that your second toe?’

  ‘Yes.’ His cheeks flared. ‘So stupid.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Lara said. ‘Accidents happen. Now, would you like some scrambled eggs? Toast?’ She went to the fridge. ‘Let’s see. What about some fried mushrooms and tomatoes, some sort of cheese, some leftover…what is that? Lentils? And what is this—’ she opened a plastic container, ‘—bacon?’

  ‘Pancetta,’ they both answered at once, like an old married couple.

  Lara suppressed a smile, wondering when Henrik would be leaving or if he’d somehow got himself an invitation to stay. It was amazing how quickly friendships could flourish, even between the most unlikely people. ‘Pancetta,’ she corrected herself. ‘How about I do a big fry-up?’

  Samuel raised his bushy white eyebrows and Henrik craned his neck to look at her over his shoulder.

  ‘What?’ Lara asked, bewildered.

  ‘Are we expecting company?’ Samuel asked, nodding towards the bounty in her arms.

  ‘Oh! I woke up hungry, imagining a big Aussie breakfast with scrambled eggs, smashed avocado on toast and salmon. So get ready, lads. It’s time I shared a bit of my culture with you, don’t you think?’

  Samuel looked amused but wary.

  Lara closed the fridge door with her hip and carried the food to the kitchen bench. ‘You both look as though you could use a good feed.’ She clapped her hands and grinned at them. ‘I hope you’re hungry!’

  With both men in the house physically hampered, Lara spent a lot of the morning cleaning, which she really didn’t mind because she’d had difficulty doing up a pair of pants this morning, all that lovely cheese nutrition in storage for the harsh winter ahead.

  She was changing the bedding in Samuel’s room when she got a message from Gilberta.

  We make pasta tomorrow, sì? xx

  Lara sank onto the edge of the bed, thinking. She really wanted to keep this feast a surprise for Samuel, so she’d need him out of the house while the tutorial was going on. But what could she do? Matteo was back at work today and Henrik—who she’d originally thought might be the one to get Samuel out of the house—was off his feet.

  Gilberta couldn’t come here; it wouldn’t work. Mind you, she probably wouldn’t simply turn up after all these years anyway.

  That would be great. Is it okay if I come to your house? I want to keep it a secret from Samuel.

  My lips they are solved! xx

  Lara wedged her phone back into her pocket, smiling.

  For morning tea, she continued to break food routines in the house and instead of serving pastries she made real English scones, taking her time to rub in the cold butter with her fingers until she had a real
ly fine crumb, stirring in the fresh goat milk and egg and pulling it together, patting it out and using a glass to cut out the rounds. She brushed them with extra beaten egg and milk and set them out on the tray to slide into the warm oven.

  This morning’s goat milk had been settling in the fridge for a while and the pale yellow cream had risen beautifully to the top. Lara took exquisite pleasure in scooping it off into a delicate glass bowl to serve with the scones. Then she rummaged in the larder and found a jar of apricot jam, though she was momentarily disappointed it wasn’t homemade—she’d been spoilt on her little tour of artisan food producers.

  Samuel and Henrik had been reading in the large living area, silently, companionably, but both started to make some noises once the aroma of the scones drifted out to them.

  ‘What are you making?’ Samuel called.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ Lara called back.

  ‘It smells wonderful,’ Henrik added.

  ‘It’s my mother’s recipe,’ she said, squatting to peek through the oven door and watch the scones turning golden.

  Her family didn’t have anywhere near the rich food traditions she’d unearthed in every corner here in Italy, but she did have her mother’s scone recipe, which was probably just an everyday workman’s recipe, but still it was known by heart by all three of the Foxleigh women. Lara had even employed it as an activity to get the twins learning some kitchen skills, more to manage their boisterousness than impart family tradition. But the effect was the same, she supposed.

  She set the dining table with plates and knives and the little bowls of cream and jam, then told the men to come to the table.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked. She’d have preferred a big pot of tea but she hadn’t seen either a supply of usable tea leaves or a teapot in the house. Henrik and Samuel came in with their walking sticks and eased themselves into the chairs at the round table, their eyes taking in the beautiful cream and deep orange jam.

  ‘The moka pot is on the stove,’ she said, placing coffee mugs in front of them. ‘And I’m just getting the scones out now.’

  Their eyes followed her hungrily to the kitchen, where she pulled out the tray and slid the scones into a tea-towel-lined basket, trussing them up to keep them warm and soft. This step should never be omitted, according to her mother. Eliza said she could always tell when someone had failed to do this, as the scones were tough.

  Lara delivered them to the table like Red Riding Hood and then finished making the coffee. ‘Henrik, how long will it take for your toe to heal?’ she asked from the other side of the fireplace that sat between the two rooms.

  ‘The doctor said I should keep it strapped up for at least three weeks. It might take longer, but it is more pain management than actual bone management. Not like Samuel’s wrist,’ he said. ‘That is a real broken bone. Mine is just…embarrassing.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to break a toe,’ Samuel said generously.

  ‘And you won’t be the last,’ Lara added, bringing over the moka pot and a jug of milk. ‘How much longer do you have here in Italy?’ she asked.

  Henrik looked crestfallen. ‘I can’t work at the goat farm now,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if Domenica will hold a place for me, as the dairy will be heading into some quieter times over winter.’

  Lara remembered Matteo saying that Henrik wasn’t too helpful on the farm. ‘Maybe you could find a job in the village.’ She unwrapped the scones and passed the basket to Samuel.

  ‘I would like to stay longer,’ Henrik agreed, ‘even if I am not studying on farms. I like it here.’

  ‘I do too,’ Lara said.

  There was a moment of thoughtful silence while cream and jam were passed around.

  ‘Do you eat scones in Sweden?’ Lara asked, spreading a half centimetre of apricot jam on her scone.

  Henrik nodded, his mouth already full, then swallowed and licked his fingers. ‘Ours are heavier and thicker, more like a brick on your plate. These—’ his eyes widened, ‘—are light as a feather.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lara beamed. ‘It’s so simple, really. Lots of people put all sorts of things in their scones, like sugar or lemon juice or raisins, but I think the scone is just the canvas for the cream and jam.’

  ‘They’re wonderful,’ Samuel said. ‘I honestly can’t remember the last time I ate scones, let alone ones straight from the oven.’

  ‘Would it have been in England?’

  ‘Quite likely.’

  ‘Did your mother make scones?’ she asked, sensing there were some memories there.

  ‘She did. But growing up we had food rationing, so it was difficult without butter.’ He smiled wryly. ‘My mother used to encourage us to dunk them in tea to soften them. You could break all sorts of social rules while rationing was on.’

  Lara enjoyed the morning tea with Samuel and Henrik, feeling very much at home. It was a new but undeniably pleasant feeling, and again it made her wonder what the future held.

  56

  Gilberta’s kitchen was peaceful. Rough-cut stones formed an arch above the fireplace, hundreds of years old. Garlic bulbs and herbs, trussed with string, hung from hooks in what was obviously both a practical necessity to dry them and a casual way to store them. Mother Mary loomed in a painting at least a metre tall above the kitchen sink. Mario was out, helping a neighbour to build something, Lara had garnered, Gilberta’s English breaking down a little in translation. So they were alone, other than Gilberta’s small collie Greta, a miniature version of the one in the painting of Samuel’s Lily. Greta fussed about Lara’s feet for a while, suspiciously sniffing her boots and bell-bottom linen pants.

  ‘She must be able to smell the goats,’ Lara said, squatting to take the dog’s head in her hands and massaging her neck in greeting.

  ‘She is hoping you have treats,’ Gilberta said, slipping an apron over her bright red hair and tying the strings behind her. ‘I’m very naughty, feeding all the time,’ she said guiltily.

  Lara washed her hands at the sink, then Gilberta passed her an apron of her own, in a shade that was a near perfect match to the older woman’s hair.

  ‘First we make the sauce,’ Gilberta said, moving to the stovetop and hefting a cast-iron pot onto the flames. ‘Is very simple. We use meat and wine.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Lara asked, astonished. ‘At home, I would use onion, garlic, basil, oregano, parsley, and I’d put in vegetables for the kids, so peas, maybe some carrot…’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Gilberta said, her hands in the air. ‘We no do that. Oregano, yes. Maybe add whole onion, then take it out. But that’s all. Meat and wine—if you can have leftover wine from the feast the night before.’ Her eyes shone. ‘Mario, he cannot handle seeing a little bit of vino in the bottom of the bottle!’ She threw up her hands again, this time in defeat. ‘He must get to the bottom. He is in love with the bottom!’ She laughed heartily, her hand on Lara’s arm. ‘So we open another, sì?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Gilberta pulled out a bottle, the cork popped satisfyingly and they each breathed in the bouquet.

  ‘To good health,’ Gilberta said, raising her glass in a toast.

  ‘To new friends.’

  They made the sauce quickly, tossing in the meat to brown and covering it with red wine, then moved on to the pasta.

  Gilberta produced an enormous rectangular plank of wood with a lip on one side. It clunked down onto the bench, the lip holding it in place on the edge. ‘This board has been in family for many years. Here, you see the wood has worn away where all the women make their dough,’ Gilberta said proudly. She patted the board and Lara bent down to eye level to see the groove.

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ she said, goosebumps erupting unexpectedly over her just at the thought of all those women, their hands, their energy, their dreams and their love transforming the board.

  Then Gilberta pulled out a large plastic bowl. Okay, that wasn’t quite as authentic. ‘We use plastic as it won’t make the pasta go cold
. If not the bowl, you do it straight onto the board.’

  Gilberta pulled out a packet of flour and a carton of eggs. She hummed as she poured the flour into the bowl.

  ‘How much flour are you using?’

  ‘One kilogram of flour. The whole bag. It makes it easy—no measure.’ Gilberta scrunched up the empty packet, shook the flour in the bowl, made a well in the centre, then reached for the eggs. ‘And ten eggs.’

  They broke eggs in silence till Gilberta said, ‘It is always better to aim for abundance. Overshoot the ingredients.’ Then she waggled her head and muttered, ‘Maybe not so if adding water—there’s only so much you can fix if goes wrong.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Like going to bad hairdresser!’ she said, and burst out laughing. Then she settled again in front of the bowl and began to pull the flour into the middle to cover the eggs, then expertly worked the eggs through, pulling it all together. It was mesmerising to watch.

  ‘The colour of the pasta comes from the eggs,’ she said. ‘If it’s yellow, it’s the eggs. And we use grano duro wheat, type double zero.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Is hard wheat. Pasta made from the tender grain is not so good. It breaks apart easier. Hard to get al dente.’

  When a smooth, pale ball of dough had formed, Gilberta picked it up and laid it on the board. Rhythmically, she pushed it with the heel of her hand, then pulled it back into shape.

  ‘After the war, when people had no money, they made pasta with no egg. It is eaten with fagioli—white beans or chickpeas. Poor man’s food. Here,’ she said, shifting to one side and motioning for Lara to come to the dough. ‘You work it now.’

  Lara placed her hands on the dough. It was slightly cooler than skin temperature. She pushed the heel of her hand into it and it moved like a wave, silky smooth yet with a bit of grit. She adjusted her stance and got both hands into the dough; it was stretchy but sprang back again. It was resistant, but flexible.