‘OK, OK,’ said Justine, desperate. ‘stay awake, Dido. Someone’ll come – soon. Someone’s going to come and get us.’ She looked about helplessly, but there was no one.
‘Jus’ cold,’ said Dido, slipping back out of Justine’s hands. ‘Cold.’ Justine couldn’t hold her; she slumped on to the ground again, and curled herself back in to the foetal position in which Justine had found her.
Justine worked herself around in the darkness, the hard, prickly undergrowth clawing at her, until she was behind Dido. She hauled the girl on to her lap and put her arms around her. She was freezing herself; she thought longingly of blankets, tea. Can I carry her back? Justine wasn’t sure. Keep her awake, she thought.
‘Why did you come here, Dido?’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t you want to come home?’ She felt the girl stiffen in her arms.
‘No,’ said Dido, ‘I don’t want – no.’ She turned her face and buried it in Justine’s shoulder.
‘Did you know about it all along?’ Justine said softly. ‘About Lucien? It’s OK, I know too. It’s all over now.’ She felt a sob rise inside Dido’s ribcage, she could feel each one of the bones through the girl’s T-shirt.
‘I didn’t want – didn’t want Dad to know,’ she said, her face still hidden
‘But you knew?’Justine felt a small movement, the head went up and down once.
‘I was sick,’ she said. There was a silence, then a sigh, as if speaking was an effort. ‘Had a stomach bug at school last year.’ Again she came to a halt, fighting the will to sleep. ‘I came home early, and they were there. Upstairs, talking. Mum looked happy. I knew something was – was wrong.’ Justine could feel the warm wet of tears on her neck, and she knew that Dido was crying because in her mind’s eye she could see Evie’s radiant face again. All Justine could feel was the same longing, for Evie to be back. Lucien – Lucien was irrelevant, somehow. She could hardly remember what he looked like.
‘And did she tell you – she was going away?’ Again the small head moved up and down.
‘She lef’ a letter.’ The voice was slipping again, blurred. ‘But I knew, when she bought the dress, something was happening. Planning something. It’s just I didn’t think – I never thought she wouldn’t come back. Not ever come back.’
She let out a long, shuddering sigh, like a small child who has sobbed herself into exhaustion. Justine couldn’t think of anything else to say that didn’t seem like inflicting pain. She rocked Dido against her a little, feeling an odd kind of happiness. A delicious quiet fell over them like a blanket; with only half an ear now Justine listened for the helicopter. Soon, she thought, as she felt the cold settle into her bones, I’ll have to get up and start walking. I’ll have to try to carry her. Soon.
Stiff and cold, on the edge of exhaustion Anna turned the key in the lock of her front door, her own front door at last. She looked back at Rossella, behind her on the path.
‘Really, there was no need, signora,’ Anna said, with a sigh. ‘You are kind, but I’m fine now. Really. It’s just my son; he worries.’
Anna turned on the light; the house was warm inside, having been shuttered up all day. It smelled familiar, of coffee and furniture wax and woodsmoke; it smelled of home. Anna sank gratefully on to her old divan; this is home, after all, she thought. And the past, her life in Rome, falling in love, the apartment where she had hidden from the world like a snail in its shell, seemed like a troublesome dream from which she was, at last, waking up.
Rossella smiled. ‘Call me Rossella, please,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’ve never been a signora, I told you. And I’m too old to be a signorina now. Anyway, I’m here now. Nowhere else to go.’
She’s nice, thought Anna. Perhaps that’s what I needed all along, not a grandchild, not the daughter-in-law like Livia, but a daughter. Someone to look after me in my old age; someone to talk to. Ridiculous, she told herself; what a fantasy, but she smiled, despite herself.
‘Then you have to call me Anna,’ she said, and for a moment they stood there.
‘You said,’ Anna began, hesitantly, ‘you said you knew who I was? Your mother told you about me?’ She wondered how that conversation could have gone, and looked down at her old, pale, cold hands.
Rossella nodded. ‘She told me about someone called Anna she – she and my father – had known in Rome. A friend, a seamstress, with a son called Paolo. There was a dress she showed me, you made it for her. Beautiful –’
Anna nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘dark-blue silk, gathered on the hip; you were at the fitting’. She sat down; she felt curiously unafraid. Had Amalia known, all along? What could it matter now, after all?
‘Shall I make some coffee? Or perhaps tea, at this hour,’ she said, but she made no move, only looking up at Rossella from the divan.
‘Let me,’ said Rossella; she looked about her for the kitchen, and suddenly Anna could see the little girl again, thoughtful, serious, hiding behind bales of cloth in an attic in Rome.
‘Over there.’ Anna nodded towards the door, and sank back on to the cushions, listening to the comforting clatter of pans, a tap turned on, a spoon tinkling in a cup.
They sat side by side on the divan, each with their hands warming around one of Anna’s big white cups full of sweet black tea.
‘Your father was a good man, you know,’ said Anna. ‘And your mother – well, I didn’t know her so well. But she was always very kind to me.’
Rossella nodded. ‘She told me, when she was dying. You know, I wasn’t sure what she meant. Whether she was rambling; it was quite close to the end, and what she said didn’t always make sense. It might have been a kind of dream.’ She stopped, focussed on something far away for a moment. Then she turned and looked directly at Anna. ‘She said she always thought my father had a son, too, another child, born after he died. She said she came to see you.’
Anna nodded, and sipped her tea. She felt the warm steamy air on her cheek, and felt quite calm. ‘Amalia did come,’ she said slowly, with a kind of awe. ‘Luca had been dead five months. It didn’t occur to me she’d think – I just thought she was being her usual self. Considerate; kind. She brought me some clothes, baby things you’d had, I think. She didn’t want to throw them away, she said, but she’d never have another. I – I was in an odd sort of state then. It’s like that, when you’ve had a child. I just took the baby clothes – I’ve still got them now. Have you got any children?’
Rossella shook her head, still smiling. ‘She said he looked like my father,’ she said.
Anna gave a little half-laugh. ‘Perhaps he did; all I could see was my baby, my Paolo, just himself, I didn’t see Luca in him, not then.’ They fell silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, but Rossella just shook her head and gently took Anna’s cup from her hands.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘It was all a long time ago. Where shall I sleep?’
Justine hadn’t even known she was asleep until the sound woke her. A soft splashing of footsteps, coming nearer, and when she opened her eyes she could see a point of light, moving upstream towards them. Justine tried to sit up, immediately aware of the dead weight of Dido barely warm in her arms, pinning her down. She thought perhaps she should call out, but her every instinct was to stay as still as she could. The sound became louder, more distinct, then it stopped, and she heard a voice.
It was deep, and foreign, but it was trying to speak her language. She opened her mouth, but still nothing came out.
‘Hello? Signora?’ It was his voice.
‘Here,’ Justine tried to call, but it came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Over here.’ She scrabbled for the torch and turned it on; the footsteps approached. She shone the torch up at him, a dark figure standing over them, and the weak light illuminated Paolo Viola’s face. When Justine saw the broad plane of his cheeks, his wide, soft, serious mouth, she felt herself sway, suddenly, under the burden of Dido’s body. She realized that she couldn’t feel her legs, which were folded under her and had gone quite d
ead.
‘She – she –’ Justine’s lips felt numb, and she could hardly enunciate the words. But it seemed there was no need; Paolo was shining his torch into Dido’s face, feeling for her pulse.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ said Justine. He leaned down and picked Dido bodily from Justine’s lap. ‘She said her head hurt – but she seems so weak. Do you think she’s taken something?’ He shook his head.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, ‘a little hypothermia, I think. We have to warm her.’ He took off a jersey, and his waxed coat, and pulled them over Dido’s shoulders.
‘You too, if you aren’t careful,’ Paolo said, looking across at her with a look she couldn’t quite identify as he rubbed vigorously at Dido’s arms.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, softening, and she nodded slowly. The truth was, she didn’t know, and to her surprise she felt a hot tear trickling down one cheek. Paolo reached out a hand and wiped it away with a quick movement.
‘You did well,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing; probably you saved her life.’ Justine nodded and tried to smile. Another tear slid down. She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder hastily.
‘Come on,’ Paolo said. ‘Up now.’ Justine unfolded her stiff, numb legs and rubbed them; shakily, she stood up.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
It took them a long time to get back. Dido, slipping in and out of consciousness, was a dead weight to carry in the dark, and they didn’t risk looking for a path among the bushes. They heard the clang of the cow bells at one bend in the river, a gentle, melancholy accompaniment to their trudging footsteps. Nothing stopped them; nothing slowed them down. Justine felt dead tired; she was walking with her eyes shut by the time they reached the cliff, and the beach, and turned away from the river at last.
For the last stretch, climbing up through the trees, they could hear the sound of the helicopter ahead of them, although it never materialized in the sky, not even a trace of its sweeping searchlight. When they came out of the trees into the pasture, they could see why. It was sitting in the middle of the field, its rotors slowly gyrating, going nowhere, its searchlight illuminating only the empty expanse of flattened grass and thistle around it. As they approached Justine could see Martin’s back, Tom’s arm on his shoulder; they were talking to the pilot. She opened her mouth to call, to tell Martin they’d found her, but only a hoarse croak emerged. When they were almost there, Martin must have heard something, because he turned to look at them, and she could see him almost buckle at the knees at the sight of Dido’s limp body slung in Paolo’s arms.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘She’s all right.’
Justine left them there, the men standing at the helicopter, too weary to ask what was going to happen next. She turned and walked to the house, where she could see Louisa’s small, upright figure silhouetted in the door; it seemed a long way to walk after she had already come so far.
Justine stopped in front of Louisa.
‘He’s gone,’ said Louisa. ‘Lucien’s gone.’
She looked at Justine anxiously, her face pale beneath the porch light. Justine looked past her at the warm interior of the house, and she felt nothing but relief.
‘Yes,’ she said.
32
When Justine woke the next morning the sky was a clear, pale blue and the air was cool. She knew immediately, without looking, that she was alone in the bed; in fact, the whole house was quiet on this side. In the thin early light the room was hers; her clothes in the wardrobe, her brush on the marble cabinet; she saw the vacuum that had been occupied by Lucien and she was only relieved.
She remembered the feeling she’d had, like a premonition, on waking the previous morning, when she’d seen this room full of light and colour, signifying something she couldn’t yet understand. Justine thought of Lucien, the weight of him, the space he used to occupy, sleeping beside her unencumbered by conscience or responsibility; not solid, like a prop, but heavy, like a burden. He was gone; she was free, and she felt – triumphant. Even the thought that there was nowhere for her to go back to, the thought of exile from the long windows and pre-Raphaelite glass of Notting Hill, of her possessions in black binbags, of divorce lawyers and bedsits, couldn’t spoil it.
As Justine lay there, quite still, looking at the blue sky, she thought of Evie. Setting off without Lucien, probably without even a word from him, for a new life. Perhaps there comes a time, thought Justine, when even someone like Evie loses hope. She imagined that Evie’s first instinct, when the realization that Lucien wasn’t coming, had never intended to come, would be to go alone. She begins by telling herself it’s a new adventure but sooner or later it hits her, standing in line in the ferry’s canteen, catching a glimpse of a honeymoon couple, or a happy family on a day trip. She’s no longer young, or strong, or hopeful, and it’s then, at that moment of weakness, that a different future presents itself. It wouldn’t take more than a moment of despair. Justine turned her head to the side, and gazed at the rough texture of the wall. It’s over, she thought; Evie made her decision, it wasn’t my fault. She’s gone.
Outside she heard voices; Tom and Louisa, businesslike, moving to and fro. The squeak and slam of a car door; the boys’ excited chatter. Justine couldn’t remember what day it was; Thursday? Friday? The tight schedule of the holiday had been overturned. Slowly Justine got up from the bed, went to the window and looked down.
The first thing she noticed was that Lucien had taken the hire car; after all the traffic in and out the previous night there remained only the red Volvo. It stood on the close cropped grass, all its doors open, like a brightly coloured insect prepared for flight. Tom and Louisa were ferrying suitcases and straw baskets, rugs and sleeping bags from the house; the boys sat cross-legged on the grass, sorting through the contents of their little backpacks. They were leaving.
Louisa, clean, shiny blonde and scrubbed in pale blue, was moving around the car. She walked a little gingerly on her bandaged ankle but in spite of that, absorbed in her stacking and sorting she seemed restored, full of energy. On her way back to the house she looked up and saw Justine in the window. She stopped, uneasy.
‘Hello,’ she said, hands on her hips, looking up. ‘Did you sleep OK?’
Justine nodded, and smiled. ‘Have you heard from Martin? Is Dido all right?’
Louisa nodded. ‘She’s fine; they just kept her in for observation. They’re letting her out this morning.’ There was a pause, and Louisa shifted uncomfortably, looking away into the house.
‘Are you leaving?’ asked Justine. ‘Already?’
Tom came out from behind the car and stood next to Louisa, an arm around her shoulders. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I think it’s the best thing to do. There’s – so much to sort out back home. This – this holiday was always a bit of a delaying tactic. And there’s school – the boys –’ he shrugged, helplessly.
‘It’s OK,’ said Justine, smiling at them. ‘Really’ Then she remembered something. ‘What about the organic vineyard? Or was it just a diversion of Martin’s?’
Tom shrugged and smiled his tired, warm smile. ‘Maybe. I’ll have to talk to him about it, when we get back. Sort things out over there first.’ He squeezed Louisa against him. She looked older, thought Justine, but softer, as she smiled back up at her husband.
‘I’ll be down soon,’ said Justine and, released, Tom and Louisa turned away, back to their packing.
Justine stood under the feeble shower for at least half an hour, until her hair was clean and the pervasive scent of river water and decaying leaves that had haunted her since she woke was washed away. She rubbed in creams and lotions until she smelled instead of a glorious, artificial confusion of rose, gardenia and lily of the valley; then she stood in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a towel. She wondered what to wear; suddenly it seemed an important decision; everything she could see seemed limp and creased and part of her old life. Slowly she picked up the carrier bags, their contents still pristine in white tiss
ue, and pulled out the flowered dress she’d bought in Florence.
When Justine came down they were all standing beside the car, clean and dressed; Sam and Angus, clutching their backpacks, looked unnaturally tame in socks and sandals. To her surprise they flung their arms around her waist to say goodbye, and it was only then that she felt a sudden weakness, a burning behind her eyes. But Justine smiled, returning their hugs, turned to Louisa and Tom, and the weakness passed.
‘See you – some time,’ she said. ‘I’ll call.’ And they all nodded.
Justine sat on the stone bench and watched the car bump slowly uphill under the forest canopy, and soon a faint smudge of dust in the dark trees was the only sign that there had ever been anyone but Justine at Il Vignacce.
She went inside; the house was cool and dim. Here and there evidence of Martin and Dido’s brief occupancy was scattered about, grey, featureless shapes in the poor light. A paperback book lay open face down on the table, its spine cracked; Martin’s jacket hung from one of the kitchen chairs, a sweatshirt curled like a cat on the low, hard sofa. Slowly Justine began to move about the room, gathering things up in her arms. She came to a stop in the kitchen, where the window looking out into the woods at the back of the house stood open, allowing the filmy light to drift inside.
The kitchen had hardly been used; the chipped porcelain sink was clean, the draining board bare of washing-up save one upturned glass. Here Justine had stood last night, looking out into the black, dripping forest as she drank, before she went to bed. Here, where she’d left it, dangling by one strap from a kitchen chair, was Dido’s small red backpack; crushed, dirty, streaked with mud and dusted with leaf mould. Justine lifted it off the chair.
When Paolo got back from the hospital, tired and unshaven, Rossella was drinking coffee in the kitchen with his mother as though she’d lived there all her life. Wearily, he looked from one to the other of them until they laughed at his expression of bewilderment.
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