The J M Barrie Ladies' Swimming Society

by Barbara Zitwer

  “Lily’s mother? That’s terrible.”

  “Lilia never talks about Cait. Swims away her pain. This one here – that’s Meg Rowland. A great writer and historian.” Aggie pivoted around and pulled a dark volume from a shelf behind her chair. “She wrote this.”

  Joey took the book and glanced at its cover. It featured a sepia photograph of five young boys dressed in the play costumes of swashbuckling adventurers.

  “What’s it about?” Joey asked.

  “J.M. Barrie.”

  “You’re kidding! I’ve been reading all about him. What a fascinating life.”

  “You know, then, that he often spent his holidays at Stanway. Those boys on the cover, they’re the Llewelyn Davies boys – the sons of the family who owned it. Barrie was like a father to them, after their own father died.”

  “Yes, I’ve been researching that; we want to honour Barrie somehow in the building.”

  “Honour him? How?”

  “We’ll probably design a special room in his name, something that evokes his spirit.”

  “That sounds… well, lovely. It will certainly please – some people in town…”

  “Is the book a biography?” Joey asked.

  “Barrie was friendly with the Asquiths, Cynthia and her family,” Aggie explained. “Meg got access to all their letters, and she put together a fascinating history of those years. Barrie liked to swim himself, until poor Michael drowned.”

  “Michael?” Now Joey was confused. Wasn’t Michael a character in Peter Pan? “From the book?”

  Aggie gave an enigmatic shrug. “That’s one of the connections she draws, between the ‘lost boys’ of Peter Pan and the five Llewelyn Davies boys. Barrie was especially close to Michael, who drowned at Oxford just before his twenty-first birthday. Tragic.”

  “So that’s what the book is about?” Joey asked.

  “In part,” Aggie said. “Give it a go.”

  “Who’s this one?” Joey had another sip of port and pointed at another image on the computer.

  “Gala Goldstein.”

  “There’s a name and a half. Gala Goldstein, it sounds like a new hybrid apple.”

  Aggie laughed. “It does, doesn’t it?” Then her expression grew serious, and her next words made Joey regret having joked about the name.

  “Gala was in Auschwitz. She saw her entire family killed before her eyes. She was only eight years old at the time. A remarkable woman. Remarkable.”

  “You’re all remarkable,” Joey said quietly.

  “Remarkably old!” Aggie teased, just as a woman appeared at the door carrying a tea tray. As Aggie stood up to place her computer on the desk, Joey picked up the book to make room for the woman to set down the tray. She opened it to Meg’s dedication page.

  “For the J.M. Barrie Ladies’ Swimming Society”, she read.

  Lily must have heard Aggie’s car on the gravel, because the Bentley had no sooner deposited Joey and headed back onto the road than she appeared in the doorway of the gatehouse. Joey marvelled again at the colour of the girl’s eyes, but Lily wore a look of disapproval.

  “Your dog was crying,” she said.

  “She was?”

  “I could hear her when I passed the house.”

  Joey untied the key from her shoelace and slid it into the lock as Lily crossed the gravel. “Crying or howling?” Joey asked her.

  “More like howling,” Lily clarified.

  Joey nodded and grinned. “She’s mad at me. She’s letting the world know what a cruel and neglectful owner she has.”

  “Why?” Lily asked coolly.

  “Why what?” Joey pushed open the heavy front door.

  “Why is she mad at you?”

  “Because I didn’t take her running with me.”

  “Do you usually?”

  “Yeah, but she was a little sick last night. It might have been a plate of sausage and eggs I gave her, but I figured I’d let her sleep.”

  Lily nodded and appeared to be lingering, as though she wanted to keep the conversation going. “Can I come in?” she asked.

  Joey paused and turned. “Sure, if it’s okay with your dad.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? I’m not five years old. Anyway, you’re not pervy, are you? Or an axe-murderer?”

  “Nope.”

  Lily shrugged. “All right, then.”

  “All right, then,” Joey echoed, as they stepped inside and she closed the door. “I’m sure you know the place a lot better than I do.”

  “I do,” Lily said. She followed Joey into the entrance hall, then paused and glanced around. She shook her head, her expression darkening. “Everything’s gone.”

  “The Tracys took almost everything when they moved out.”

  “I know. I was here.” Lily gave Joey a very direct look.

  Joey held her tongue. As hard as it must be for Ian to deal with the changes that were coming, it had to be even harder for Lily. Lily’s tone said she didn’t want to be treated as a child, but Joey could sense the pain beneath her adolescent fractiousness.

  “Were you close to them?” Joey asked.

  “No,” Lily fired back. After a moment, she added, “Not to Lord Tracy, anyway. He was always cross about something. Lady Eleanor was okay.”

  Joey nodded, watching Lily’s gaze take in the nearly empty hallway. Joey had thought of the elderly Tracys and all their grown children, grimly packing up everything that meant anything to them and leaving their home to strangers. But this house had been part of Lily’s childhood, too.

  They crossed the hall to the great staircase. Lily caught her breath.

  “What?” asked Joey.

  “The princess painting.” She pointed to an empty spot over the landing, where the painting in question must formerly have hung.

  “Princess Who?” Joey asked.

  “She wasn’t really,” Lily said dismissively, suddenly a teenager again. “Just a girl in a fancy dress. With gorgeous red hair.”

  “You’re the one with the gorgeous hair.”

  “I despise my hair.” Lily paused on the steps and turned to Joey.

  “What? Why? Women where I come from would kill for your colour.”

  “I’m dying it black next year, when I turn sixteen. When Dad can’t stop me.”

  “No!” Joey screeched. “You can’t. You have no idea the lengths people would go to to have your highlights – those auburn streaks. Promise me you won’t touch it!”

  “No way!” Lily said, but Joey thought she caught just the hint of a smile.

  They reached the upstairs hall and headed toward Joey’s apartment. Tink, having heard footsteps approaching, threw herself into a frenzy of barking. Joey and Lily paused before the door to the apartment.

  “Did you know Lady Margaret?” asked Joey.

  “A bit.”

  Hearing their voices, Tink redoubled her barking.

  The dog flew out of her crate the moment the door was open and Lily folded herself down onto the floorboards, genuinely smiling for the first time. Tink lapped her face and tried to climb into her lap.

  “She’s so… lovely. So friendly.”

  Joey smiled. “She likes you. Look, do you mind if I have a two-second shower? I’ve got pond scum on me.”

  “Pond scum? You weren’t swimming with Granny, were you? She’s mad. All those ladies are crazy.”

  “Your grandmother wasn’t there. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.”

  Lily nodded, glancing around casually, then followed Joey into the bedroom.

  “Oh my God,” Lily said. “Are those yours?” She dropped to her knees and picked up one of Joey’s suede Fendi boots. “I love these boots! I would kill for…”

  “Try them on,” Joey smiled.

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  Lily slipped out of her trainers and socks. “What size are they?”

  “They’re a US eight. So … perhaps, seven?”

  Joey headed for the bathroom. “I’ll m
ake it quick.”

  “Take your time,” Lily said, eyeing Joey’s clothes and make-up scattered about.

  The shower felt wonderful, and when Joey returned to the bedroom, towel drying her hair, she was surprised to find Lily sitting at the dressing table, experimenting with pots of cream and tubes of colour. She was also wearing Joey’s boots.

  Lily turned to Joey. “How do I look?”

  Like a beautiful little clown, Joey thought.

  “Don’t ask my opinion if you don’t want the truth,” Joey said.

  “I do!” Lily cried.

  Joey nodded, then came over and sat down beside Lily on the vanity bench. She took Lily’s chin in her hand and turned her face toward the window, so she could see the make-up in more natural light. She thought for a moment before speaking.

  “The liner’s too harsh. You need one with a greenish-grey or a plum tint, to bring out the green in your eyes. And the black mascara’s too – black. With your colouring, you’d do better with a dark brown.”

  Lily nodded trustingly, glancing back toward the mirror. “What about the lipstick?” she asked.

  It was Joey’s new Chanel shade, and it was all wrong on Lily.

  “It’s not perfect,” Joey said kindly. “The cooler tones in this make you look pale, but a coral shade would really bring up the colour in your complexion.”

  “It would?”

  “We could go make-up shopping some time if you like. It helps to have an objective opinion.”

  “Really? When?”

  Joey shrugged. “Any time. How do the boots fit?”

  Lily glanced down. “Too big. But I’ll grow into them.”

  “Dream on,” Joey teased.

  Chapter 9

  The Fiat pulled through the archway and in front of the house. Massimo Fortinelli unfolded his generous form from the car and hurried across to greet them. His hair was unruly and streaked with silver, of a length that could either mean that he’d been too busy in the past couple of months to get a haircut or that he was intentionally cultivating his resemblance to a sexy Italian movie idol. By contrast, his olive jacket and supple leather boots were rather understated. But they nevertheless whispered a very unambiguous message: when I buy something, I buy the very best.

  ‘Hello, Hello!” Massimo cried, juggling tubes of blueprints, a phone and a small day planner of cognac-coloured leather. “You are waiting, I’m so sorry. Forgive me!”

  “You’re not late,” Joey said. “You’re right on time.”

  Massimo held up one finger. “First, we turn off the phone.” He turned off his phone with a flourish and put it in his pocket.

  “What if your office needs to reach you?” Joey asked.

  “They wait,” Massimo said decisively. “I never take a call when I am with someone else. Well, once in a while from one of my children, if I know it is very important. But now, Miss Rubin – at last we meet.”

  He kissed Joey warmly, first on one cheek and then on the other. Joey found herself smiling broadly.

  “Do you know Ian McCormack?”

  “I do not,” Massimo replied, taking Ian’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “But I know what people say of him.”

  “And what’s that?” Ian asked guardedly.

  Massimo appeared to regret what he had just thoughtlessly babbled, but he threw up his hands in mock resignation. “That he may be the only person in fifty, no a hundred miles, who could have managed both Stanway House –” and here Massimo leaned in as though to whisper in confidence – “and its owners. Pardon me if I am speaking out of turn…”

  Ian couldn’t help softening slightly. “Not at all.”

  “A wonderful family, wonderful.” Massimo continued. “Generous to the schools, magnanimous to the town… but maybe, just possibly a little – careful with the wallet, no? When it came to such an important architectural monument?” He gazed rapturously at the house.

  “They didn’t waste money, I’ll say that of them,” Ian confirmed.

  “Though,” Massimo continued, “to be fair, they also did not do things we would have to undo, correct? So for that –” and here the contractor brought a hand to his heart and raised his eyes skyward – “we give thanks.”

  Joey smiled and sighed, casting a sideways glance at Ian, who was now staring curiously at the effusive Massimo.

  “I thought we could set ourselves up in the kitchen,” Joey suggested. “I’ve got coffee on and I’ve made a list of all the things we need to discuss. We could get ourselves organised, and then, maybe, Ian, you could give us both the master tour?”

  Ian shrugged, willing to go along.

  “How many items on the list?” Massimo asked with a grin.

  “At least a hundred!”

  Ian groaned.

  “Not all today,” she added quickly. “We have you for two days, right, Massimo?”

  “You have me for as long as you need me,” he replied courteously, making Joey wonder how she could have ended up employing two such different colleagues. Ian and Massimo were like the proverbial chalk and cheese.

  Ninety minutes later, having finished their coffees and prioritised a two-page To Do list, Ian, Massimo and Joey were inspecting the first of the outbuildings slated for reconstruction: what had once been a stone dairy barn at the farthest edge of the estate. This was to be converted into four rental suites.

  “There’s a lot of rot in that far corner and along the back wall,” Ian said, pointing. “The foundation back there is crumbling. And sinking.”

  Massimo frowned and nodded, crossing the space. Glancing out of a window, he noted: “The stream is so close. The ground is exceptionally wet.” He turned to Ian. “How many years since the building was used?”

  “Oh, ten, fifteen at least. They used to store farm equipment in here, but when the roof started to go…”

  Massimo and Joey glanced up. The roof wasn’t threatening to come down on their heads, but patches of grey sky were visible through holes of varying sizes.

  “Of course you know what they secured the roof stones with, don’t you?” Ian asked. “The original ones?” He eyed Massimo a little suspiciously, and Joey wondered if the question represented a test of some kind.

  Massimo smiled. He had a hunch. But he motioned for Ian to explain it to Joey.

  “Sheep’s vertebrae.”

  “In Italy, the same,” Massimo concurred.

  “What?” Joey glanced at Massimo, who nodded. “How would that work?”

  Massimo nodded toward Ian, letting him explain.

  “The shape of it formed a wedge, locking the heavier stones in place. If we took that roof down right now, you’d find the individual vertebrae lined up right along it.”

  “This man,” Massimo said, tapping his temple and nodding at Ian. “I have never met another man in England that knew that. We’re lucky to have his help, Joey.”

  Ian, a little embarrassed, shook off the praise. But Joey thought she glimpsed on his face the hint of a smile.

  At two thirty, Massimo had insisted that they all break for lunch at one of his favourite restaurants in the local town – “They serve real Italian food.” Ian had tried hard to decline. Lily would be getting back from school in an hour or so and would wonder where he was. But Massimo would accept no excuses. He promised that Ian would be back by four o’clock and proceeded to call the restaurant right then and there to beg them to stay open, and place a lunch order. He was a regular, judging from his ebullient chatter.

  Now, though, as Joey and Ian waited for him to join them at the table, his office seemed to have caught up with him. Massimo was pacing on the pavement in front of the restaurant, talking exuberantly with whoever was on the other end of the line. Three plates of appetisers had already been placed on the table: a salad of tuna, egg, olives and potatoes, a bowl of wine-simmered mussels and a toasted ciabatta heaped with tomato, basil and onion. Joey was sipping a glass of white wine and Ian, having eventually given into the idea of a restaurant l
unch, had broken down and ordered a glass of Chianti.

  “So what do you have against Massimo?” Joey asked quietly.

  “I’ve got nothing against the man,” Ian replied, spooning a helping of salad onto his plate.

  “That’s not the impression I got.”

  Ian shrugged and had a bite of salad. He shook his head.

  “Is there something I should know? Please!”

  Ian chewed silently for several moments, scanning Joey’s expression, before silently putting his fork down and clearing his throat.

  “He does very good work,” Ian stated flatly.

  “Okay. And –”

  “And everyone likes his wife.”

  Joey waited for him to go on. “I’m sensing there’s a ‘but’ coming… Please. I’m asking for your help here.”

  “All right, all right! It’s just that – some of the fellows have had to close up shop.”

  “Other contractors?”

  Ian nodded.

  “He forced them out of business?”

  “Well, not intentionally. In fact he hired a couple of them – Lucian Bride and Harry Douglass.”

  “What happened to their companies?”

  “They couldn’t compete. Everyone started using Fortinelli. Well, not everyone – many of the locals remained loyal – but the new money, the people fixing up second homes, weekend blow-ins from London, he got all that work.”

  “But why? Was he a lot cheaper?”

  “No, I don’t think so, not a whole lot, anyway.”

  “Faster?”

  “Faster, yes. And everyone says he keeps a beautiful worksite.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, if you drove by at night, it would be all swept up, the rubbish collected and put out of sight, everything just spit-spot, even in the middle of construction.”

  “I heard that, too. So they just resent him, because he had the nerve to be good at what he does? That’s his offence?”

  “He advertises on the internet.”

  Joey couldn’t restrain a small chuckle. “God, throw the man in jail!”