by T A Williams
She was disturbed by a ringing sound. On the desk was a grey-blue phone, bristling with a battery of buttons. One of these was blinking as the phone rang so she picked the receiver up and pressed the lighted button.
‘Deborah, there’s a lady here who needs a grading test. Please come and collect her.’ Giancarla’s voice hadn’t become any friendlier.
‘Of course, Giancarla. I’ll be right there.’ Steven had spoken to her about these tests. Basically, any potential students who came in had to be tested to establish their level of English, so that those who were advanced didn’t end up in a beginners’ class or vice versa. Over the course of the next three hours, Debbie carried out four of these brief tests, after which she returned the students to Giancarla in the front office to complete the enrolment formalities and to pay their fees.
At just before noon, Steven arrived and sat down with Debbie to go through the timetable with her. Debbie was interested to see that Giancarla’s attitude towards him was even colder than it was with her. The school secretary was clearly an unhappy person and her boss was most definitely not in her good books. At least, Debbie was happy to note, Giancarla’s attitude towards the students, while not gushing, was polite and even welcoming. Maybe she just had a problem with authority. Debbie tried to broach the subject of the previous DoS, Angela, but Steven added little to what Bella had told her.
‘She got very stressed out and decided to leave at Easter. I’ve been filling in since then. That’s why I’m so glad you’re here now.’
Debbie decided there wasn’t much point trying to probe any further. It certainly sounded as though Giancarla’s prickly personality had been responsible for the DoS’s departure. For now, Debbie resolved to treat Giancarla with severe caution. The fact was that she liked the feel of this job, and she had every intention of making it work.
The rest of the day passed quickly. At half past twelve on the dot Giancarla picked up her handbag and left, closing the door behind her without a word, and didn’t reappear until three o’clock. Debbie and Steven worked through the lunch break, stopping only for a quick sandwich in a café downstairs in the street. Debbie drank mineral water, but couldn’t help noticing that Steven put away three glasses of red wine in the twenty minutes they were down there. Even though he appeared unaffected, Debbie wondered what all this alcohol might be doing to his vital organs.
A few hours later, Rory arrived to start work, accompanied by the two girls – Virginia and Claire. They were both a few years younger than her and it was clear that these two, between them, were the owners and users of the mountain of toiletries back at the flat. Dolled up to the nines as they were, Debbie began to wonder whether they shared man-eating DNA with Alice. Time would tell.
The girls were pleasant enough, although Debbie detected a hint of apprehension, maybe even antagonism, in their attitude towards her. She could understand this. She was, after all, their new boss. She did her best to be friendly and supportive and by the end of the day, she sensed a thaw beginning to take place – which was more than could be said for Giancarla, who remained po-faced all day. Two other teachers also appeared, both were female and both married to Florentine men. They had worked at the school for a number of years and clearly had experienced a number of Directors of Studies, and they accepted her presence without a murmur.
* * *
That week and the weeks that followed were some of the busiest, and most exhausting, of Debbie’s life. She made a point of getting into work before nine every morning – she now had her own key – and often didn’t leave until ten o’clock at night. She started teaching, enjoying meeting the students, and gradually managed to wheedle snippets of closely guarded information out of Giancarla’s jealous hands. As she learnt more and settled in, she soon started to see ways in which things could be improved. Needless to say, change was not on Giancarla’s agenda.
Her first idea came to her one rainy day when, instead of walking, she took the bus to work. Looking round the crowded interior, she saw that there were lots of older people sitting there. This reminded her of the courses her old school ran for so-called Third Age students. When Steven came into work that day, she suggested trying to promote courses for older people and, in spite of a stony wall of non-cooperation from Giancarla, she managed to launch an advertising campaign in the local newspaper, La Nazione. The results were impressive. By the end of October, three new afternoon classes had been formed, populated entirely by senior citizens.
The downside to this success was that she ended up doing the teaching herself as all the other teachers were fully occupied. Before long she realised that they could do with another teacher and, with Steven’s blessing, she placed an advertisement on the same website she had consulted back in Cambridge. Steven flew over to London in early November to conduct the interviews – and no doubt eat another curry or two – and a new teacher was duly appointed. This meant that the hunt for accommodation had to start – not easy in this crowded city.
While Steven was in the UK, Debbie invited all the staff out for a pizza after work on Friday night. Everybody came except two. One was Bella, who thanked her profusely for the invitation, but declined because she had to be up at six o’clock the next morning. The other person who didn’t come along was Giancarla. This didn’t come as a surprise to Debbie. On the one hand, she was relieved that they would be spared her prickly company, but at the same time she rather regretted not being able to have the opportunity of trying to bond with the hostile secretary outside the work environment.
Lessons finished at ten o’clock, so the meal was a late-night affair but, by now, Debbie was getting used to the long hours. Virginia and Claire appeared to be of vampire stock as they quite evidently came alive as the night progressed. When things broke up at around one o’clock, the girls informed her they were going on to a party elsewhere. Claire even asked Debbie if she felt like coming with them and Debbie definitely sensed that she had scored a little victory – even though she declined the invitation and walked home with Rory.
She liked Rory and she often chatted to him around the flat as well as at work. It turned out he had only arrived a couple of weeks before her and he was still feeling his way. Although Debbie had never felt threatened at any time here in Florence, it was reassuring to have his big muscular presence alongside her as they walked through the dark streets.
‘Rugby tomorrow?’
‘Yes, it’ll be my first game in the first fifteen. I hope I don’t screw up.’
‘You won’t screw up, I’m sure. And that tendon trouble you were having? Has that all cleared up?’
‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine.’
‘So is the big game the reason why you didn’t go partying with Claire and Virginia?’
She sensed a moment’s hesitation from him.
‘That, and a few other things.’ He definitely sounded more tentative than normal.
‘Such as?’
There was another, longer, pause before he answered.
‘Such as the fact that I’m gay, principally.’
‘Well, surely there would have been men at the party as well as women?’ Debbie had a number of gay friends and most of them were the life and soul of any party. Rory, on the other hand, was obviously made of shyer stuff.
‘To be totally honest, Debbie, you’re just about the first person I’ve told.’
‘What, the first person over here in Florence?’ She glanced across at him and saw him shake his head in the orange glow of the streetlights.
‘The first person anywhere.’
This was a surprise. ‘Why’s that? Surely the days of closets and coming out have well and truly passed, haven’t they?’
‘Not where I come from. I’m from a little Scottish fishing village, right up north, above Aberdeen. Everybody knows everybody and homosexuality isn’t a thing there. I haven’t even told my mum. She’d be devastated.’
‘Surely not? She’ll love you for what you are, I’m sure. You should say something
. And your dad?’
‘My dad’s dead. He was a fisherman and his boat went down one stormy night when I was just ten.’
Debbie could hear the grief still present in his voice and reached across and took hold of his arm.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks, Debbie. There’s only ever been me and my mum since then. I sort of knew for years, but I only really admitted my sexuality to myself a few years ago when I got to university. This is part of the reason I thought I’d get right away and find a job abroad.’
Debbie gave his brawny arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘Times have changed, Rory. I think you should tell your mum. And I’m sure a big handsome chap like you will be able to find himself a special someone over here very easily. There are some very good-looking Italian men around, you know.’ As she spoke, she remembered what Alice had said about good-looking men being the least trustworthy, not to mention her own experience so far. ‘Just make sure you pick a good one.’
Rory nodded. ‘I’ll try. And what about you, Debbie? You just seem to work all the time. You mustn’t overdo it, you know. Surely you must have a man stashed away somewhere. You’re terribly attractive… well, beautiful, really.’
‘Thanks, Rory. You do wonders for my self-confidence. But no, I’m footloose and fancy free these days and loving it. I’ve had it with men for the foreseeable future.’
* * *
In Debbie’s advanced class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, there was a very striking and elegant lady called Flora, who was always happy to stay and chat after lessons. Flora was probably in her late fifties, but her skin was as smooth as a baby’s, and her hair and clothes were always impeccable. Clearly, there was no shortage of money in her family. However, in spite of her privileged background, she and Debbie got on very well and often went for a coffee together after lessons. After a few weeks, Flora invited Debbie to come to her house for tea one Saturday afternoon. As she lived a little way out of town, she promised to send a car.
The car, when it appeared, turned out to be a very swish chauffeur-driven silver Mercedes with tinted windows and the most comfortable leather seats Debbie had ever experienced. She stepped in, feeling like the impostor she was. This was definitely a car for the rich and famous, not for an ordinary person like herself. She resisted the invitation to take a seat in the back and climbed into the front passenger seat alongside the driver, counting this at least a token attempt to appear unpretentious.
The car was driven by a young man called Giacomo, who described himself as the autista, or chauffeur. He even had a chauffeur’s peaked cap, but he told her with a smile that he never wore it. He and Debbie chatted as he steered the big car expertly through the traffic away from the centre. As they reached the outskirts, Debbie spotted a sign pointing towards Fiesole, where she and Alice had had the lovely birthday meal back in August.
‘Does Flora live in Fiesole?’
‘The Conte and Contessa’s villa is on the hillside just below Fiesole.’
Debbie was stunned. She’d had no idea that Flora was a countess. At the school, everybody used first names and now she had to struggle to remember Flora’s surname. It came to her shortly after the car reached the sign marked Fiesole. As the chauffeur turned off onto a tortuous, narrow lane that led to an imposing gateway, she remembered – Flora Dellatorre. They stopped briefly while electric gates hummed open, then the car swept along a gravelled drive, flanked by centennial cypress trees, leading to one of the most wonderful houses Debbie had ever seen.
It wasn’t enormous, but it certainly wasn’t small either. It was a real Tuscan villa, complete with a tower in the middle of the roof. The walls were a deep ochre colour, the windows hung with the same green shutters found elsewhere in Florence. It sat on a flat terrace on the hillside, and it was ringed by trees. The garden, filled with roses, oleander and numerous other flowering shrubs, sloped down from there towards Florence. The view as Debbie stepped out of the car was spectacular and she felt immensely privileged to have been invited to such an amazing place. She also felt more than a little nervous. Just how, she wondered, did one address a count? Should she carry on calling Flora by her first name? She felt her palms begin to sweat as they drew up at the bottom of a short flight of marble steps.
‘Deborah, thank you so much for coming. No, Byron, don’t jump all over her.’ Flora was waiting at the front door as, from behind her, a very enthusiastic black Labrador came charging out to greet Debbie, tail wagging furiously. ‘Just push him down if he tries to jump up at you. He’s still young and he’s always delighted to meet new people.’
Debbie knelt down to greet the dog and made a fuss of him as he whined happily, finally slumping down onto his side and then his back, all four legs waving in the air as she scratched his tummy. Debbie looked up at Flora.
‘He’s a beauty. And your house, Flora, it’s unbelievable.’
Flora came down the steps to take Debbie’s hand in both of hers. ‘It’s been in my husband’s family for centuries. We’re just the most recent custodians of it. Byron, enough, now. Basta!’
‘Byron, vieni qui.’ All three of them looked up at the sound of the voice and Byron leapt to his feet and charged obediently back to the front door where a distinguished-looking gentleman had appeared.
‘Deborah, come and let me introduce you to my husband.’
Debbie followed Flora up the steps to the front door. By this time the Labrador had taken up position alongside his master, doing his best to sit still, while his tail was still wagging furiously.
‘Enzo, this is Deborah. She’s the Director of Studies of the English school.’
Flora’s husband gave Debbie a smile and a formal nod of the head and held out his hand. He was probably quite a few years older than his wife, still very well preserved, with impeccably styled silver hair.
‘Welcome to our home, Deborah.’
Debbie shook hands and did her best to reply appropriately. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.’ Should that have been Your Lordship?
‘And you’ve already met Byron.’ Count Enzo glanced downwards with a little smile. ‘I think you can tell from his reaction that he’s also pleased to see you. Do come in.’
The inside of the house was as remarkable as the exterior and Debbie’s sensation of being a fish out of water only increased. The floor was made of slabs of white and grey marble, the walls hung with venerable old paintings, and stunning glass chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. Everywhere Debbie looked, there seemed to be priceless furniture, objets d’art and an overwhelming sense of history. It was stunning and terrifying at the same time. Her feeling of discomfort grew and she wondered what her dad, a lifelong trade union member, would have to say about somewhere like this and the people who lived in it.
They walked through a vast living room to a smaller lounge with floor-to-ceiling French windows, offering a breathtaking view of Florence below. Flora and Debbie sat down side by side on an immaculate, tapestry-covered sofa while the count, after a few minutes exchanging pleasantries, excused himself and left. The dog hesitated before deciding to stay with the ladies, plonking himself on the floor between the two of them. A few minutes later he stretched out and closed his eyes with a sigh.
Debbie and Flora chatted a little, mainly about the house and its history – its origins went back to the sixteenth century. She learnt that the trademark tower in the middle of the roof was originally a dovecot that would have produced a regular supply of eggs for the household. Now, like so many others, this one had been converted into a room with magnificent views, currently used by the count as his study. As they talked, Debbie began to relax a bit. The fact was that Flora was a very nice lady and Debbie had grown to like her long before learning of her spectacular wealth or her aristocratic background.
There was a tap on the door and a housekeeper appeared with a trolley. To Debbie’s amazement, this was loaded with what she recognized as all the ingredients of a traditional English high tea, even if this was som
ething she had never experienced in her life. From the porcelain teapot, cups, saucers and milk jug to the plates of cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches, the selection of biscuits and the impeccable sponge cake, it looked like something the queen might order at Buckingham Palace. Debbie wondered idly how this would compare to the cakes Rory made at the weekends when he wasn’t playing rugby.
Flora served Debbie with tea and told her to help herself to food. Debbie was very happy to do as instructed and found that it was excellent – the cake every bit as good as Rory’s. Gradually her sense of unease diminished as she did her best to ignore the sumptuous surroundings and concentrate on talking to the person behind the façade. By this time, however, she had firmly resolved not to recount this episode to her dad. Some things were best left unsaid. The conversation continued and flowed.
‘And are you married, Deborah?’
Debbie shook her head, maybe a touch too vehemently, as Flora caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. Debbie decided to make no mention of Pierluigi. Since sending him her terse text message from Piazza Signoria, there had been no further contact between them and that suited her just fine. She did, however, provide a brief summary of her abortive relationship with Paul, and Flora was very sympathetic.
‘How terrible for you. So, now you’re here on your own?’
‘Yes, sort of. I share a flat with three of the teachers. In fact, I’m looking for somewhere for our new teacher, arriving next week, but it’s not easy to find accommodation here in Florence.’
Flora looked reflective. ‘Do you enjoy sharing with other people?’
Debbie smiled weakly. ‘It’s not ideal, to be honest. I had my own flat in Cambridge and I really miss that. Rory’s a sweetie, but Virginia and Claire do tend to monopolise the bathroom, and they come and go at all hours of the day and night. I suppose it’s because they don’t need to get up in the mornings, but I do. Anyway, I’ll manage.’