So perhaps all that lay behind this, Charlotte thought, was Patrick reasserting his power? Perhaps it has nothing to do with Ned and me at all.
But no matter how logical and reasonable the words sounded in her mind, she could not convince herself, and now it was she who felt so powerless that she wanted to yell out loud with fear and frustration.
Of course, I did no such thing. I told him I would be happy to take the day off, and I thanked him, and I went upstairs to my room, and I sat on my bed until it became too dark to see.
And now I’m standing outside the villa at eight in the morning, she thought, the front door shut behind me, with no idea what to do or where to go. I should be putting my mind to the issue of Darrell and Anselo’s marriage, and the fact that their little nest has been infiltrated by an over-sexed, morally challenged cuckoo named Marcus Reynolds.
Darrell had looked hot and harassed on her return from their “drive” — Charlotte mentally added the inverted commas of doubt. That might have been, Charlotte guessed, because Darrell had arrived back at the villa barely twenty minutes before Anselo had. If she’d been any later, Charlotte thought, her ability to extemporise would have been nicely tested. Mind you, Charlotte decided, Anselo was no better. If he were my husband, I’d not be tolerating any jaunts to Milan nightclubs. Judging from Michelle’s recount, the evening was free from scandal. But as the saying goes, thought Charlotte, dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire, and as Michelle had cheerfully confessed that she’d passed out fully clothed on the hotel bed at three-thirty in the morning, she would have no idea what Anselo and Clare had got up to in the hours between then and dawn.
Michelle had been the only cheerful one last night, Charlotte recalled. Darrell and Anselo barely exchanged a word. That doesn’t bode well, and I really should be forming a plan to deal with the situation. The risk their marriage breaking up posed to her connection with Patrick was still very real, she knew. The difficulty, Charlotte thought, as she began to walk to the village, is that I simply don’t care enough about the pair to be bothered acting. I don’t care about anyone but Patrick, which is why being forced to have a day without him is just hell.
Charlotte gave herself a mental slap. Wallowing is not going to help. If I want this day to pass quickly, I need to keep busy. She considered her options. She could catch the bus into Como and go shopping, or she could sit in a bar, hoping to find some man who might be interested in a little afternoon delight.
I could have had that with Patrick in the study, thought Charlotte, if I’d seized the moment. Now, I suspect any subsequent moments will be floating like dandelion clocks and thistledown in a current of warm air, way up in the ether, miles out of my reach.
Thistles made Charlotte recall the hill she used to climb as a child. I climbed it when I wanted to escape, she thought, which, let’s face it, was often. It was a scrubby, stony, thistle-ridden hill and that’s why I chose it — because no one else wanted to be up there, not even stray sheep. No one in my family noticed when I went or when I came back, so I could be away for as long as I liked. It was not a comfortable hill to sit on, but I was at ease there. It was not a tall hill, either, but it elevated me sufficiently so that I could make believe that if I ran fast enough down its slope, I might take off and fly up into the blue, and never have to go home ever again.
I want to climb, Charlotte thought. She shaded her eyes and looked up, above the roofs of the villas across the road, way up to where she could just see the top of the steep dark-green hills that enclosed the lake. Up there, she thought. I want to climb all the way up there. With luck, it will take all day.
She did not know exactly how to get there, but on a previous day, she’d taken the children for a walk, and found steps, behind the school, leading up to a tunnel that ran under the main road. The tunnel did not look terribly savoury, and the steps thus far had been very steep and the children were complaining, so Charlotte had decided to turn around. Now, she would follow the steps all the way, and hope they led her to a path up the hill.
The steps, as she’d noticed before, were punctuated on each turn with illustrated plaques depicting the Stations of the Cross. Charlotte assumed they were there to remind you that, no matter how hard these steps were on your arthritic knees, you were not carrying a hundredweight of wood on your shoulders, nor did you have a circle of nature’s barbed wire incising bloody grooves into your scalp. Charlotte, who associated church entirely with insincere beige men in synthetic maroon cardigans, envied the Italian Catholics their open and heartfelt, if rather blousy, religion. Catholicism is a bunch of bright peonies just before they fall apart, she thought, whereas British Anglicanism is like one of those dead brown spiky things used in floral arrangements, which do nothing but gather dust and prick your fingers out of spite when you stuff them finally and thankfully in the bin.
Charlotte reached the tunnel, which did not look so bad now that she had no small children to worry about. An older Italian couple were coming through from the other side, he in a dark suit and hat, she in a matching skirt and jacket, navy blue. He responded to Charlotte’s buon giorno with a curt nod, while his wife only stared suspiciously, through small black eyes like a shrew’s. Oh well, thought Charlotte, the Stations of the Cross will probably perk them up, and by the time they get to the plaque that depicts Jesus’ long, painful death, they’ll be positively chipper.
The path popped out on the other side of the main road, busy and fumy with cars, and then wound upwards into a cluster of houses, old stone ones packed tight together, doorways opening directly out onto the path. Charlotte hesitated. It seemed like trespassing to walk right past someone’s front door, but that was where the path went, and if she wanted to find a way up the hill, she had no choice but to follow it.
Imagine living here, she thought. Cheek by jowl with your neighbour, with the houses opposite so close that you could hand across a cup of sugar without leaving your doorstep. There were people about, children wheeling bicycles — God knows how they could ride them up these steep, stone-flagged paths.
An old man in a grubby singlet was sitting in his doorway, right on the street, peeling an apple with a knife. From open windows came voices, and once, the sweet, caustic-edged smell of laundry powder. Few of the houses at the start seemed to have gardens, but as Charlotte climbed, the plots of land grew bigger. In one vegetable garden, Charlotte counted four cats sleeping, curled up amongst tomatoes and corn stalks and nasturtiums. Italian cats, she had observed, were on the large side, and these four were no exception. Like black and white Russian hats, thought Charlotte. Their weight won’t be doing that mixed cos any favours.
Then the houses ended, and Charlotte was at the tree line. The view, as she turned to look, was spectacular. She hadn’t been aware of how high she’d climbed. The villas by the lakefront were no bigger than butterscotch sweets, marzipan decorations on a cake. The day was now hot, and the walk so far had been steep and strenuous, but Charlotte fizzed with energy. She gazed up into the trees, but there was no way to gauge how far she had to go.
I’ll keep on, she thought, until the path runs out, or I simply can’t walk another step.
She sipped from the water bottle she’d brought from the villa.
I should have brought some bread, too, Charlotte thought. I’ll be famished by the time this walk is done.
She gave thanks that she’d chosen to leave the villa dressed in suitable clothes. As long as she didn’t get caught on the hills overnight, her cotton floral sundress and flat sandals would be perfectly adequate for the walk.
Round a bend, Charlotte found an abandoned stone building. A creek ran down its side, a trickle now in the height of summer, but a torrent, Charlotte imagined, when the snows melted. She saw the remains of a mill wheel, and religious scenes painted above the door and on the walls, mostly faded but with the red and orange colours still bright, like old Polaroids. Did priests or monks work here? she wondered. Did they live here or did they just
come here to mill grain? Lugging sacks of it down to the town must have been arduous. Perhaps they had donkeys?
After the old mill, there were no more buildings. The path wound steeply up through the trees, and Charlotte saw nothing but dappled green, brown and yellow. Live things — lizards, she hoped — skittered and rustled in the undergrowth. Bird calls Charlotte did not recognise chimed from the high branches. It was tranquil and comforting, and she felt her spirits lift.
Around the next corner was a group of stone houses, their appearance so unexpected in the middle of the forest that Charlotte became worried she’d been trespassing on private property all this time. She took a closer look and saw that most of the houses — cottages really, they could not be more than one bedroom — were shuttered up. Some had been renovated, their new window frames and roofs and freshly painted doors pointing to some affluence about the owners. The odd one was almost derelict. None seemed to be occupied.
What are these places? Charlotte wondered. Homes left by people who’ve gone on holiday? Places people come for a holiday, or a weekend retreat? What an absolute bastard it must be to get furniture all the way up here. The moving men must have thighs like Titans!
The path forked, and on the left route a rocky wall had on it a sign that said pericolo vipere. Even without the helpful picture of the snake, Charlotte thought, I expect I could have translated. I’ll go to the right.
Two bends on, there were more stone cottages. Only this time, Charlotte could see an open door, and she could hear the tinny sound of a radio.
Someone’s home, she thought. Someone who doesn’t mind toting groceries up a near-vertical hill for an hour, or living surrounded by pericolo vipere. Such a person might also be the kind who objects to strangers, and expresses this objection by means of a shotgun or deftly hurled axe. But one peep won’t hurt, she thought. I’ll be gone before they see me.
Before the open front door was a short wooden — well, I can’t dignify it with the title of veranda, thought Charlotte. Worried the wood would creak, she stepped carefully and, holding her breath, took a quick sideways peek in through the doorway. She saw one room, a fireplace, an old couch covered in a blanket, a small wooden table with two chairs. There was an internal doorway she assumed led to a bedroom. Where the bathroom was, she did not like to guess. Outside, she presumed. I hope whoever lives here checks the seat for perilous vipers beforehand.
The radio was on the mantelpiece. If you could describe the crude shelf of wood above the fireplace as such, thought Charlotte. On the table sat a mug, along with a paperback book, propped open, spine up. Someone had been in the room very recently. But they were not here now.
She heard the wooden boards behind her creak, and as she spun around, a hand grabbed her upper arm, roughly, and held it in much too tight a grip.
‘What in God’s bloody name,’ said Ned Marsh, ‘are tha doing here?’
22
‘Unhand me!’ demanded Charlotte.
Ned’s scowl eased, and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Ye make it sound as if I’m about t’ tie tha t’ railway tracks.’
He let go her arm, and Charlotte rubbed it, gazing at him with resentment. Amazingly, he was not in overalls, but Charlotte would almost have preferred it if he was. His lower half was clad in a pair of ancient jeans, ends short and frayed like Huckleberry Finn’s, but his upper half was entirely bare. Charlotte could see that his torso was a fitting tribute to years of physical labour, and felt a heat in her face that was not all due to adrenaline and exertion.
‘What’s tha doing here?’ he said. ‘How’d tha know where I lived?
‘I didn’t!’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ve been taking a walk! It’s pure coincidence that I was—’
‘Snooping,’ finished Ned.
‘I was curious,’ said Charlotte. ‘What are these cottages?’
‘Holiday homes now, mostly,’ said Ned. ‘Summer rentals, but as ’tis end August, most folk have gone now. They used t’ be homes, for workers, fishermen. Nowhere else they could afford t’ live. The lake’s allus been for t’ rich.’
‘Do you own this one?’
Ned shook his head. ‘Too dear for likes o’ me,’ he said. ‘I pay peppercorn rent in exchange for keeping eye on t’ other places. Scare off squatters and burglars.’ He gave his half-smile. ‘Oh, t’ irony of it all.’
Then he said, ‘Why are tha walking? It’s a weekday. Or are you no longer Charlotte t’ nanny? Did tha boss fire you for fraternising wi’ the enemy?’
That cut close to the bone, and Charlotte felt a cold clutch of dread. But if Patrick had wanted to fire her, he would have. Charlotte had no doubt about that.
‘Day off,’ she said.
‘And tha chose to walk up mountain instead of shopping or sightseeing?’ Ned was sceptical.
‘This is sightseeing!’ Charlotte spread her arms out to the trees. ‘This is beautiful!’
Ned’s forehead creased, as if he had been suddenly posed a riddle. Charlotte decided to use the hiatus to her advantage.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
Ned’s mouth tightened with reluctance. ‘’Tis my day off, too,’ he said. ‘I look forward t’ a bit o’ peace an’ quiet.’
‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ll refill my water bottle, rest my feet for a spell, and be on my way. You’ll barely know I was here.’
Inside the cottage, Charlotte knew exactly why Ned was wearing no shirt. She peered into the mug on the table.
‘Why in God’s name are you drinking tea in this heat?’
‘I like it.’ Ned was hovering in the doorway. ‘Ye can fill your water bottle from there. Water’s good.’
He gestured to the back of the cottage. On the wall adjacent to the front door, Charlotte saw a basic wooden bench with an old ceramic butler-style sink, under which were two shelves filled sparsely with pots and dish-wash supplies, and an aged, squat fridge. Next to the bench sat an even older electric stove — circa 1973, Charlotte guessed — with a battered whistling kettle on one element. A small amount of crockery was neatly stacked on a triangular corner shelf.
Everything may have been old, but it was impeccably clean. There were no dishes in the sink at all, not even a teaspoon. A blue-and-white tea towel hung from the oven door handle. It, too, was clean.
‘Is that your bedroom?’ Charlotte indicated the closed door.
Ned did not reply. He’d stopped hovering in the doorway, and was now hovering in the middle of the room. He’d switched off the radio, and the room was now extremely quiet. Charlotte filled her water bottle — the tap squeaked and the pipes rattled but the water did run clear — walked to the small wooden table and pulled out a chair. When it became obvious Ned would rather hover than join her, she lifted the paperback to see what it was.
‘Far from the Madding Crowd?’ Charlotte smiled. ‘How astonishingly appropriate. Are you enjoying it? I’d imagine Hardy would be right up your street: all tortured solitary men and fickle women.’
‘’Tis all right.’ Ned had decided to sit on the couch, but right on the edge, back taut, elbows propped rigidly on his knees. ‘Prefer Lawrence.’
‘Closer to home?’
‘Not my home no more,’ said Ned. ‘Don’t belong there.’
‘Then why is your accent so strong? Surely a few “thees” and “thas” should have worn off by now?’
Ned twined his fingers for a moment before answering. ‘Happen I’ve not been ready to lose everything.’
He stood up again at speed, as if projected by a wayward spring. ‘Feet all rested now?’ he said.
Charlotte’s good spirits had finally met their match in Ned’s disinclination to put up with her presence for even a minute more.
No one wants me, she thought, and loathed how pathetic it sounded. Like that juvenile refrain: nobody likes me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms. But dismissing it as childish did not lessen the emotion behind it one
whit.
‘Fine.’ Charlotte rose from the chair. ‘I’ll leave you to your book, and your tea, and your solitary confinement.’
‘I’ve offended thee.’ Ned was pulling on the fingers of one hand with the other. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ Charlotte was annoyed with herself. ‘I’m feeling rejected and wallowing in self-pity. Not your fault at all.’
She made an effort to smile. ‘Enjoy your peace and quiet. I envy you, having such a wonderful place to enjoy it in.’
Charlotte checked her watch. ‘I should probably head back now. Unless the top of the path is close?’
Ned was at her side now. ‘Nowhere near,’ he said.
Then, in a rush, he said, ‘Charlotte, will y’ come t’ bed wi’ us?’
Charlotte was convinced she’d misheard. Her hesitation caused Ned’s face to wall up.
‘Forget it,’ he said, and began to walk away.
‘Ned!’ Charlotte grabbed his arm. ‘Are you offering because you feel sorry for me?’
Ned stared at her. ‘Why would I be that daft?’
‘Because you’re a good man.’ Charlotte found she was blushing, and felt compelled to make a quip. ‘Cantankerous. But good.’
‘Patrick King thinks I’m a bad man,’ he said. ‘Too bad t’ be around his children.’
‘Patrick,’ said Charlotte firmly, ‘is currently finding his life somewhat exigent, and you are what is commonly referred to as the last straw. If you forgave him and moved on, he would do the same. In a heartbeat.’
‘And what exactly is so “exigent” about his life?’
‘I don’t betray confidences,’ said Charlotte. ‘Not wittingly, at least.’
Ned was silent, and Charlotte, uneasy, said, ‘Do you still want to go to bed with me? Or have you changed your mind?’
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 20