by Debbie Rix
‘Grazie,’ she said.
Once more he said something she didn’t understand. He patted the seat behind him and pointed at her, his eyes questioning.
Was he offering her a lift? Should she take a lift from a stranger?
He held his arms out for the child. Instinctively, Rachael handed Angela to him and he stood her between his legs, one arm protectively around her waist. The child looked up at her mother grinning broadly, clearly excited at this new experience. The young man shifted forward on the seat, making space for Rachael. She swung one leg across the saddle and sat behind him. With his free hand, he took one of hers and pulled it around his waist so she could also hold onto Angela.
He twisted the controls on the handlebars, and as they accelerated away, the wind streamed through her hair. Involuntarily she began to laugh; she felt exhilarated. She had never been on the back of a motorbike before, and it was a novel experience to be so completely in the hands of this stranger.
After the initial excitement, she began to feel anxious. Where was he taking her? But at the entrance to her lane, he turned confidently off the main road. He slowed down as they drove over the rutted lane that led to the cottage.
When they arrived at the house, he stopped, and steadied the bike while she climbed off. He lifted Angela carefully onto the ground and handed Rachael the basket of shopping.
‘Grazie,’ she said again, fumbling for the house keys in her basket.
Rather than driving off, he leant the scooter against the cottage wall and strode off through the wood towards the sea. He beckoned her to follow him.
On the beach, she was surprised to see him dragging the abandoned boat towards the water.
‘My boat,’ he said in a thick Sardinian accent.
‘Oh… I wondered who it belonged to.’
He grinned, revealing his large white teeth.
‘Fish,’ he said.
He pushed the boat off the shore, and clambered in. Settling in the stern, he started the outboard engine and roared off out to sea.
Later that afternoon, as Rachael chopped vegetables on the table outside on the terrace, Angela playing around her feet, she heard the ‘pop pop’ sound of an outboard. Within minutes, the young man emerged from the wood and jumped effortlessly over the garden fence carrying a large basket filled with his catch – lobsters, their pink claws uppermost, clams and mussels. He pulled out two silvery-scaled fish and laid them ceremoniously on the table in front of her.
‘For you…’ he said, smiling.
‘Thank you. Grazie mille,’ said Rachael.
He bowed politely, and climbing back onto his Lambretta, he placed the basket in the footwell and roared off up the lane.
When Giles brought her father home that evening, Rachael poured them both a glass of wine. They sat together on the veranda, admiring the spring sun setting through the trees.
‘Did you manage to walk home earlier today?’ asked Giles. ‘I had to go to the other side of the town after I’d dropped you off, but when I got back to the square I couldn’t find you.’
‘That’s OK…’ said Rachael, uncertain whether she should mention her surprise ‘knight in shining armour’. ‘I was given a lift actually,’ she said coyly, refilling their glasses.
‘Oh… who by?’ Giles asked suspiciously.
‘The young man who works in the cafe. It’s his boat on our beach, apparently. He gave me a lift on his scooter, and then he went fishing and brought us two fish; I think they are seabass. We’re having them tonight – will you stay and eat with us?’
‘Thanks,’ Giles said a little too eagerly. ‘I’d love to stay for supper.’
As soon as she had invited him, Rachael felt a pang of regret. She had sensed his irritation as she told him about the stranger giving her a lift. As if ‘the giving of lifts’ was his prerogative. It was true that he had been incredibly helpful to her since they moved to the island. He frequently drove her into town, and chopped wood for the stove. He had even fixed a broken tap in the sink the previous week. And she was grateful – obviously. But she sensed that he was not merely acting out of selfless friendship. That he might expect something in return.
Over the last few months, she noticed that Giles increasingly lingered over their goodbyes, as if hoping for a kiss. When he drove her to town, he had a tendency to lean across her in the truck’s passenger seat, helping her to close the door. These could be interpreted as innocent acts of friendship and yet they made her feel uncomfortable. She liked him well enough, but had no romantic interest in him. Instead it was the unnamed Italian who crept uninvited into her thoughts; who preoccupied her, as she lay in bed at night. She tried to ignore these feelings, aware that she was in a vulnerable position. She was a widow with a young child; a visitor on this island. She was also inexperienced. It would be wise, she reflected, to avoid all personal relationships. Caught between the unwelcome advances of her father’s student, and her own growing interest in the young Italian, she felt increasingly anxious about how to manage the situation. Her father enjoyed Giles’ company – their glass of wine on the terrace was part of their daily routine, but these evenings spent together, in the candlelight on the terrace, were creating a sense of forced intimacy between the two young people which Rachael was determined to clarify. If she could discreetly explore Giles’s feelings for her, then she could head him off and make it clear that she was not interested in a romantic entanglement.
And so, after supper, their seabass eaten, George went inside to put Angela to bed, leaving the two young people alone on the terrace. As the sun began to set behind the wood, casting long shadows across the garden, she asked Giles if he had a girlfriend in England.
‘No,’ he replied, blushing slightly. ‘Most of the girls I know at university are blue stockings… intent on careers, not love.’
‘You must know some less serious girls,’ she insisted. ‘What about girls in your village?’
‘In Devon? No… all they want to do is go to parties, play tennis and marry a rich man.’
Rachael had to agree that they didn’t sound like the sort of girl Giles would settle happily with.
‘Well… I’m sure the right person will come along,’ she said, hoping to close the subject.
‘Perhaps she already has…’ he said, gazing at her across the table.
Rachael knew she ought to force his hand and ask him outright if he had feelings for her. But she lost her nerve. It seemed so needlessly harsh – she didn’t want to upset him. And what if she were wrong? What if he denied any feelings for her at all? It would be so humiliating. And so she just smiled and said nothing.
Over the following days, Rachael resolved to give Giles no opportunity to misinterpret her feelings for him. She would be polite, but distant. She also tried to put the young Italian out of her mind. But every time she went into the village, she kept one eye on the cafe, wondering if he would be there. She even sat down at a cafe table with Angela on her lap, hoping he would come and take her order. But instead a young waitress came over to her table. She looked so like him, Rachael wondered if the young man was her brother.
‘Il cameriere – e il suo fratello?’ she asked the girl in pidgin Italian.
‘Si…’ said the girl.
‘Come si chiama?’
‘Tommaso.’
‘E lei?’ asked Rachael, politely.
‘Mi chiamo Maria.’
So now she knew his name – Tommaso.
His sister Maria smiled shyly and tucked the bill underneath Rachael’s cup.
When Giles gave Rachael a lift home that lunchtime, she asked him as casually as she could: ‘Why do you think that fisherman leaves his boat on our beach?’
‘Tommaso… It’s his family’s cottage, that’s why.’
‘Oh… I had no idea.’
‘They agreed to rent it out to us while we’re here. Bit of extra income, I suppose. I think his mother and sister are living with friends. Not sure about Tommaso. He comes and goes
. Bit of wild one I think.’ He glanced sideways at Rachael, as if searching her face for a trace of agreement, but she remained impassive.
‘Well… that explains him giving me a lift,’ she said. ‘He seemed to know the cottage very well.’
‘He works with the fishing fleet down at the harbour most of the time,’ explained Giles. ‘The boat at the cove is just for his private use, I think. Does it bother you having it there? I’m sure I could ask him to take it away.’
‘No…’ said Rachael, calmly, ‘don’t do that. I don’t mind it being there at all – I just wanted to understand the situation.’ She didn’t want the boat to be removed. It comforted her to think that Tommaso might show up at any time.
‘I like your dress,’ Giles suddenly blurted out, hesitantly, as the truck bumped over the ruts in the lane leading down to the cottage. She felt his eyes taking her in.
‘Oh… thank you.’ She wore a simple flowered red dress that day with several buttons down the front. The top button had come undone, revealing a little section of lace from her bra. She fumbled to do it up, pulling the dark red cardigan that was slung over her shoulders around her.
Giles parked the truck and leapt out to open the door for her.
‘Let me bring in your shopping,’ he offered.
‘No… please don’t bother,’ she replied, ‘I can manage… See you tomorrow I expect.’
As April turned to May the weather grew warmer, and Rachael woke to feel the unfamiliar sensation of sweat trickling down her back. She pushed the sheet and the old quilt off her bed and opened the shutters. Her room overlooked the back of the house and the sea beyond. The sun was beating down on the azure blue water; it glinted invitingly.
She put on a new sundress she had bought in the village and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where she riddled the stove, and removed the ash can to empty outside in the garden. As she opened the back door onto the veranda, warm air washed into the room and cicadas struck up their morning song. She shook the ash can onto a flower bed near the veranda and picked up a pile of wood that was stacked outside the back door. After loading the stove, she put a pan of water on to boil; then, kicking off her espadrilles, she wandered barefoot into the garden, feeling the dry sandy soil beneath her feet, the air pulsating around her. Perhaps today she would let Angela put on her swimsuit and have a swimming lesson.
Giles arrived, as usual, at eight-thirty sharp; he knocked casually on the open kitchen door and strode in wearing shorts, sandals and an open-necked shirt. His fair hair was pushed off his high forehead, already glistening with beads of sweat.
‘It’s jolly hot today,’ he said cheerfully, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down next to Angela. The table was strewn with egg shells and crusts – the remnants of breakfast. ‘For once, that sarcophagus underneath the church is going to be the best place to work… it’s nice and chilly down there.’
‘I must come down and have a look sometime,’ said Rachael. She walked over to the open kitchen door, grateful for the sensation of cool air on her face. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been here for three months and haven’t seen what you’re all up to.’
George joined them in the kitchen.
‘What’s this… my daughter is showing an interest in the ancient world?’
He sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of coffee.
‘Let’s take our coffee outside,’ suggested Rachael. ‘We can sit on the veranda.’
Angela came toddling out a few minutes later, carrying her swimming costume.
‘Seaside,’ she said to her mother, ‘seaside. Swimshoot’
‘Yes… darling. Seaside today. Here… let me help you put the swimsuit on.’
She lifted the child’s nightdress over her head and guided Angela’s legs into the little yellow suit.
‘You look so pretty!’ said Rachael as the child twirled around, delighted by her new outfit, giggling with excitement.
‘Well, we must get off,’ said George to Giles. ‘Don’t let her go too deep in the water,’ he warned his daughter.
‘Father… of course not. I know she can’t swim. I’ll be really careful. She knows never to go through the gate without me. She’s a good girl.’
‘Perhaps we ought to stay,’ said Giles. ‘Just while she swims…?’ He looked enquiringly at George, who was studying his notes.
‘Stay?’ he said. ‘No need,’ he said briskly. ‘I’m sure Rachael will manage…’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Giles, hurriedly. ‘I just thought we could help… Well… have a lovely day.’
‘Thank you… we will.’ she replied.
‘You can have a swim here when we get back,’ said George to Giles. ‘And stay for supper – that’s all right, isn’t it Rachael?’
Rachael, irritated by her father’s assumption that she would be happy to entertain Giles once again, nevertheless smiled, politely.
‘Yes… of course. I’m going to try to get the outdoor oven to work … I might even make some bread.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ said George cheerfully. ‘See you later.’
After they’d gone, Rachael busied herself tidying the kitchen, as Angela played happily around her feet.
‘Stay here, darling,’ said Rachael as she went upstairs. ‘I’m just going to put on my swimsuit.’
In her bedroom, she took off her sundress and stepped into the tight-fitting blue suit. She admired herself in the chipped cheval mirror. It fitted her well, showing off her neat waist and long legs. She brushed her hair and swept it up into a tight chignon to keep it out of the water. She gathered up a book from the bedside table, wrapped it in a couple of towels and, headed downstairs.
The house was quiet… unnaturally still. Angela was no longer playing in the kitchen.
‘Angela,’ Rachael called out. She went back upstairs to look for her. ‘Angela… are you hiding? Come out, come out, wherever you are…’
She peered beneath Angela’s bed – a favourite hiding place. There was nothing to be seen but a little pair of pink slippers.
‘Angela… Angela…’ she called out, heading back downstairs, ‘come on, we can go to the beach now.’ She went out onto the veranda and scanned the garden. Something looked wrong… The gate was open. Her heart lurched.
Her pulse racing, she ran through the woods leading down to the cove. The child was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was still in the house or hiding in the woods somewhere.
‘Angela,’ she shouted out urgently. ‘This is not funny… Angela! Come here immediately.’
There was no response. She stood scanning the sea, her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the bright light. She heard a scooter engine, somewhere in the distance. Then a man’s voice was shouting. Was it Giles or her father returning? Suddenly, she saw a tiny leg emerging from the emerald water, then an arm.
A man rushed past her and ran, fully clothed, into the water and pulled her daughter from the waves. It was Tommaso. He held the child to his chest as he walked back up the beach, stroking her hair and laid her out, quite motionless, like a china doll on the soft sand.
Tommaso looked up at Rachael, his eyes filled with fear, as if imploring Rachael to help. She threw herself down beside her child and touched Angela’s forehead, then her hand. The little girl was cold, but not icily so. Rachael held her daughter’s tiny wrist and felt the faint thud, thud of a pulse. Overwhelmed with relief that she was still alive, she patted Angela’s cheek, crying: ‘Angela, Angela, wake up, darling. Angela.’
Moments passed; her daughter remained inert. Rachael remembered something about breathing into the child’s mouth – was that what she should do?
And then, quite suddenly, her daughter opened her pale green eyes and smiled.
‘Mama…’ she said softly.
Rachael cradled her child’s face in her hands and sobbed.
Tommaso carried Angela back to the cottage and laid her on the sofa. Rachael wrapped her daughter in a large towel, smoothing the
child’s hair away from her face.
‘OK now, darling? You warm enough?’
Angela nodded, her eyes closing, sleepily.
In the kitchen, Tommaso searched the dresser cupboard and found a bottle of brandy. He poured a large slug into a glass and held it out to Rachael. ‘Drink… it’s good.’
She sipped the fiery liquid and felt the adrenalin seeping away as the alcohol surged through her bloodstream. He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead, her hair. She inhaled his scent – manly, dark – and rested her head against his chest. She felt safe… and loved.
After checking that Angela was soundly asleep, Tommaso took Rachael by the hand and drew her out onto the veranda. As she sat at the table, feeling her shock subside in the warmth of the sun, he took a piece of rope and tied the gate firmly in place.
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t come along, I dread to think what might have happened.’
She knew he probably wouldn’t understand most of what she said, but he smiled, and took her hand and kissed it.
‘It’s OK…’ he said.
‘I was going to make bread today,’ she said, gesturing to the bread oven. ‘I wanted to show Angela…’
‘I do it…’ he said. He filled the base of the oven with straw and kindling and threw in a match, watching it smoulder and then catch alight. He collected more firewood and added it to the fire until it was burning brightly.
Then he beckoned to Rachael to come back inside.
In the kitchen, he mixed flour and water, and then kneaded it confidently with his strong hands. He smiled as Rachael watched him.
‘Mama,’ Angela called out; her mother ran to her.
‘I’m here, darling…’
The child sat up, shaking off the towel she had been wrapped in. Apparently unaffected by her experience, she ran into the kitchen and jumped onto a chair to stand and watch Tommaso at work.
‘Look, Angela… he’s making bread.’
Tommaso handed Angela a small piece of the elastic white dough and encouraged her to copy him – patting the dough and kneading it on the floured table. When it was ready, he put it in a large bowl, covered it with a damp towel and took it outside to rise in the sunshine. The fire had begun to die down now and the inside of the oven was white-hot. Tommaso spread the burning embers across the base of the oven to provide an even heat. He took an old broom from the veranda, and after wetting the head in the kitchen sink, he swept the base of the oven. He took the dough and cut it into pieces – making little rolls that he placed on a flat long-handled ‘spoon’ that he loaded into the oven.