That Summer in Ischia

by Penny Feeny

  Gambier Terrace had a private forecourt, separated from the road by tall iron railings. A taxi was turning in through the gates as she left the house. Moments later Simon appeared at the doorway and slung his case and laptop into the boot of the cab. She gave him a final wave, then went to her own car, parked around the corner, and found a ticket on the windscreen. Five minutes, five bloody minutes over. Annoyed, she ripped it up, switched on the ignition and accelerated into the mercifully empty street. No doubt Simon and his colleagues would have a theory about her subversive inclinations, point out it was useless to argue over a pathetic parking ticket. Maybe when she’d calmed down she’d Sellotape the scraps back together – or maybe she wouldn’t.

  As she neared her front door, she could hear the phone ringing. Her first thought was that it was Liddy again. She didn’t hurry to answer, taking her time with the key, wondering why she was feeling so uncomfortable until she realized she wasn’t properly dressed. In the hallway she stripped off her backwards top, restored her bra, selected a fresh T-shirt from the pile of laundry at the foot of the stairs, and only then picked up the handset.

  ‘Is this the right number for Allie Ashbourne?’ asked an unfamiliar male voice.

  ‘Er . . . yes.’

  ‘Man, that’s a relief. Is she there? Only her friend Jess told us she’d heard nothing either and we’ve been, like, worried that she had problems of some kind.’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘She doesn’t answer her phone.’

  ‘Oh . . . that’s because it was stolen. She rang me from the place she’s staying. She’s fine. Though I think she might come home a bit earlier than planned so you could try calling again next week if you want to see her.’

  ‘We’re not in England,’ said the voice. ‘But we wanted to check she hadn’t gone missing.’

  ‘Missing?’ It was impressive the way Allie managed to cause such concern.

  ‘She seemed a bit strange, though we didn’t know what was normal so we didn’t want to, like, force the issue. We thought, well, she’s just looking to chill, but then she was talking about going after her dad and when she didn’t return our calls, it put the wind up us a bit. Thinking, you know, she could be vulnerable on her own out here.’

  ‘Her dad?’ said Helena.

  ‘Are you her mother?’

  ‘I think you should tell me who the hell you are first.’

  The young man sounded aggrieved. ‘I’m Dom. Me and Meg, she’s my partner, we –’

  ‘Well, Dom, what exactly has given you the idea that Allie is looking for her father?’

  ‘Only that she said so, that she was quite worked up about it. And we weren’t sure she was going about it the right way. I mean, a mate of ours who was adopted, he had counselling and everything and even then –’

  Helena didn’t want to hear any more. ‘I’ll tell her you called,’ she said, hanging up.

  Less than two miles away, in the heart of Crosby village, Liddy entered the delicatessen in search of goat’s cheese and truffle oil. She found flyaway Felicity turning from the counter with a small package of shortbread. ‘Mother insists,’ she said. ‘It’s her favourite and frankly I’ll do anything to keep the peace. Not cheap, though.’

  Liddy didn’t like to ask for truffle oil in front of Fliss. She’d wonder why on earth one might need it and balk at the price. ‘She’s keeping well?’

  ‘Well enough. And how are you? Is the back better?’

  ‘The back pain was a red herring,’ said Liddy. ‘It’s basically more of the same, if you know what I mean . . . Actually, they’re taking me into the Women’s next month.’

  ‘For an op?’

  How she hated that word, the inconsequential sound of it, like ‘hop’ or ‘pop’. ‘I’m afraid so. For another shot at decluttering my womb.’ It was not something she cared to discuss in a public place.

  A young couple came into the shop. Liddy and Felicity moved to make way for them. The man had his arm around his girlfriend’s waist; the bulge of her pregnancy strained against her cotton top. She twirled her hoop earring and giggled. ‘You got anything minty?’ she said. ‘I’m totally obsessed with peppermint creams right now. Kendal mint cake, that sort of stuff.’ Her tongue flickered forth like a cat’s, a silver stud bobbed at the centre of its tip.

  ‘I haven’t seen you since the last book group,’ said Felicity. ‘Did you make any progress?’

  ‘Progress?’ The prospect of going into hospital certainly focused the mind: it had sent her into overdrive. ‘Well . . . since you ask. Yes, I did fire off a few emails and I’ve just managed to set up a meeting.’

  Felicity was perplexed. ‘I meant with the book. Whether you’d finished it yet.’

  ‘Under the Volcano? Oh . . .’

  ‘Why, what did you think I was asking about?’

  A dainty box of chocolate peppermint creams was being tied with a yellow ribbon. The girl was seeking advice on the different kinds of mint tea. ‘I get such terrible heartburn, y’know. Food repeating on me and everything.’

  Liddy decided she would get the goat’s cheese somewhere else. And a different flavoured oil: hazelnut or walnut.

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Felicity with a sibilant whistle on the s. ‘I remember now. You’ve unearthed the old boyfriend?’

  The young man stared at them over his partner’s head as she dipped her nose into the different leaf teas.

  ‘I managed to make contact with an intermediary, that’s all,’ said Liddy, trying to downplay any significance. ‘We’ll take it from there.’

  ‘You’re not actually going to meet him, are you? Wouldn’t that be dangerous, open a whole box of tricks?’

  ‘It won’t be a problem,’ said Liddy, ‘because he’s the other side of the world. In Australia. This, um, colleague is based in the London office and I’ve got to go there anyway to give a presentation, so I’m taking advantage of a spare couple of hours. I’m the type of person who likes to dot i’s and cross t’s. I know some people call it anal, but I can’t bear unfinished business.’

  PART FIVE

  ROME

  CHAPTER 23

  As Allie crossed the glittering marble concourse, a raft of destinations rotated on the departure board: Trieste, Salzburg, Vienna, Prague. These cities she might have visited were now erased from her itinerary. They conjured all kinds of exotic images but they would remain dots on a map. Her journey was taking her elsewhere. She scoured the crowd for Max, who had arranged to meet her. She expected to identify his loping gait, but in fact he was standing still and she was jolted by her failure to recognize him. In a dark suit, with the shirt collar white against his brown neck, his hair slicked behind his ears, eyes masked by sunglasses, he was no longer a hippyish New Yorker but a suave Roman businessman. She had to look him twice up and down.

  ‘Hey, what happened to you?’

  He whipped off the glasses. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I guess you’re not on holiday any more,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Oh, this?’ He swung his jacket from his shoulders and looped it over his forefinger. ‘I had a site visit with some clients. But I got off early and came here instead of the office. I hope you appreciate that.’ He picked up her luggage and began to steer her towards the taxi rank.

  Less than a week ago, she was following this very route with Dom and Meg. She half expected to catch sight of them, their shoulders bowed beneath the weight of edifying reading matter in their backpacks. She regretted she’d lost possession of Meg’s whistle – a useful talisman – but the police had confiscated it.

  Max ushered her into the back seat of a black and green cab and issued instructions to the driver. ‘I’m taking you for gelato,’ he said, climbing in beside her.

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘You didn’t want to go sightseeing? You already know the city.’

  This wasn’t quite true, but she let it pass. Her walking was still slow and painful and she’d no desire to join the troops of tourists
. The crush in Piazza di Spagna last week had resembled the aftermath of a football match or a stadium rock concert. Meg, whose Ph.D. was something to do with the crisis of individual identity in western capitalist society, had had much to say on the subject of crowd generation.

  ‘It’s too early for dinner,’ Max continued. ‘And some people might say it’s too early to start drinking. So I’m offering you a classic Italian pastime to fit the bill. Where are you staying?’

  The taxi driver clamped his hand to his horn as he negotiated a route through a clogged junction. Allie fidgeted. ‘The hostel we were in before was gross. I hoped you could recommend somewhere.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A couple of days? I want to find out where my friends are and whether it’s worth meeting up. Mum was going to email their numbers, so I’ll need an internet café.’ She spotted one through the cab window but already they were past it, leaping across a set of traffic lights.

  ‘You can use the internet in the apartment if you want.’ Then he nudged her arm so she would turn and look at him. ‘And I was only teasing about the hotel. You’re welcome to stay.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why not?’

  ‘Are you sure you have room?’

  ‘Jeez, yes. My father isn’t even there at the moment.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘I haven’t lived with him since I was a kid, apart from vacations. This time around it could be a while longer if we can stand each other’s company.’ Catching the expression on her face, he added, ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, he’s out of town. His current girlfriend’s based in Perugia.’

  This was difficult territory, and fraught with anticipation. Allie felt as if she’d boarded a rollercoaster. ‘Right, well, I really appreciate the offer. Thanks.’

  He inclined his head. ‘You’re welcome.’

  With a melodramatic swoop, the taxi lurched into the path of a tram, careered across a bridge spanning the sluggish waters of the Tiber and finally stopped outside a small bar. A brown awning shaded a handful of cane tables and chairs, set out on the pavement. ‘This is it,’ said Max. ‘One of the best gelaterie in the city. And the apartment’s only a couple of blocks away so we can walk from here if you’re up to it. Hop out.’

  ‘You know what I really like about Rome,’ Allie said, appraising the graffiti on the wall opposite, the crumbling stucco, the badly parked motorini, the build-up of litter. ‘It’s scruffy as hell and it just doesn’t care.’

  Max stared for a moment and then burst out laughing. ‘It’s that European sense of superiority,’ he said. ‘Or a lack of ready cash. The Vatican’s the only place around here with any money.’ He rested an arm across her shoulders and propelled her into the bar. Below a long glass counter were dozens of ice creams in a myriad flavours, few of which she could understand. ‘Most people,’ he said, ‘take hours to make a decision with a selection like this.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Allie, accepting the challenge. ‘Do I get any help with the translation?’

  She picked ginger, pineapple and apricot and took pleasure in the subtle combination of their colours in her paper carton. Max went for strong contrast: bitter chocolate and an intense purple bilberry.

  ‘Well now,’ he said. ‘There’s food for interpretation.’

  ‘I chose flavours I hadn’t tried before,’ said Allie. ‘That’s all. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, these are my favourites. You see, I know what I like.’

  They went to sit at one of the cane tables. Max loosened his tie and undid his top button. Along the pavement a pair of youths dribbled an empty Coke can back and forth. An agitated woman teetered past with a small dog tucked under her arm and a phone to her ear. A group of girls in tight jeans and bright tops, shaking clusters of bracelets down their wrists, entered the gelateria. They bunched around the display, giggling and squealing, changing their minds every ten seconds.

  Allie plunged her plastic spatula into the frozen creamy pineapple. ‘Are you ready to listen to my theory now?’

  ‘What theory?’

  ‘The one I couldn’t tell you on the phone because Enzo was there. About getting to the bottom of your disappearance? And Cristina’s part in it.’

  ‘I don’t get why you’re obsessed with something that happened so long ago.’

  She sampled the ginger and coughed as the spice caught the back of her throat. ‘I’m not obsessed.’

  ‘That’s how it seems to me. Like you’ve got a grudge against Cristina when all she’s done is take care of you. I don’t see that it’s any of your business anyhow.’

  ‘Will you take those sunglasses off?’ Allie said.

  ‘Do they bother you?’

  ‘I like to see a person’s eyes when I’m talking to them. Especially . . .’

  ‘Especially?’

  She had to come clean. She couldn’t procrastinate any longer. ‘There’s stuff about me, Max, that you don’t know. I mean, that I haven’t told you, that I should have told you.’

  He laid the dark glasses on the table top and his frown deepened. ‘I thought there was something. The way you turned up at Bobby’s was altogether too neat.’

  Her heart was hammering. This wasn’t going to be easy. She savoured a spoonful of apricot and was immediately reminded of the flushed, golden fruit overhanging the pathway in Casa Colonnata. ‘You might expect it to be tricky to trace people or their addresses. But it’s surprising what you can manage if you put your mind to it . . .’

  He waited.

  ‘So . . .’ The apricot was her favourite flavour, definitely, but its iciness numbed her tongue, made her teeth tingle. ‘I admit that guff I gave you, about a friend looking for a villa to buy, was a cover story. In fact, I was on a quest. A pilgrimage, if you like.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Not in the religious sense,’ she said quickly. ‘And I wasn’t trying to con you or anything. But the fact is, I already knew about the time you went missing and I was trying to discover –’

  The laden spatula was halfway to his mouth. ‘How did you know? Who told you? And why would you care?’ A cross between a laugh and a splutter. ‘Fuck, you’re not a private dick, are you?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. I never lied about what I do. I am a musician. Haven’t I proved that?’

  ‘With a quaint little sing-song?’

  This was not going quite the way she’d hoped. ‘If you think –’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Then listen to me! I came over to Ischia because I wanted to find out what had happened to my mother.’

  He seemed to be scowling as he scraped at the bottom of his tub and pushed it aside on the table. But when he raised his face she saw his expression was one of bewilderment.

  ‘Your mother? I don’t get it. She’s around, isn’t she? You called her. You’re going to pick up her email . . . Look, d’you fancy a beer? I could sure do with one.’

  ‘I’d rather have a cup of tea.’

  ‘A cup of tea,’ he mimicked. ‘How very British.’

  ‘She was your nanny,’ Allie said.

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Let me get this right. Your mother used to take care of me? She was my babysitter?’

  ‘That’s what I said, yes.’

  He tapped a cigarette from his packet of Marlboro. She was reminded of Sam dribbling tobacco strands into his roll-ups, his nails kept long to pluck guitar strings, the pads of his fingers stained yellow with nicotine: a scene from another life. Max’s lighter flame flared. ‘I had a whole bunch of babysitters,’ he said. ‘None of them lasted very long. To tell the truth, my mother’s a bit of a pain in the ass.’

  Allie nodded swift agreement. ‘Yeah. Mine can be too. Her name’s Helena Ashbourne.’

  ‘Helena? No . . . I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Everyo
ne says we look alike.’

  ‘Really? I must have been too young to appreciate her.’

  ‘You were very young,’ said Allie. ‘You were three. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. She was the person responsible when you went missing during that game of hide-and-seek.’

  He regarded her with a detachment she found unnerving. ‘You’ve known this all along and yet you haven’t said anything till now?’

  ‘First off,’ she said, ‘when we met I’d no idea you were Mimmo. How was I supposed to know the boy I’d heard about had gone to live on another continent and Americanized his name?’

  ‘You let me think . . .’

  ‘That I was up for it? A loose floozie.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone who’d shag you to win a bed for the night. And I suppose you’re still thinking the same thing?’

  ‘Cool it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get those drinks.’ He strode to the entrance of the bar, drawing heavily on his cigarette. Then he dived inside and was gone for so long Allie wondered if he’d found a back exit and deserted her. She’d intended to build up to her revelation more slowly. She’d spent three hours on the train imagining this conversation, predicting his likely reactions, composing her phrases so they sounded as neutral as possible. At the time she’d thought that, as long as he didn’t attempt to kiss her, she’d be all right, she’d muddle through. He had such a lovely mouth. She could picture it blowing gently into a harmonica, the tautening of his lips on an intake of breath.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he said, returning to a different chair, directly facing her. ‘You’ll have your tea.’

  A few yards away an old man waved his walking stick in greeting to another; a scooter zigzagged between them. The girls were finally trickling out of the bar and down the street, scooping dollops of coffee, pistachio, lemon, kiwi and crema on to their hot, greedy tongues.

  A waiter brought out a tray containing a tall glass of lemon tea and a bottle of Nastro Azzurro. His long white apron brushed the leather of his shoes. He reminded Allie of Enrico: not yet grown to his full height despite the shadow on his upper lip.