The Lemon Tree Café

by Cathy Bramley

  This was what she and Lorenzo had dreamed of all those years ago. Edoardo asked her to give him a name for the false documents.

  Suddenly she could see a way to be the person she’d hoped to be. Being Lorenzo’s widow was a million times better than being Marco’s wife. So she decided: from now on she would live life the way she wanted. She couldn’t have Lorenzo, but she could take his name.

  Leaving her mother was the hardest thing she had ever done and travelling across Europe by train with one tiny baby, still grieving for the other, wasn’t easy either. But as the distance between her and Marco widened, she gradually began to breathe and knew in her heart she had done the right thing.

  As soon as she arrived in England she went to a women’s charity for help. Scared that Marco would come after her, she had changed her surname officially and the charity helped to ensure that he would never discover her whereabouts. She and Luisa moved around for a while before finally settling in Derbyshire. Even though she had never left England, she had always kept her passport up to date, just in case she ever needed to get away again.

  ‘The first year was hardest,’ she said, shaking her head now at the memory. ‘I miss the sunshine and the sea, the smell of lemon blossom in the air and my mamma, most of all I miss Mamma. For one year, I don’t dare write to her. Then a member of Italian community is travelling back home to Salerno. I give him a letter for Mamma. After that we keep in touch secretly and she send me money to help me buy our first home. But I never see her again, she die in nineteen seventy-five. Now, I not know what family I have any more.’

  My heart ached for her. She must have felt so alone in a strange country with no one to turn to for support. And yet she had survived.

  ‘You are the bravest woman I have ever met,’ I said softly, squeezing her hand.

  The cabin crew came past at that moment with the trolley for a second time and Nonna winked at me.

  ‘Brave or not I think I have a limoncello to calm the nerves, eh?’

  I shook my head as she accepted the brandy instead of limoncello and I held her hand, stroking my thumb against the wrinkled skin on the back of her hand until she slipped into sleep.

  The plane touched down at Naples International Airport and passengers clapped as the engines roared and the force of the brakes thrust us back in our seats.

  I turned to Nonna to wake her up, but her dark anxious eyes were already trained on me. She blinked blearily from behind her thick glasses.

  ‘O mio Dio.’ She stared out at the dusky evening as the aeroplane taxied along the runway and came to a jerky stop. ‘We here. No turning back.’

  ‘Welcome to Naples International Airport, ladies and gentleman, where the local time is eight thirty and I’m pleased to inform you that you may now disembark from the front and rear doors.’

  Around us our fellow passengers began scrabbling for their belongings, unsnapping seat belts and reaching into the overhead lockers. Nonna and I stayed seated, and I leaned across and pressed a kiss to her soft cheek.

  ‘Once you face your past,’ I reassured her, ‘you’ll be free to move forward. It’s the right thing to do.’

  She nodded. ‘I have Stanley Pigeon to thank for this. If he not propose, I not be here now.’

  ‘Stanley is the bomb,’ I said with a grin.

  She chuckled and then looked at her hands.

  ‘I never thought I love again. I think I am too old. But I love Stanley, and I wish I’d told him. Being with him, these last few weeks, make me realize how much I miss out on. Someone to kiss goodnight, someone there when I open my eyes in the morning. Someone to share little things with.’

  My stomach fizzed.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said truthfully; I often woke up and felt the same.

  Her eyes searched mine. ‘But I break his heart. Do you think he ever talk to me again?’

  Stanley had been incommunicado all week; Nonna had been round to see him, but either he had not been there or he had not wanted to speak to her. In the end she had popped a note through his door to let him know she was going to Italy to sort out her affairs. His lack of contact bothered her, but my theory was that his ego was still a bit bruised; I was sure that by the time we got home, he’d be ready to see her again.

  ‘Stanley Pigeon adores you,’ I said confidently. ‘And after you find out once and for all what happened to Marco you can go tell him exactly how you feel about him.’

  ‘It’s time to go, ladies!’ A tall blonde member of the cabin crew beamed at us.

  ‘It is time,’ I agreed, realizing that we were the last ones on board. I stood up and helped Nonna up from her seat. ‘Italy awaits.’

  Chapter 26

  ‘Dicky head.’ Nonna took her seat next to me on the bus after showing the hotel address to the driver and asking him to drop us off outside. ‘That boy laugh at my Italian. Say I have English accent.’

  The driver winked at me in his rear-view mirror and in deference to Nonna I managed to smother a smile. With his black curly hair, mischievous eyes and cheeky smile, he looked like fun. He winked again and flashed his white teeth at me.

  I dipped my head quickly, not wanting to encourage him. From what I’d heard about this part of the coast, with its winding narrow roads perilously close to the edge of cliffs, the last thing we needed was a bus driver who paid more attention to his female passengers than the road.

  I focused on my phone instead and sent Lia some pictures of the amazing food I’d seen in the airport café: paninis lavishly filled with salami, slices of ripe tomato, air-dried ham, pungent cheeses and bright green basil, huge folded pizzas loaded with black olives, artichokes and roasted red peppers and pastries sprinkled with almonds and stuffed with fruit.

  Menu ideas? I typed and pressed send.

  Nonna glanced over my shoulder at the pictures.

  ‘Best bread in whole world. When I start the café, you can’t buy Italian bread and I no have time to make it. Anyway, English people only eat soft white bread back then. Now it different story. English eat anything and panini as common as rolls.’

  Paninis should definitely go on the Lemon Tree Café menu, and we could make them as generous and abundant as these, much more tempting than the standard cheese-and-ham ones back home …

  ‘We could go more Italian, don’t you think? Make us stand out? Do less of the soup and jacket potato style lunches?’

  ‘Mmm.’ But she wasn’t concentrating; she had reached into a plastic wallet containing all her official documents and was anxiously fingering her wedding certificate. I gave her arm a squeeze.

  I knew she was worried. I was a bit nervous too. What if we’d got it wrong and Marco was still living and, worse, livid? Or what if he was a changed man and was desperate to see his daughter? The list of ‘what ifs’ was endless …

  ‘Tomorrow we visit cemetery,’ said Nonna, reading my mind. She slipped the certificate back into its wallet and smiled bravely at me. ‘Then we know for sure.’

  The driver started the engine and closed the doors and the bus headed towards the barrier at the exit of the airport.

  ‘How long will it take to get to Sorrento?’ I asked, doing up my seat belt and unscrewing the cap off a bottle of water before taking a sip.

  She shrugged. ‘One hour.’

  As the barrier lifted, the driver accelerated out into the traffic, Nonna and I were thrown back in our seats and I spilt water over the pair of us.

  She wiped a hand across her wet face and gripped the seat in front. ‘Maybe less.’

  The journey took us on a motorway, and then through several small steep towns, across a bumpy bridge over a river and around a series of hairpin bends, all at startling speed. And an hour later we pulled in at the roadside on the edge of Sorrento.

  ‘Hotel Roseto,’ shouted the driver.

  Nonna and I unloaded our cases from the boot and the bus trundled on.

  ‘Wow.’ I stared up at our home for the next two days.

  Hotel
Roseto was a pretty building painted a soft pale yellow. It was three storeys high with a small wrought-iron balcony at each of the upstairs windows. The façade was smothered with bougainvillea in full fragrant bloom and the large front garden was a riot of pink and purple geraniums, spilling from pots and hanging baskets. Orange and lemon trees woven with lights formed a canopy over tables and chairs, and candles glowed in tall glass jars.

  We stood for a moment, stunned by its beauty, and inhaled the sweet night air.

  Nonna twinkled her eyes at me. ‘Maybe Stanley and me come here for honeymoon.’

  I grinned back at her; she had to be the most irrepressible old lady in the world.

  ‘Let’s just deal with one husband at a time, shall we?’ I said, leading her indoors.

  Next morning the sky was the sort of perfect cloudless blue that made you feel that anything was possible. Which was handy given that we had quite a big day ahead of us. Nonna and I, fortified by a good night’s sleep in sturdy twin beds with crisp cotton sheets and a breakfast of boiled eggs, crusty rolls and strong coffee, left the hotel just after nine.

  We walked along the main road heading towards the centre of Sorrento and stopped at a little flower stall where Nonna bought roses for her parents and a bunch of lily of the valley for her son, Gennaro.

  The cemetery sat high up a steep road overlooking the town and we were both out of breath by the time we reached the entrance. Despite the sunshine and the warm morning air, Nonna shivered as we passed through a tall pair of handsome gates.

  ‘O signore mio,’ she muttered.

  I felt her anxiety vibrating through the fabric of her dress like a force field. Visiting her mother’s grave for the first time was going to be tough for her, seeing where her little boy was buried again would probably break her heart and on top of that she was hoping to discover that her husband was dead. Not your average mini break, was it?

  ‘Would you like me to go and ask about Marco?’ I offered. ‘You could wait here.’

  She shook her head. ‘I want to see with my own eyes.’

  The cemetery was nothing like any I’d seen at home. For a start there wasn’t a blade of grass anywhere, nor were there any wonky headstones of varying sizes and materials, no gargoyles or angels or garishly showy sculptures. Instead, rows and rows of evenly spaced identical graves were marked with pale grey marble crosses, each one engraved with the person’s name and date of birth and death. It could have looked stark and forbidding, but it was as far from that as it could possibly be. Each and every grave appeared to be beautifully cared for and decorated. Pot plants, candles, flowers, framed photographs … there were personal items on every one. This was a place people came to celebrate the lives of the departed, to relive happy memories and keep their love alive. The dead in Italy, it seemed, were gone but not forgotten.

  ‘The Benedetto family is buried up there,’ Nonna said, pointing to a raised area up to our left. ‘I came with Marco to visit his grandfather’s grave one time. If Marco is dead, he will be with them. But first we see my boy. This way.’

  ‘So Gennaro is not with the Benedettos?’

  She gave a harsh laugh.

  ‘Marco had nothing to do with the funeral. Afterwards he said he was too upset. But that had nothing to do with it.’ She blinked at me and two angry pink spots appeared on her cheeks. ‘It was guilt. Gennaro die because of him and he know it. Anyway I am glad because now he buried with my family. All these years I been thankful that he was near people who loved me and loved him too.’

  Nonna knew exactly where to find Gennaro’s grave. She marched ahead and I followed, nibbling my lip. If her family was dead, who would be left to look after Gennaro’s grave? It would break Nonna’s heart if his was the only untended plot in the cemetery.

  An elderly lady in a headscarf carrying a wicker basket passed by as we reached the end of the row.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she murmured, inclining her head.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ Nonna replied, too busy scanning the names on the graves to pay her any attention.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ I said, peering into her basket.

  It contained a pair of secateurs, a cloth, a soft brush and a packet of LED candles. There were also some loose green cuttings as if she’d been pruning foliage.

  She caught me staring, frowned and then dipped her head before hurrying away. She emptied the greenery into the rubbish bin and then took the steps up to the upper level.

  Ahead of me, Nonna gasped. ‘Gennaro!’

  She dropped to her knees, talking softly in Italian, whispering words of love to her only son.

  I stood behind her and read the engraving on the marble cross. Gennaro Benedetto, Mum’s twin brother, had been born and died on the same day in 1963.

  ‘I blame myself when he didn’t survive,’ said Nonna. ‘A mother’s job is to protect her babies. I no protect Gennaro. When I find I was pregnant I was so angry. My head full of terrible thoughts. I didn’t want to marry Marco, I blamed my family, my babies, everyone. I want it to all just go away. Later when I start to feel them kick, I knew I love them even though Marco was their father. It not their fault. I would give my life for either of them.’

  There was nothing I could say. Tears pricked at my eyes as I stroked Nonna’s back. Poor little thing. He didn’t even live long enough to feel his mother’s arms around him.

  But someone had been caring for him recently; the grave was as immaculate as its neighbours. There was a silver hurricane lantern which someone had obviously been polishing, inside of which a battery-operated candle flickered. Two matching white pots held neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs and the marble itself was spotless. My heart squeezed with relief.

  Nonna found an empty metal vase to the side of the gravestone and took it to the tap. She filled it with water and began arranging the lily of the valley.

  ‘I wonder who has been looking after his grave,’ I said idly, picking up a stray leaf which looked like it had been newly snipped.

  Nonna didn’t answer, there were tears on her cheeks and she seemed to be lost in prayer.

  I turned back to look at the old lady we’d passed. She was at the top of the steps staring at us.

  ‘Nonna,’ I said gently, ‘where did you say Marco’s family was buried?’

  ‘Up,’ said Nonna, jabbing a finger. ‘Where that woman stands.’

  ‘Thought so. See you in a minute.’

  I left Nonna whispering to the baby boy she never got the chance to know and headed for the steps.

  It probably wasn’t the done thing to run in a cemetery, I thought, so I simply lengthened my stride to cover the distance between here and the upper level as quickly as I could. But even before I made it to the bottom of the steps, I lost sight of the woman in the headscarf. There were more levels above and paths heading off in every direction; this place was like a marble maze.

  I frowned and shielded my eyes, looking left and right for any sign of movement but the lady must have been niftier than she looked. And she had obviously left in a hurry; her basket lay abandoned on top of a gravestone. I was almost sure she had been tending Gennaro’s grave before we arrived and now she was amongst the Benedetto plots, which meant she must be one of them. Perhaps she had recognized Nonna, and for some reason that had prompted her to disappear.

  I approached the grave where the basket had been set down and held my breath, hardly daring to look …

  The basket sat in between two white pots containing the same green shrubs as the ones on Gennaro’s grave. There was an identical silver hurricane lamp too, but the door of this one was open and the candle had been taken out. A pair of secateurs had been left sticking out of one of the pots, a few dead leaves snipped into a neat pile.

  I lifted my eyes to the cross and translated the Italian inscription: Marco Benedetto born in 1939, died in 1997.

  So our internet research had been right. A wave of relief washed through me. At least there was no chance of us bumping into him. I hadn’t admitted it
to Nonna, but I’d been quite nervous of that. And now Nonna was free, free to move on with her life – in fact, she’d been free for nearly twenty years. I waited for sorrow to kick in; I was standing in front of the grave of my grandfather, after all. But nothing, not even a twinge.

  There was a small framed photograph of Marco just under his name. His eyes were as dark and hooded as Nonna had described, but his hair was sparse and white, his face jowly and rumpled. Nonna had said he was a handsome man, but he hadn’t aged well.

  I clenched my fists.

  You forced yourself on her. You used your strength to take what you wanted. But you didn’t break her spirit. You lose, Marco.

  ‘Granddad Benedetto,’ I said out loud, ‘or Nonno, I suppose you would have been to me. I hope you’re sorry now for what you did. But I’m not sure any of our family will ever forgive you.’

  ‘Rosanna?’ Nonna was huffing her way up the steps towards me. ‘What you find?’

  ‘Peace.’ I smiled as I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. ‘For you, I hope.’

  ‘I never thought I be so happy to find out my husband is dead,’ said Nonna as we made our way back down the hill twenty minutes later. ‘I terrible person.’

  ‘Rubbish. He was a baddie,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘I could tell just by looking at him. I’m glad you escaped from him, I’m glad you came to England with Mum.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, stopping to pinch my cheek. ‘And he had uses. I have all of you to love.’

  ‘I wonder if anyone loved Marco after you left?’ I peered up a side street as we walked by.

  While she had spent a few private minutes sitting quietly at Marco’s graveside, I had walked around the whole cemetery fruitlessly looking for the old lady, wondering where she fitted in to my family, if at all.

  ‘I hope so, cara,’ Nonna sniffed. ‘But somehow I doubt it. Zebras never change their spots.’

  ‘No,’ I said, hiding my smile. ‘They don’t. Can you hear that?’