She picked up her suitcase, hesitating at the door. ‘You sure?’
He dismissed her with a flick of his hand. ‘Please, Candice, just go.’
She hurried down the stairs as fast as the suitcase would allow, flinging open the door at the bottom. A young man stood on the doorstep, poised to ring the bell. He looked unnervingly familiar.
‘Oh, can I help you? Who’re you looking for?’ She waved to the taxi driver, who stood with the boot open ready to load her luggage.
‘I’m looking for Beau Devine. I believe he lives here. Do you know him?’
She glanced up at the first-floor window. ‘Erm . . . yes . . . yes, I do. He’s my boyfriend. I’m Candice.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He pointed to her case. ‘Are you off somewhere?’
‘Yes . . . well, I’m going away but Beau’s not coming with me. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go. I’m running so late I’m worried I’m going to miss my flight.’
She started towards the taxi and then turned back. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t, but it’s Jay. Jay Devine. I’m Beau’s brother.’ He thrust a business card into her hand. ‘Call me . . . please.’
44
I’m not sure if it’s the fact we’re so late for our flight, or because I’m in a courtesy wheelchair, but we are whizzed through security, bypassing the queue of irritable lesser mortals forced to make way for us. I’ve been awake since the early hours, a lump of dread in my stomach that only grew heavier as the hours crawled by. Candice was so late, I honestly thought she must have changed her mind. It wouldn’t have mattered. There’s nothing that could’ve stopped me from making this trip now.
My handbag is wedged on my knee, Eva’s photograph and the pink pebble safely tucked into a zipped-up pocket. The porter-type bloke who has the job of pushing me must’ve been an Olympic sprinter in a former life. He hares us through the duty-free shop and I catch only a whiff of the latest scent as a bemused sales attendant attempts to spray a sample onto my wrist. Even Candice is having trouble keeping up. She seems distracted – I hope Beau hasn’t been giving her a hard time again. He seems to suck the joy out of every situation, so it wouldn’t surprise me.
The porter delivers us to the gate and helps me out of the chair and into a less comfy seat. ‘All right, then,’ he says, as he grips my hand with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Have a good holiday.’ He enunciates every word as though I’m deaf or English isn’t my first language.
I mimic his volume and tone. ‘Thank you, we’ll certainly try.’
Candice takes the seat next to me and stares into the distance.
‘Candice?’
She gives a quick shake of her head. ‘Sorry, miles away.’
‘What’s the matter, love? You’ve been in a funny mood since you picked me up. Has Beau been moaning about you coming away again? Honestly, I don’t know how—’
‘It’s not that,’ she interrupts, fishing in her pocket. ‘Look.’
She hands me a business card for an interior design company I’ve never heard of: Devine by Design.
‘What do I want with this?’ I frown. ‘Not much use to me, is it?’
‘Look at the name.’ She points. ‘Jay Devine.’
‘Ah, I see,’ It takes a little while for the penny to drop these days. ‘Any relation?’
She nods slowly, turning the card over in her fingers. ‘Yes. He’s Beau’s brother.’
This brings me up with a start. ‘Brother? But I thought he was an only child.’
She taps the card on her palm. ‘So did I, Jenny. So did I.’
‘How mysterious.’ I bloody knew it! I’ve known all along that there was something fishy about him, but it gives me no pleasure at all to be proved right. ‘What’re you going to do?’
‘I think I should call him.’
‘And give him a chance to wriggle out of it? No, what you need to do is—’
She holds up her hand. ‘I meant call this Jay Devine.’
An air-hostess-type person leans towards a microphone. ‘Flight 2365 to Genoa is now ready for boarding through gate number twelve. Please have your passport and boarding cards ready.’
‘It’s too late now, love,’ I say.
The announcement continues. ‘We will be boarding those who require special assistance first.’ She gestures towards me, smiling at this huge privilege that has come my way simply because I’ve been on this planet longer than anybody else in the queue.
I seize on the opportunity. ‘Oh no, it’s all right. You carry on. My friend here needs to make an urgent phone call.’ I nudge Candice. ‘Go on, hop over there, ring him, see what he wants.’
I watch as she taps out the number from the business card. She presses the phone to her ear and covers the other one with her hand in an effort to drown out the sound of an enthusiastic hen party who’ve obviously already had too much to drink. What is it about airports that make people think it’s acceptable to drink even though it’s barely nine o’clock in the morning? Still, it’s nice to see people having a laugh. It’s all harmless fun. As long as they’re not sitting by me.
When Candice comes back, I swear to God I’ve seen more colour in a tub of lard. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I ask. ‘You’ve gone awfully pale.’
She sits down next to me, still staring at her phone, as though this conduit for bad news must’ve been mistaken. ‘Jay . . . Jay’s just told me that his father – his and Beau’s father – has died and their mother would like Beau to attend the funeral.’ She looks at me, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’
It’s hard to find the right words, because I doubt there are any. ‘Oh love,’ I manage. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Pathetic, I know, but it’s the best I can come up with.
Everybody else has boarded, and now it’s our turn. I need to be strong for Candice, and I stand on the first attempt, my simmering anger at Beau driving me on.
Once we’re settled on the plane, Candice tells me more.
‘Peter, that’s Beau’s father, died a couple of days ago. A heart attack, out of the blue. I couldn’t take it all in, Jenny. I was just so shocked and Jay kept apologising for being the bearer of bad news. He wasn’t able to tell Beau himself because he refused to answer the door and Jay didn’t want to shout that kind of news through the letter box.’
‘No, I should think not.’ Inside, I’m raging but try not to show it. Candice needs a gentle touch right now.
‘He was so glad I rang and said he would text me the details of the funeral so I could tell Beau. He thought it would be best coming from me.’
‘It’s unbelievable, Candice. What kind of a person wipes out their own parents like that?’ I pause for her answer, but she doesn’t have one. ‘Why do you think Beau lied to you?’
‘I’ve no idea. Jay said he had been estranged from the rest of the family for a couple of years now.’
It’s clear that Beau’s lie was all just part of the manipulation. Get Candice to feel sorry for him, make her more malleable, play the victim card whenever it suits him. I seethe quietly to myself when I think how he used it to try and persuade Candice not to come on this trip.
‘To be honest, love, I did think there was something not right. I mean, how come he didn’t inherit any money if his parents were both dead? You’re always saying how short you both are. Did that not occur to you?’
She fans her boarding card in front of her face. ‘I’ve never given it much thought. God, I’m so gullible.’
My heart breaks for her. She’s such a sweet kid, she doesn’t deserve this. ‘What are you going to do now?’ I ask.
‘I need to give him a chance to explain. He must’ve had his reasons.’
I’d like to give her a bloody good shake, but I know she deserves better than that. ‘Good idea, love, although I can’t imagine what they were.’
She gives me a sideways glance. ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you? Proves you were right all along.’
The pause I leav
e drags on until it’s downright awkward. ‘Look, Candice. It’s no secret I don’t like Beau,’ I admit. ‘You’re way too good for him and I hate the way he manipulates you.’
‘He does not.’ She sounds quite indignant, and I know that if I force the issue, she’ll push back too hard and end up siding with him.
I decide to focus on the practicalities and leave the emotional stuff for now. ‘When’s the funeral?’
‘Oh, not for another two weeks.’
‘Some breathing space then. Gives us a bit more time to think about what to do next. I’ll help you, Candice. You’re not on your own here. Oh, I know you don’t think you need anybody else interfering in your life, but I’m here for you, so you’ll have to get used to it.’
After spending the flight in companionable silence, each lost in our own thoughts, we exit the airport terminal and it feels like we’ve entered a sauna. I’ve forgotten just how hot the Italian summer can be. I’m glad to be in my own wheelchair again, which has miraculously survived its journey in the hold. Candice bends down and fans my face with her magazine. ‘Blimey, Jenny, it’s hot, int it?’
A dust cloud blows up in our faces as a taxi takes off a little too fast, its tyres scattering grit everywhere. An Italian chap caught in the carnage unleashes a torrent of expletives as he brushes his hand over his navy suit, cursing the inconsiderate driver. I smile to myself. Not much has changed.
Our driver appears out of nowhere, olive-skinned, narrow-waisted and smelling of citrus. His shirt is the whitest I have ever seen, his top button undone to allow us a glimpse of his gold chain. A rather tasteful one, I should add. Nothing like those vulgar chunky numbers favoured by rappers everywhere. He holds out his hand to Candice and she takes it shyly. ‘Buon pomeriggio.’ He half bows before continuing. ‘Welcome to Genoa. My name is Stefano Buccarelli and it will be my pleasure to take care of you.’
Although heavily accented, his English is perfect, and I’m pleased my request has been noted and delivered. My Italian is not what it was. I’ve hired him for the duration of our trip, so it’s a relief to know the three of us will be able to communicate. Even though he still has hold of Candice’s hand, I pipe up. ‘I’m Jenny, and my friend here who appears to have been rendered dumb is Candice.’
He shifts his gaze to me. ‘I am pleased to meet you both. Now, come, come. Let me help you.’ He takes hold of the wheelchair and then stops to ponder. ‘I think it’s better if I take the cases, no?’
‘Yes, of course,’ interjects Candice. ‘I’ll push the chair. Please, it’s fine. I can manage. I’m used to it.’ She emits a silly little giggle and I frown at her.
‘What?’ she mouths, as Stefano sets off with a suitcase in each hand. ‘He’s gorgeous.’
It’s only a little over half an hour to our destination, and I take the opportunity to rest my eyes, even though I’ll miss out on the scenery: forested mountains on one side, the glittering Ligurian Sea on the other. As we drive, I allow my mind to wander back to when I called Cinque Alberi home.
In the beginning, Nico was by my side constantly, always physically connected to me, whether it be the light touch of his fingers on the back of my hand or his arm firmly around my shoulders, as though I were a treasured possession he had to guard with his life. It sounds suffocating when I think about it now, but it didn’t feel like that at the time. We may have been in the middle of a war, but I felt safe, loved and cared for.
The small fishing village of Cinque Alberi is built around a horseshoe bay and has its toes in the Ligurian Sea and its shoulders in the vertiginous thyme-scented mountains behind. The houses along the bay are colourful buildings in vivacious shades of terracotta, pink, orange and yellow, the dark-green shutters the only thing they have in common. At one end of the bay, a peninsula juts into the sea, and on the top, the five pine trees that give the village its name stand next to the ancient church where Nico and I had our marriage blessed that cool November morning back in 1942.
I start to feel a bit queasy as the road twists and turns through the mountains on its way down to the sea. I open my eyes and crack the window a little. Candice is leaning forward, talking to Stefano. I can only see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, but I can tell he’s smiling at her. On my right-hand side the sea comes into view and I take a deep breath. I’ve forgotten how this brilliant ribbon of blue suddenly appears out of nowhere.
‘Ooh, look at that,’ exclaims Candice. ‘It’s . . . well, it’s breathtaking, int it?’ She turns to look at me. ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Jenny?’
My throat feels tight and I find it difficult to speak. She’ll have to be content with a nod of my head.
‘Over there, see?’ Stefano points to the peninsula curving round the bay. ‘Those pine trees. It’s where the village gets its name. Cinque Alberi, five trees.’
Candice repeats the name after him, as though she’s learning Italian from a CD. ‘Chin-kwa Alberry,’ she says. It’s not quite as exotic-sounding in her Manchester accent, but Stefano laughs. ‘Sì, Candice. You have got it. The trees, they are Italian stone pine, but we call them parasol pines because of their shape, like a—’
‘Like an umbrella,’ finishes Candice. ‘Yes, I get it.’
‘The village was named around the year one thousand, but nobody think about what will happen when the trees die. They only live around a hundred years, so these are not the original trees, but we have to keep planting because how can you have a village called Cinque Alberi without the five trees?’
Candice gives me a sideways look, and I can see she can’t tell whether Stefano is joking or not.
‘It’s true,’ I assure her. ‘Stefano knows what he’s talking about.’
‘So, you are here on holiday then?’ enquires Stefano.
Candice reaches for my hand before answering. ‘We’re here for the commemoration.’
I notice that he grips the steering wheel a little tighter and clenches his jaw. ‘I see.’
At my first glimpse of the Hotel Villa Verde, something catches in my throat and throws me off guard. It wasn’t here in the 1940s. Well, it was here but it was the private holiday home of a wealthy family from Genoa, until the Germans arrived, that is. Oh, there I go again. Meandering off the subject. Focus Jenny, focus. We’ll get to that part all in good time. The hotel is embedded into the hillside at one end of the bay and has a panoramic window affording a view of the whole village. The lurid green-painted walls that gave the villa its name are now a more tasteful pastel pink, and the bougainvillea-clad terraces stand out against the lush vegetation. My palms are moist and I can feel tears stinging my eyes as the memories come flooding back. There is a hollowness in my stomach, as though my insides have been scraped out and all that’s left is an empty husk. I squeeze the pebble tightly. I’ve made it this far, I can do this.
Candice and I are sitting out on the terrace by the pool, shaded by an umbrella from the heat of the late-afternoon sun. She’s engrossed in her phone, her mouth a thin line of concentration.
‘Have you rung him yet?’ I venture.
She snaps a look at me, shaking her head. ‘No, I’ve texted to say we’ve arrived and sent him a picture of the bay. I’ve said I’ll ring him in a bit, but I haven’t really got the stomach for it.’
Right on cue, her phone starts to vibrate and she glances at the screen. ‘Oh God, it’s him.’ She presses something with her thumb and the phone stops. ‘I just can’t face him at the minute, Jenny. I’m still too annoyed at him.’
‘I agree, Candice. Let the bugger wait.’
She manages a smile. ‘What am I going to do?’
I hope she’s not expecting me to answer that one. ‘See that house over there?’ I say, changing the subject. She looks in the direction of my finger. ‘The pink one with the line of washing strung between two windows,’ I continue.
She squints. ‘The one with the red canopy and tables outside?’
‘That’s the one. That was where I lived with Nico. And up there on the hi
llside, just below the five trees, is the tiny church where we were married in the eyes of God, according to Lena.’
‘Really? Oh, I bet it was magical. Can we go and have a look?’
She sometimes forgets I’m a centenarian. There are over three hundred steps leading up to that church, uneven steps at that, carved out of the hillside itself. There’s no other way to reach it than on foot.
‘You’ll have to count me out, love, but I want you to go.’
‘Can’t we get Stefano to drive us up?’
‘There’s no road up there. Just a rough track and then some killer steps.’ I laugh at the memory. ‘Imagine walking up there in all your wedding regalia.’
My wedding dress was simple, not really a wedding dress at all, in fact. I’d had to alter an old frock Lena no longer wore, taking it in a couple of inches at the waist and adding a lace collar purloined from an old cream blouse she only wore to clean the house. My hat was an old-fashioned thing too, one of those cloche types, and was so tight it gave me a headache. Lena had worn it for her own wedding and insisted it was the pinnacle of fashion. She’d lent me her sable fur capelet for a touch of glamour, but I’d had to wear my stout brown shoes for the climb up the hill. The wedding party was small, just me and Nico, Lena and Enzo and Father Ascarelli. Thinking about it, he must’ve been about ninety years old himself, so heaven only knows how he managed to heave himself up those steps every day. That’s the power of God, I suppose.
I reach into my bag and hand Candice a photo. ‘There we are, look.’
She holds up the picture of me and Nico on our wedding day, standing on the edge of the hillside. It was his idea to stand so close to the edge, and I’m holding onto his arm for dear life, not daring to look down. My legs trembled as I willed Enzo to hurry up and take the bloody picture.
‘Whoa,’ says Candice, studying the photo. ‘He is gorgeous. He looks like a young Marlon Brando. Those eyes, I mean wow, just wow. He looks like a lovely man.’
‘Quite a catch then, you think?’ I ask.
‘Oh, yes, but look at you too. How did you fit all those curls under that hat?’ She frowns as she studies my face. ‘You look . . .’ she thinks hard before settling on ‘terrified.’
The Memory Box Page 22