Chapter 16
16
VENICE, TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Eight beds were crammed into the dormitory. Julie Paine stood slap bang in front of the only mirror in the room, wielding a pink hairdryer she’d pinched from Shy Kelly. Natalie sat on her narrow, metal-framed bed fiddling with the broken elastic on the mask she’d so carefully created. She tied the two ends back together; it made the mask fit a bit too tightly and some of the glitter had dropped off. But she didn’t care. Everyone was looking forward to tonight, apart from her. Over breakfast, she’d tried to ask Cathy what she’d done wrong at the Accademia gallery but her old friend just shrugged and went back to sucking up to Julie and her new mates.
‘I can’t believe we’re going to a party,’ Tall Polly squealed for the umpteenth time.
‘A masked ball isn’t a party, it’s a cultural event, and you will behave appropriately,’ Natalie said, mimicking Mrs Nickson’s haughty tones. She hoped Cathy would laugh the way she always did when Natalie did one of her impressions, but Cathy just peered into her hand mirror, dabbing at her spots with a grubby-looking sponge caked in Maybelline concealer.
‘Do you think those boys from the posh school will be going tonight? Do you think they’ll recognise us when we’re wearing our carnival masks?’ Shy Kelly fretted.
Julie smirked. ‘ You don’t need to worry; they’ll recognise your mousey hair and big conk anywhere. And they’ll all recognise me.’ She tossed the hairdryer onto Kelly’s bed, flicking back her hair. ‘ Tell me what you want, what you really, really want,’ she sang into the mirror, gyrating her hips, hips that sported Cathy’s prized chain belt. The one she’d never lend anybody, not even Natalie.
Julie sprayed on an ozone-obliterating blast of Impulse, blew a kiss at the mirror and span around to face her audience. ‘I reckon those boys will be going and that blond, tall, good-looking one is mine.’ Julie’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, don’t any of you lot think for a minute you’re going to get near him. At least I won’t have to worry about you, will I, Natalie? You’ll be snogging that boy you were flirting with yesterday.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Natalie wouldn’t even speak to any boys tonight, not even the harmless, nerdy one with the trendy trainers. She already felt enough of an outcast without deliberately courting evil looks from Julie and her mates.
* * *
‘Goodness, girls, isn’t this splendid, and so many schoolchildren; there must be nearly two hundred of you here!’ Miss Morrison beamed, flinging her arms wide but still cutting a tiny figure in the grandeur of the ballroom. ‘It’s such a privilege for our school to be invited here. Just look at the frescoes on the ceiling.’
Natalie found herself standing up a little straighter; it wasn’t a room that called for slouching. Only Tall Polly hunched her shoulders in a vain attempt to appear shorter than the group of boys – the boys from the art gallery were here! – who were strolling across the terrazzo floor as though they owned the place.
‘Look what they’re wearing,’ Shy Kelly whispered. No homemade masks paired with ordinary clothes for those top-notch students and their teachers; they must have splashed out in one of the city’s hire shops for they were decked out from top to toe in authentic Venetian costumes. Some had chosen colourful carnival masks, others traditional white bauta face masks paired with long, black cloaks, strutting around like sinister penguins. A handful even wore the creepy, long-beaked mask, hat and gown of the Plague doctor.
A live orchestra started to play; the musicians dressed in pastel-coloured frock coats and breeches, their hair covered with curled, white wigs. Waiters carrying fancy silver-plated trays circulated the room, serving cicchetti to the assembled throng. Natalie tried an oval slice of toast topped with creamy-white baccalà mantecato which Miss Morrison explained was cod whipped into a fluffy mousse. Cathy and Julie giggled in the corner.
The musicians stopped for a break, replaced by chamber music piped through the loudspeakers. Miss Morrison was talking to one of the boys’ teachers; Mrs Nickson was studying a painting of a hawk. Natalie moved quickly. She pushed open the great wooden door that led to the hall. A few strides across the chequerboard floor and she was outside.
The campo was quiet; the church of Santa Maria Formosa was closed up for the night, the fruit and vegetable seller gone. No tour groups gathered in the corner by the entrance to the Querini Stampalia museum where just a few days ago, Mrs Nickson had gone purple with rage when Julie plinked a key on an antique piano.
Natalie walked past the church, her mask dangling from her wrist. The street ahead was quiet, lamps glowing in the window of a trattoria. Beyond that, a row of shops selling stationery, chandeliers and artworks. She kept walking, not caring where she was going. Across a small bridge, the road widened. The wall of a church seemed to check further progress but she found a passageway to her left.
The route became busier, with diners clustered at outside tables; Natalie strode with greater confidence. A lantern hung from an archway ahead of her. Beyond a crush of people, she glimpsed a lion on top of a soaring pillar. She had reached St Mark’s Square. She pushed her way into the piazza through a gaggle of tourists.
A clanging sound startled her. She swung around, stepping back to gaze up at the tower behind her. Above the royal-blue zodiac, the Virgin Mary nestling in a nook and the winged lion of St Mark, the two bronze Moors were striking the hour.
She turned away from the clock tower, walking ever so slowly around the basilica, craning her neck to look up at the colourful mosaics of turbaned men, the horses over the main door that looked as though they might gallop off at any moment. Her class had come here on their first day in Venice but the basilica was such a riot of arches and columns, statues and carvings, that she’d barely had a chance to take in a fraction of its riches before they’d all been ushered inside the famous church to marvel at its golden mosaics and marble floor.
Eventually, she got tired of looking. She strolled along the covered arcade of the Doge’s Palace towards the twin pillars at the edge of the piazza. She passed between them. How tall they were! How dramatic everything was compared to back home! There was now nothing ahead of her but the end of the Grand Canal, widening here into a bigger body of dark water, the passing craft providing dots of light. Across the way, she could make out a spur of land, a white church glowing almost ghostlike. She followed the sound of music back across the piazza. Outside the Caffè Florian, an orchestra was playing. The tiny audience of café patrons wore pashminas and jumpers around their shoulders against the slight chill of the evening. She shivered in her thin dress.
With one last glance back at the basilica’s facade, she crossed out of the piazza into a street she didn’t recognise. The beautiful, sapphire sky had faded away, replaced by dark, gathering gloom, but she’d be okay if she kept to the main streets, avoiding the deserted, narrow passageways and the dark sottopassaggi that ran under the buildings. She kept on walking; the streets became quieter. She was conscious of footsteps behind her speeding up and slowing down to match hers but when she glanced over her shoulder, no one was there. Every so often, she swore she could hear a muffled cough, spied the movement of a black cape swishing out of the corner of her eye, but it was just her imagination.
A theatrical supplier, its windows filled with feather headdresses, hats, masks and curious puppets, intrigued her enough to stop and look. Her own reflection stared back from between the puppets’ wooden faces. A dark, cloaked figure loomed over her shoulder: a man, dressed all in black, hat pulled low, his face hidden behind the unmistakeable mask of the Plague doctor. She tried to scream but all that came out was a strange gulp.
‘It’s Natalie, isn’t it? Don’t be scared.’ The voice was quiet, as though speaking from behind a velvet curtain.
She forced herself to turn around, searching for clues in the parts of his face that weren’t covered by his hat and mask. His skin was plump and pink, belonging to a young man or a teenage boy. It was then that she noticed his trainers, the dayglo yellow laces incongruously paired with the seventeenth-century costume. It was him! The boy from the gallery who had shared her love of Giovanni Bellini’s painting. The fear slowly began to subside.
‘Oh, it’s you! Why is your voice so strange? You sound different.’
‘I sound strange because I am the Plague doctor.’ He made his voice even more sinister.
‘Oh, that’s creepy.’ She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Why are you here? Why aren’t you at the party?’
‘I saw you go.’
‘You were following me all this time?’ Her whole body tensed.
‘I was worried about you. You’re safe now. I’ll walk you back to the party. It’s this way.’ He gestured to a dingy s ottopassaggio leading off to one side.
‘Are you sure?’
‘You do trust me, don’t you?’ His gloved hand closed over hers. He gave it a comforting squeeze.
‘Of course I do.’ She wasn’t sure if she did but at the Accademia, he’d seemed so nice, so ordinary amongst his swaggering classmates. And she was lost.
The passageway was narrow, gloomy. On one side, rusted grills were set into boarded-up windows. If she stretched out her arms, she could touch both of its rough stone walls.
‘Are you sure this is the way?’
He kept hold of her hand and started to walk faster. She hurried along beside him. The passageway darkened.
‘I… don’t like this. I want to go back.’
The boy gripped her hand tighter. Fear walked down her spine like a cold hand.
‘Let go!’ She tried to pull away from him.
He cupped his other hand under her chin, twisting her head, shoving her up against the rough wall.
‘Stop! No!’
He clamped his hand over her mouth; she tried to bite his palm, her attempts feeble. He pressed his body up against her, the hard beak of the papier maché mask pushed against the side of her cheek, minty-chewing-gum breath in her face. His hand lifted the hem of her dress, probing fingers working their way up her thigh. She writhed and struggled but he was too strong.
A dog barked once. Barked twice, louder. Footsteps in the alleyway.
Out of one eye, she could see a big man with a shaved head, a pointy-nosed white bulldog trotting by his side, approaching from the other end of the narrow passage.
Her attacker must have spotted him too. He loosened his grip slightly, stroking Natalie’s hair with one hand, perhaps to give the man the impression they were two young lovers, overcome by passion on a magical, Venetian night.
The man drew level, his inquisitive dog pausing to sniff at the boy’s trainers. The boy froze, his hands dropped to his side. She had seconds to act. She shoved him in the chest as hard as she could. Surprised, he stumbled backwards. The dog yelped in pain.
The man swore loudly, grabbing hold of the boy and shouting right in his face. Natalie ducked around them, out the way the man had come in. A small bridge at the end of the passageway led over a narrow canal. She was up and over it in a trice, running as fast as her feet would carry her. Running and running, her breath loud and fast, heart hammering at her chest. A dead end forced her down another sottopassaggio . Emerging on the other side, all was quiet. Neither the boy nor the man nor the dog had followed her.
She took out her phone; the battery was dead but her fingers caught the edge of something tucked into its leatherette case. An unused vaporetto ticket. A sign high on the wall pointed the way to the Rialto Bridge; she clasped her hands together in thanks. A few stops along the canal and she’d be back at the hostel. The masked ball would be over, the girls getting ready for bed. She no longer cared what Cathy had said or done; she just wanted to tell her what had happened. They’d hug and make up. They’d be best friends again.
* * *
Natalie pressed the buzzer. The night porter barely glanced up from his copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport . Not bothering to wait for the lift, she climbed the three flights of stairs. The corridor was dark but strips of light glowed beneath the doors of the girls’ two dormitories. She hesitated outside the small room that her teachers shared. Had they noticed she was missing? Were they waiting up for her to come back? She pressed her ear to the door. No sound, no light shining through the lock. She let out a breath. Miss Morrison sleeping soundly was some comfort. Natalie couldn’t bear to think of her favourite teacher’s shocked face and her guilt – for she knew Miss Morrison would blame herself.
Quietly, she pressed her room key to the dormitory’s door; it opened with a click. All eyes turned towards her.
‘Where the heck have you been?’ Julie Paine looked Natalie up and down as if inspecting her for clues.
‘Sit down.’ Shy Kelly patted the end of her bed and budged over a bit. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble; Tall Polly told Mrs Nickson you’d got your time of the month and gone off to bed with a bad stomach. What’s happened? You look all upset.’
Natalie couldn’t hold it together any longer. She burst into noisy, gulping tears. Kelly handed her a tissue. She took it gratefully, even though it was none too clean and covered in lip-gloss prints.
‘What happened?’ Julie demanded.
Natalie sniffed. She didn’t want to tell the whole room but if she confided in one person, everyone would know soon enough anyway.
‘I… I went for a walk… I was, umm, hot so I went outside. I walked to St Mark’s Square then I sort of got lost and this boy, one of those boys from the posh school, he was following me. He spoke to me and he grabbed my hand…’
‘Yeah, right!’ Julie sneered.
‘Yeah, those boys aren’t interested in us,’ Tall Polly said. ‘That blond one wasn’t even interested in Julie.’
‘Shut up.’ Julie threw Polly such a death stare, Natalie was surprised she didn’t spontaneously combust.
‘It wasn’t like that; it wasn’t cos he liked me. He wouldn’t let go; he took me down an alleyway. He pushed me up against the wall. He tried… he tried…’ Natalie curled up in a ball, sobbing.
Julie yawned. ‘You’re such a big, fat liar, Nat. You went for a boring old walk by yourself and now you’re trying to make it sound like some big drama.’
Natalie shot upright. ‘I’m not lying. Why would I?’
‘You’re always looking for attention. Look at the way you hang around Miss Morrison, trying to come out with clever comments.’
‘I just like her. So what?’ Natalie wiped her eyes. ‘I’m not lying. Everyone else believes me. Cathy believes me, don’t you?’
‘You always have to be the centre of attention,’ Cathy mumbled, fiddling with her lank fringe. ‘You’re just making it up. Who goes for a walk when there’s a party on? It’s just boring, isn’t it?’ She glanced at Julie for approval.
‘Maybe I didn’t just go for a walk. Maybe I went to visit your mum.’ The words were out of Natalie’s mouth before she could stop them.
Cathy started. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mum lives in Venice, didn’t you know?’
‘No, she doesn’t.’ Cathy’s chin was raised but there was a tremble in her voice.
‘No one knows where Cathy’s mum lives, not even Cathy’s dad,’ Julie chipped in but she didn’t sound too sure.
‘I do; I’ve known for months,’ Natalie pressed on. ‘I overheard my dad talking to your dad. Your mum was born in Venice and that’s where she went to live after she left you.’
‘Dad doesn’t know what happened to her after they split up. Mum went off travelling; they never kept in touch. No one knows where she is, no one.’ Cathy sniffed, tears gathering in her eyes.
‘Your dad’s been lying to you. He didn’t want you to know where she was. He didn’t want you to find out. He doesn’t want you to meet your mum cos he wants you all to himself.’
Cathy’s face crumpled. She let out a big sob. Tall Polly put her arm round her and Shy Kelly stroked her hair.
Natalie thought she’d feel triumphant but she just felt slightly sick.
‘Cathy, I didn’t mean…’
But there was no taking the words back. She’d lost Cathy’s friendship for good.