Chapter 36
36
‘Two tickets for the museum, please,’ Natalie said.
Eraldo pointed to a poster behind the counter. ‘Look, we are in luck; there is a live demonstration of Burano lacemaking today.’
The cashier handed over their two tickets. ‘Yes, you are in luck. Few people practise the craft today and most of them are too elderly to sit here for hours showing visitors the old ways but Signora Gherardini has kindly come today. She started learning at just six years old and attended the lacemaking school when it was here. Now she is eighty-six and she still creates the most intricate work just for pleasure.’
‘How lovely.’ A memory of Natalie’s grandmother embroidering pillow slips in her high-backed chair came out of nowhere. Sunday afternoons, the same every week: her mum clattering in the kitchen, waiting for Dad to come home from his shift; Grandad dozing in front of the racing, jolting awake with the roar of the crowd as the horses turned into the straight. She’d been so lucky without even realising. She couldn’t imagine Cate’s life: a mother who’d absconded, an awkward truce with a fast-fading father.
‘You will find Signora Gherardini sitting upstairs where many of our rarest pieces of lace are displayed. You are just in time; she is leaving soon,’ the cashier continued.
They found the old lady sitting on a rush-seated chair just like those in the black-and-white photographs displayed in the stairwell. A rectangle of white cotton was spread over a fabric bolster cushion resting on her lap. A glass of water and a wicker basket of sewing equipment rested on a nearby table. Her grey head was bent over her work, knobbly veined hands knotting fine white threads together with the ease of someone blessed with much younger fingers. There was something almost holy in the old lady’s silent devotion to her craft. Natalie stood quiet and still as though she were listening to a priest reciting the catechism.
Signora Gherardini coughed. She laid down her lace and reached for the glass of water. With a flash of her beady, dark eyes and a smile, she acknowledged her small audience as though she had only just noticed them standing there. She coughed again and with an apologetic gesture, began gathering up her things.
‘That was so absorbing. I’m so glad we didn’t miss watching her, even though we only got to see a few minutes,’ Natalie said. ‘It will make it much more interesting to look around now I’ve seen someone actually make the lace.’
‘Years and years of practice and still it takes months to make just a small tray cloth or some such item,’ Eraldo said.
‘Look at this, isn’t it beautiful.’ Natalie’s eye had already been caught by a mannequin modelling an antique bridal dress decorated with the most delicate, hand-stitched work. She wandered over to a wooden cabinet watched over by a young woman in her late twenties sporting a lace-trimmed blouse, a vibrant mango-coloured skirt and a name badge spelling out Belinda in capital letters.
‘These pull out,’ Belinda said, fanning out the cabinet’s shallow, glass-topped drawers. ‘There are samples of lace in each drawer. This for example is a wonderful example of eighteenth-century Punto in aria di Burano . I leave you to look but ask me any questions that you like.’
Natalie gazed in wonder. ‘I cannot imagine how much work went into these. Such skill!’
Eraldo looked over her shoulder, his now familiar warm, amber scent distracting her momentarily from the exhibits. ‘Machines have done so much for humankind but handcrafted work like this can never be beaten. It is a tragedy that one day there may be no one alive who can create something like this – and they call this progress!’
‘My grandmother was a friend of Signora Gherardini,’ Belinda said, smiling at the memory. ‘She too attended the lacemaking school from an early age. Such tales she would tell me about it! Sadly, she is no longer alive. How I wish she had written down her memories or recorded them, but one doesn’t think…’
‘Did she teach you or your mother the craft?’ Eraldo asked.
‘She died when I was too small to pick up a needle and my mamma… well, Nonna wanted Mamma to follow in her footsteps and learn to make lace. But Mamma had a mind of her own: a rebel, I suppose. She thought lacemaking, sewing and homemaking were all ways of tying women down. She was determined to leave this small, backward island – that is how she saw it – and have adventures all over the world. I am not like her; I was born on Burano and I love it and these old crafts, though sadly I have no talent like this.’
‘But your mother came back to Burano, if you were born here,’ Eraldo pointed out.
‘Yes, after her adventures. Perhaps they were not as exciting as she hoped. She lived in England for a year or two; I guess that is where you are from?’ Natalie nodded. ‘She fell in love there with an English boy, Terry.’
Natalie’s breath caught. Was Cate’s dad called Terry? She couldn’t quite remember; it might have been Jerry. But this had to be more than a coincidence. She glanced at Eraldo.
‘Mamma and Terry’s relationship did not last. She went off travelling again for a while but after two years, she settled back here. Nonna had mellowed, she didn’t try to mould Mamma any more; she was just so glad she had come back home. Mamma told me she picked up a needle out of boredom one day and immediately, everything made sense; she loved sewing, the very thing she had tried to escape! She never had the skill to make lace for a living so she worked in a boutique out there on the piazza… Oh, excuse me a moment…’
Belinda turned to an older lady, answering her question in Italian. Natalie couldn’t understand what they were saying but she heard the name Lina loud and clear. That was Cate’s mother’s name; this time, she was sure. She clutched the edge of the display unit, her heart racing.
‘Sorry about that,’ Belinda continued. ‘The lady was asking when my mother, Lina, was coming in; Mamma volunteers here once a week.’
‘I…’ Natalie hesitated. Eraldo’s hand squeezed hers, whether in encouragement or warning, she wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t stay quiet. ‘Could I ask you a question? I will understand if you cannot answer.’
Belinda smiled. ‘Of course. I do not know the story of every piece of lace but I will try to answer you.’
‘It is not the lace…’ Natalie opened her bag. She took out the scrap of brown envelope, now more creased than ever. ‘Your mamma, Lina, she lives here on Burano? Is this her address?’
Belinda stared at her as though Natalie was the first human she’d ever encountered. She took the paper from Natalie’s hand. ‘It is Mamma’s writing, I am sure of that. And our address, although the number looks wrong… You would think this was a three and a one, not a five and a seven. But that is typical; even I cannot always read her handwriting. But where did you get this? Why do you have it? Have you come from England to look for Mamma?’
‘I… well…’ Natalie did not know how to answer her.
Belinda’s eyes filled with tears.
‘It is you, isn’t it? I would never have guessed… We look nothing alike. You are Catherine, aren’t you? The older sister I have never met.’ She grasped Natalie’s wrists. ‘Oh, Cathy! Cathy! My mamma’s little baby girl!’