Chapter 9
The day was already warm, sun glittering on the surface of the swimming pool.
Stella toyed with a slice of watermelon.
The morning would be perfect if only her brain didn’t have the annoying habit of releasing memories she’d kept tidied away.
Walking along the seafront with Joe brought back memories of lying on the sand with Gino.
And passing the flower-bedecked roundabout where the fountain spurted up jets of water above the letters that spelled out SANREMO, it was impossible not to relive the thrill teenage Stella had felt when Gino rode his moped around it three times as if it would prove they were really there.
‘Enough breakfast, Stella?’
‘Yes… Of course.’ She quickly drained her orange juice.
In the lift, Joe was silent, a strange smile on his face.
Stella swiped her key card and opened the door.
The place looked so tidy she thought the cleaners had already been in until she noticed the rumpled bedsheet.
Her suitcase lay on top of the covers. Then she noticed Joe’s own case standing on end by the wardrobe, its pull-along handle up, ready to wheel away.
‘Surprise!’ Joe said.
‘We’re leaving? But we’re not due in Portofino until tomorrow.’
‘That’s right, but we’re going somewhere else first. Go and brush your teeth then I’ll tell you.’ His grin was maddening.
She stepped quickly into the bathroom, wanting more than anything to be alone for a few minutes. She knew just where they were heading without him saying a word: Leto, the place where she’d spent her childhood. Of course, he’d think it a marvellous, nostalgic treat. He wasn’t to know.
She cleaned her teeth half-heartedly. Her eyes looked back at her from the mirror above the basin. She hoped they wouldn’t betray her. She inhaled deeply, stepped out of the bathroom, a happy smile pinned to her face.
‘So, where are we going?’ She held her breath, praying she’d got it wrong, that he’d chosen pretty Apricale, or Dolceacqua where they could see the bridge that Monet painted.
‘Your old village. The travel agent did wonders – she’s come up with a one-night stay in an apartment right on the main square. The hotel reception has arranged us a taxi at ten. I’m so excited to see where you grew up.’
‘We’ll be the talk of the village turning up in a taxi instead of taking the bus!’ She was conscious of her false, bright voice. A taxi was the last thing people would be talking about.
* * *
The taxi negotiated another hairpin bend. Beside her, Joe took a sharp intake of breath. Stella had warned him not to look down to where the hillside fell away but the sparkling sea below was hard to resist.
Anxiety knotted her gut. It’s only twenty-four hours, Stella, you can do this.
She focused on the back of the driver’s neck, the dark hairs sprouting there.
She put her hand to her forehead; the strong artificial, fruity scent coming from the air freshener, shaped like a bunch of cherries hanging from the driver’s mirror made her feel nauseous.
A fluffy pompom, like the one that dangled from Carol’s designer bag, swung back and forth, knocking against a hologram of a cathedral, Milan’s, she thought.
They were passing through another village now, past a bar spilling onto the narrow pavement.
The driver stopped to allow a woman with a pram to cross.
Outside a general store, an elderly lady grimly clutching the arm of a young girl was examining a stand with rolls of patterned oilcloth.
The windows were crammed: scales, crockery, pans and clocks, just like the shop Papà and Uncle Domenico had run.
Her family’s shop was probably long gone.
Neither Stella’s brother or sister had remained in the village and Domenico’s only child, Stella’s cousin Luisa, had left for the university of Pisa and better things.
Mirtillo, the blue budgerigar that had chirped from the cage hanging outside the entrance, would have been entombed by the war memorial under cover of darkness where her uncle had made an unsanctioned grave for his pets.
‘Is it far now?’ Joe said.
‘Nearly there.’ She didn’t need to consult the blue and white road sign ahead.
The road turned again past the bus stop where no one ever got on or off. There’d been nothing at this bend in the road for decades but an overgrown mule track leading up to the woods, a tumbled down rustico the only building in sight.
‘That looks abandoned, poor old place, it’s a shame no one lives there any more,’ Joe said.
‘The rustici weren’t designed to be lived in all year round, they’re far too basic and cold,’ Stella said.
‘Places like that were mainly used for storage of farming equipment. Originally the farmers would stay there in the summer months to save walking to and from the fields but once the roads were developed and more people had motorised transport it was easier to come back to the village at night.’
‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to build their farmhouses on their own land?’
‘To live without close neighbours, that’s not the Ligurian way,’ Stella said. Foreigners sometimes moved into the old places and restored them. The idea was romantic but when the snow came they soon realised why the locals wanted to live somewhere where they could walk to the bar and the church.
‘Nearly here.’ Their driver spoke for the first time. Stella could see the campanile of the big church of Sant’ Agata ahead. They reached the car park on the edge of the village. The driver pulled into the only free space. It was always hard to find one. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?
‘Driver, we’re staying on the main square,’ Joe said.
‘We park here.’ The driver opened his door, went round to the boot.
‘That’s a bit off,’ Joe said.
‘We can’t get much further. Even with the wing mirrors folded in you can’t get through the caruggi in a great wide Mercedes.
We may as well park where he can turn around easily,’ Stella said.
She clambered out in a rather ungainly fashion, smoothing down her rucked-up dress.
Joe climbed out, paying the man from a wodge of notes and waving away the change.
Stella took the handle of her case, checking carefully for traffic before leading the way up the main road towards the square where the war memorial stood.
She was going to have to make quite a detour to avoid the main part of town where she might run into someone who recognised her.
She took a right turn, past the house on the corner with a view across the valley where her best friend had lived, along a winding street, through an archway cutting across the small courtyard where Signora Togliatti had run the old alimentari.
The shop now stood deserted, the paintwork peeling.
A faded sign read Vendesi – For Sale. Judged by its state it had been pinned to the door for quite some time.
Stella should have expected things to change but somehow she’d imagined the village would be no different from the day she’d left it.
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’ Joe sounded a little impatient.
‘Wait a moment.’ She peered through the smeared window. The old counter was still visible and the stool where Signora Togliatti sat. ‘We used to shop here…’
‘What! In that tiny place?’
‘There was a bigger minimart on the main street down from the bar, a fruttivendolo and a salumeria too.’ But this was where her mamma sent her with an old string bag to collect the chestnut flour and the creamy round cheeses from the Togliatti family’s goats that the signora fetched up from the cool cantina below.
‘Now we need to go through here.’ She led him under a low archway into a stone passageway, a small shrine to the Madonna high up on the wall.
Someone still polished the glass but the plastic flowers, once scarlet, had faded to palest pink.
Below, the heavy doors of the carpentry workshop stood open, the scent of wood shavings in the air.
A man in dusty blue overalls bent over what looked like an old madia – the traditional short-legged chest where flour was stored – she hadn’t seen one of those in years.
The carpenter was probably the grandson of the family who had always run the old place.
She turned away before he chanced to look up.
‘This is quite a walk. I’m sure we’ve gone around in a circle,’ Joe muttered.
She ignored his grumbling. ‘It’s just here, down the steps.’
They descended into the main square. She was relieved to see that Da Luca, the village’s one smart restaurant, was still open, the facade now a faded olive green.
On the other side of the piazza, Sant’ Agata’s hadn’t changed at all, the old carved doors and golden decoration above the round window just as she remembered them.
There were two churches in the village, three if you counted the abandoned Old Chapel up past the vineyards, but Sant’ Agata’s was the one where she’d come to mass and dressed as a little bride for her first communion.
Every Sunday and feast day she’d see Gino there, the two of them sharing glances across Fernanda’s bowed head.
Church was the only place where their families came together.
Stella couldn’t help but feel the tension when her parents crossed paths with Fernanda, Papà giving a curt nod when Mamma reminded him with a look that they were in God’s house, where judgement was the preserve of the Almighty.
‘Wow, what a beautiful church!’ Joe said. Stella felt a swell of pride. She quickly chided herself. This wasn’t her village any more.
‘There’s number four, isn’t that the property we’re staying in?’ She pointed at a yellow five-storey building, window boxes brimming over with white geraniums and pink petunias beneath each row of bottle-green shutters.
‘Yes, that must be it. At last!’ Joe wiped his brow.
‘I can’t wait to unpack, have a glass of water and freshen up.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ Joe grinned.
* * *
The oak wardrobe was vast but Stella only needed two hangers.
There was no point unpacking her whole case for just one night’s stay.
Joe sat on the edge of the bed, his empty water glass already in the sink, drumming his fingers on his thigh.
She couldn’t expect him to understand why she wanted to linger, arranging her cosmetics and stripy washbag by the bathroom basin, putting off the moment when they left the safety of the apartment’s four walls.
She was tempted to lie down, feigning a headache or some minor illness.
It wouldn’t be a complete untruth; the tension was tightening around her skull.
But she couldn’t face Joe’s smothering attention or worse, the thought that he might suggest that if she was too incapacitated, they should stay on for a second day.
Outside the apartment’s window a three-wheeled truck was pulling up.
She hoped it was coming to clear away the pile of scaffolding at the far end of the piazza but its back was piled with wooden planks, on top of which was furled a long white banner: everything needed for a makeshift stage.
A band must be playing in the village tonight.
Joe couldn’t have picked a worse date for their visit; the inevitable summer festivities had begun.
They lasted for weeks, the village playing host to visiting musicians, dance competitions, food festivals, not to mention their own brass band.
She’d played the triangle (the limit of her musical talent), her cousin Luisa the French horn.
Papà and Uncle Domenico sang folk songs with the other men, dancing with their arms aloft after too many tots of Amaro.
She’d been so embarrassed but now she’d give anything to see Papà dance again.
The memory sweet and painful all at once like sugary canestrelli on sensitive teeth.
She took out her phone and started to compose a message to Lauren, careful not to reveal any misgivings about Joe’s change of plan.
‘Stella! What are you doing?’ Joe had given up drumming his leg and sighing. He stood by the door, his small nylon rucksack slung over one shoulder, gripping the door key’s acorn-shaped fob.
Stella stuffed her phone into her bag.
‘I’m ready,’ she said. As ready as she’d ever be.