Chapter 11
‘I can’t imagine you living here,’ Joe said. ‘All these dank alleyways, funny little houses and uneven paving.’ He bent to rub the back of his ankle.
‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you,’ Stella said automatically. They were walking towards the edge of the village to admire the views across the hills.
‘Will you take me to where you used to live? I’d like to see your old house.’
She was about to protest but it gave her the perfect excuse to go the long way round, bypassing the end of the main street and the general store that Uncle Domenico had run alone after Papà’s death.
She spoke very little as they made their way through small courtyards, and sloping streets with steps leading up to some houses and down to others, where layers of the hillside had been cut away to build the village long ago.
It didn’t take long to reach Stella’s family home.
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sad to find it barely altered, even down to the little scroll carved into the lintel above the door.
The new occupants had changed only the colour of the paintwork and put a few terracotta pots by the front steps.
The shutters on her old bedroom window she had shared with her sister, Marta, were closed.
She couldn’t see her parents’ room from here, that was on the other side looking over the hill.
She used to sneak in there sometimes when Mamma was out, peeking in the wardrobe at Papà’s clothes still hanging there.
Then she’d stand on tiptoes looking across the vineyards towards the place where Gino’s family’s rustico stood, wishing senselessly that the two of them had braved the cuts and scrapes from the thick brambles and the climb in the heat to go there that day.
Fernanda would never have found them then.
One change of plan, one rev of a red moped and everything changed.
She felt a lump in her throat, Joe’s arms around her.
‘Stella, you’re crying. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise bringing you here would upset you.’
‘It’s nothing, just feeling nostalgic, I suppose.’
He took her hand. ‘Let’s see if we can find somewhere we can have one of those nice Italian ice-creams.’
She smiled weakly. As if gelato would solve anything!
But Joe was trying, bless him. She set off, trying to concentrate on the here and now.
Before she knew it her feet had carried her the shortest way.
They were back on the main street. Across the road stood Uncle Domenico’s old shop.
A silver Magimix took pride of place in the window surrounded by boxes and cartons faded by the sun.
Above the doorway, painted in green capital letters, was FERRANDO, her family name.
She tried to turn her gasp into a cough.
Perhaps it was just a coincidence, there weren’t many different surnames in the village; most of the families had intermarried over the years.
Or, she tried to tell herself, the shop had new owners who hadn’t yet bothered to paint over the sign.
But a blue budgerigar chirped in the cage hanging by the entrance – one of a long line of replacements for the original Mirtillo.
‘What is it, Stella? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is that shop something to do with your family? That’s your surname above the window.’
She hesitated. She could fob Joe off but there was already too much she hadn’t told him.
‘My grandparents used to run that shop, then later my great-uncle, then my papà and his younger brother Domenico took it over. It looks like Domenico is still there. He and Papà had two elder brothers but they were both killed in the war and there was a sister who moved away. Nonno didn’t survive the war either.
He wouldn’t have been conscripted, he was too old for that and anyway he had a dodgy leg and his eyesight wasn’t too good.
I believe he was a civilian casualty but I don’t really know what happened.
When you’re young you’re too wrapped up in yourself to be interested in what old people did.
’ Stella stopped, suddenly exhausted. It was the most she’d spoken about her family in years.
‘Your uncle must be ancient. Surely he can’t still be working, that’s ridiculous!’
‘Domenico must be in his mid-to-late eighties but he probably thinks it’s more ridiculous to sit around at home.
Growing up, the old folk around here worked until they dropped.
It looks like he still opens the place five days a week.
’ She gestured to the sign with clockfaces marking the opening and closing hours.
Joe peered in the window. ‘I can’t see anyone but it should be open. Shall we go in?’
‘Oh, no, let’s not bother. We don’t need anything.’
‘He’s your uncle, Stella.’ Joe sounded incredulous.
Stella searched for an excuse. But there was no time to ponder. A woman was walking along the narrow pavement straight towards them. Although she hadn’t set eyes on her for more than forty years, Stella recognised her at once.
Domenico’s daughter dropped her head, rummaging in her bag. If Stella moved quickly she could get away but her legs felt weak, as though if she moved she’d collapse in a heap.
Cousin Luisa looked up. She hurried towards them.
‘Oh my word, it’s you, Stella!’ Luisa gasped and raised her arms. For a moment Stella thought she was going to hit her but Luisa grabbed her by the shoulders, kissing her. ‘How incredible to see you. Whatever are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same, didn’t you move to Genoa after university?’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Joe coughed softly.
‘This is Joe – my fiancé.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘We’re just visiting for a day… and one night. We’ve been staying in Sanremo, we’re travelling on to Portofino tomorrow.’
‘Portofino, ooh, very nice. I don’t know why Papà didn’t tell me you’d be here.’
‘He didn’t know. We were just… umm… just passing.’
‘He’ll be so excited to see you. He’s very late opening up today. I rang the shop earlier and he didn’t answer but I’m sure he won’t be long. No, wait a moment, Mirtillo is in his cage, Papà must be here. Maybe he just didn’t hear the phone. He is a little deaf, though he’ll deny it.’
She pushed open the door. A bell jangled. The shop was empty, the counter unmanned.
‘There’s no one here,’ Joe said.
‘I’ll go and look downstairs in the cantina,’ Luisa said. ‘He must be checking on the stock.’
‘Okay, sure.’ Stella looked around. The place seemed larger than she remembered. She couldn’t put her finger on why until she realised it must have expanded through into the small milliner’s shop next door which had stood empty since the war.
A piercing scream cut through the silence. Her cousin’s voice called from the cantina below. ‘Stella, Stella, please help!’
Joe hesitated. Stella brushed past him, clattering down the stairs.
Uncle Domenico lay slumped on the floor, his face grey and racked with pain, Luisa kneeling beside him.
‘He must have fallen getting something from a high shelf.’ Her cousin gestured at a ladder leaning up against the wall. ‘Wait here with him, will you? I’ll run outside and call an ambulance.’
Stella sat down on the floor beside him, hoping her presence wasn’t going to make things worse. Uncle Domenico’s rheumy eyes fluttered. A puzzled look crossed his face.
‘It’s Stella… your niece.’
‘Stella? Little Stella? Is it really you? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?’
Stella couldn’t help laughing. ‘Yes, it’s me, Uncle. And you’re not dead and neither am I! We’re both still here.’
‘Well, help me up then. I can’t lie here all day. I’ve got customers.’
‘You’re not moving. Not until the ambulance arrives. But you’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.’
It had to be okay. Domenico might have broken a hip or a leg but he wasn’t going to die on her. Not like Papà did. For a moment she was back there: Domenico pumping frantically on Arturo’s chest. The paramedics arriving too late. The look Domenico gave her when all hope was gone.
* * *
Stella handed Luisa the battered canvas holdall. She’d worked quickly to find everything her uncle might need: three pairs of socks, underpants, vests, pyjamas, the razor from the bathroom cabinet, the half-read detective novel by his bed.
‘Thanks, Stella,’ Luisa said. ‘The ambulance should be here soon. Let’s hope there’s not too much traffic on the road to Sanremo.’
Stella bent down. She squeezed Domenico’s dry, bony hand, glad to have this quiet moment alone with her uncle and cousin whilst Joe stood outside, waiting to point the paramedics through the shop and down the stairs.
‘What happened to Arturo – your papà – it wasn’t your fault,’ Domenico murmured.
She shook her head angrily. She knew that wasn’t true.
‘I never blamed you, Stella,’ Luisa added. ‘We were shocked, angry, upset when Uncle Arturo died but it wasn’t your fault, whatever you may think. You might as well blame Gino’s mamma for finding you. You and he were teenagers, having fun like teenagers should.’
‘What I never understood is why Papà hated Gino’s family so much.’ Stella had pondered the schism for years. But she wasn’t going to find the answer to that now. A heavy tread on the floor above, voices calling out. The ambulance was here.
‘I’ll go with him to the hospital,’ Luisa said.
‘The shop… my customers…’ Domenico’s voice was agitated. ‘What will happen to my shop? What about Mirtillo?’
Stella took a breath. She couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t bring Papà back but she could do something for his little brother. It was one small sacrifice she could make, one small way to try and put things right.
‘I’ll look after the shop for a few days, and Mirtillo, of course. Just leave me the keys,’ she said.