Chapter 15
It was dark, the shutters blocking any light.
Amy had slept remarkably well in Fernanda’s narrow single bed.
It was only the sound of the front door clicking that had broken her dreams. The old lady must have left for church; she’d mentioned the night before that she attended morning mass every day.
Amy scrambled out of bed and fixed back the shutters.
Fernanda’s small house lay on the outskirts of the village.
Beyond the mesh that kept the insects out, the view across the hillside took her breath away.
It was so calming, Amy felt she could stay there all morning with her nose pressed up against the window, but she had a funny feeling Fernanda wouldn’t approve of her wasting the day away.
There was no reason to hang around the house.
Fernanda wasn’t providing breakfast; Amy would have to go to the local bar for that, though she was welcome to use the kitchen to fix herself a drink.
Last night she’d been shown a fiddly-looking coffee pot and a jam jar full of rather dusty-looking teabags that she decided she wouldn’t bother with once she’d learnt Fernanda didn’t keep any milk in the fridge.
She put down her phone on the Holy Bible Fernanda had left on the bedside table.
Pulling down the edge of Jack’s old T-shirt she was using as a nightdress and dragging a hand through her tangled hair, she picked up her towel and washbag and headed for the shower.
It would make sense to use the shared bathroom whilst the old woman was out.
Gurgling sounds came from behind the bathroom door, the plumbing no doubt as ancient as the terracotta floor tiles and well-worn rug in the hall.
Amy turned the round handle. The door flew open, sending her tripping over an uneven tile and almost pitching her straight into – what the heck!
– a rather fit young man, naked from the waist up.
Amy let out a shriek. She folded her hands across her body, relieved she’d packed her brother’s baggy old top to wear in bed rather than the pink T-shirt with a hem that barely reached her knickers.
‘Che diavolo!’ The young man grabbed at his towel as it threatened to fall to the floor. Amy couldn’t prevent a nervous giggle escaping, her initial fear tempered by his obvious embarrassment.
The man ran one hand through his damp hair, clutching the edge of his towel with the other.
She tried not to stare at his golden-brown chest – whoever this was, he definitely worked out or did some sort of physical job.
The rest of him wasn’t bad either: medium build, medium height, strong tattoo-covered arms and a smile that lit up his golden-brown eyes.
‘Scusi… umm…’ The few words of Italian she knew weren’t any use to her. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she said instead. Amy was sure Fernanda would have mentioned if she had another guest staying. In a house this size, three people would be constantly under each other’s feet.
‘You’re English.’ He frowned into the mirrored cupboard on the wall, retrieved a comb and swept it roughly through his hair; a pointless exercise as the strands that had fallen over his eyes flopped straight back down again.
‘Yes, I am and I’m staying here. Now I’ve answered your question, are you going to answer mine?’ She laughed nervously.
‘I just came in for a shower, mine’s broken, the plumber can’t come until this afternoon. I knew Nonna Fernanda would be out, she goes to mass every morning, never misses a day.’
‘Oh, Fernanda’s your grandmother!’ This must be the son of the man from the tennis club; no wonder his English was so good.
‘Did you think I just walk into old ladies’ houses to use the hot water?’ His lips twitched with amusement. ‘I’m Leo, by the way. I am sorry I startled you. Nonna rarely rents out the room nowadays. Well, I’d better let you have the bathroom, umm…’
‘Amy.’ She shifted awkwardly, clutching her towel.
‘The shower makes a little spluttering sound before the first few drops of water come out but after that it is okay.’ Leo squeezed past her into the hall.
‘Sure, err, thanks.’ She hung her towel on the back of the door, engaged the so-called lock – a flimsy latch held in place by a single nail – and stepped onto the plastic tray, drawing the nylon curtain.
The pipes made a sound like a cough but after a couple of violent splashes, the water gushed out, just as Leo had said.
Amy squirted out a large blob of shampoo, glad she’d packed her own.
She closed her eyes, working up a generous lather as she inhaled the scent of lime and basil.
How Leo had emerged smelling so good after using Fernanda’s workaday shampoo and cracked sliver of soap was a mystery.
Amy didn’t linger in the shower, mindful not to run down the old lady’s hot water.
Wrapping her towel around her very firmly in case Leo hadn’t left, she hurried back to her room, grabbed some underwear and pulled her blue sundress over her head.
She rummaged in the inside pocket of her case for her teardrop-shaped pendant.
It was one of her favourites but her neck felt strangely naked without Lance’s coin necklace.
‘Coffee?’ Leo called from the hall. ‘It’s okay, I have clothes on!’
‘Same here.’ She opened the door. Leo stood in the hall, now fully dressed. His jeans were worn at the knees, covered in what looked like white paint, his light green shirt similarly stained and frayed around the collar.
‘Not my best look.’ He flashed a rueful grin. ‘I am going to work.’
‘What as? Sorry, that sounded a bit rude.’
‘It is okay. I would be surprised if you were dressed like me instead of looking so lovely.’
Amy felt herself flush. ‘So, what do you do?’
‘I am a scalpellino, a stonemason, you call it. By the end of the day my skin is full of dirt, clothes covered in dust. Sometimes I wonder, why do I have a shower in the morning? But I do not like to start the day feeling – how do you say – grubby?’
‘Icky?’ Amy suggested.
‘That is a good word. I do not know it. You like coffee? Nonna will be okay if I wash the pot.’
‘Yes, grazie. I haven’t had breakfast.’
‘You will not find much here. Nonna eats like a sparrow.’
‘She told me to go to the bar.’
‘Good coffee and the best gobeletti.’ His face broke into a wide grin. ‘We will go there instead so I can show you.’
She already knew where the bar was but she guessed he knew that too.
‘I don’t want to make you late.’
‘I work for myself.’ He shrugged. ‘And now I am thinking of gobeletti. They are a small kind of tart; have you tried them yet?’
‘No but they sound like good fuel for carving or whatever stonemasons do.’
He opened the door, locked it and put the key under a terracotta pot filled with geraniums. Amy followed him down the street, the sun hazy on the hills in the distance.
The village was coming to life. Three old men stood talking on the corner by the turning to Sant’ Agata, hands clasped behind their backs.
One had a dog’s lead looped over his wrist, another had his fingers threaded through the handles of a plastic bag full of groceries.
A smartly dressed lady passed by using a walking stick; perhaps she had come from the same church service as Fernanda.
The bar was busy, it seemed many of the local folk were as keen on their pastries as Leo was. And their enthusiasm wasn’t misplaced. The gobeletti were delicious: thick sweet apricot jam under a little pastry lid. Leo had an espresso, Amy a cappuccino, a leaf drawn on the surface.
‘So, what sort of things does a stonemason do?’ She cringed at her boring question.
He opened a sachet of sugar. ‘Lettering mainly, carving names and dates on headstones and plaques, that is the day-to-day work. I like to do it, even the simple things, they are important. A name spelt wrong on somebody’s grave can be devastating.’
Amy nodded, wondering how to continue the conversation, it seemed a rather gloomy subject. She took a bite of her gobeletto, stalling for time.
‘What I really enjoy is the chance to be creative, to add decoration,’ Leo continued. ‘Some people ask for scrolls, flourishes, fruit, flowers. Of course, I sketch a design for them to approve before I start carving.’
‘That sounds fun. I do a bit of pottery. Well, I did when my grandpa was alive, he had a potter’s wheel and a little studio in my mum’s garden shed.’
‘And do you not make things now?’
‘It doesn’t seem the same since he’s gone. I can’t get motivated somehow. Not just the pottery, everything seems so much harder. He only died a few weeks ago. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’
‘Sorry? The English say this word a lot, usually when there is nothing to be sorry for. You miss your grandpa, that is natural. Maybe that is the reason you are here in Italy.’
She nodded and took a sip of her coffee.
Leo leant forward, one hand resting on his chin. ‘He had a connection to this village?’
‘Perhaps. He spent his childhood in Italy, at the seaside, in Alassio. The family returned to England in the late 1930s. I don’t know what connection he had to this place, but there was a postcard of Leto in the memory box he left me.’
‘Then it must have meant a lot to him. Did he come back to Italy after the war?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but he went off on all sorts of adventures; he found it hard to settle after being demobbed. He even drove tanks for the British Army in Yemen for a time. He settled down in England eventually after meeting my grandma and finally had a child when he was in his fifties.’
‘That was your dad?’
‘No, Grandpa was my mum’s dad. My dad’s parents were quiet and conventional: holidays on a canal boat, gardening, knitting, playing dominoes.’
‘I never knew my other grandparents, only Nonna Fernanda. I spent hours in her little house during the summer holidays. Anyway, that is enough about me.’ He popped the last piece of tart in his mouth.
Amy hastily downed the dregs of her coffee. ‘I should let you get to work.’
‘Yes, I must. I have a deadline for something important.’
She reached for her purse.
‘No, I will go in and pay. We will call it compensation for scaring you this morning.’ His eyes sparkled.
A vision of him half-naked came unbidden. Her cheeks burned. ‘Thanks, that’s kind of you. I think I will stay here for a few minutes more, take a look at the map your nonna gave me and make a plan for the day.’
He stood up. ‘See you, Amy, ciao!’
She sat and watched him walk down the street, the sun brightening his mid-brown hair.
Once he was out of sight she unfolded the map, tracing a route with her finger.
There were plenty of streets and paths to wander down, a couple of churches to explore.
But she was pretty sure there was nothing she would find in Leto that would provide a link to her grandfather’s past. The small village would probably turn out to be another dead end, like Alassio.
But there was something about this place.
She didn’t know why, but she was in no hurry to leave.