Chapter 42
It was no use. Fernanda couldn’t reach any further.
She shifted position slightly; the chair beneath her wobbled alarmingly.
She sucked in her breath sharply. There was no need to panic.
She had climbed up, so she must be able to get back down.
But how? And now there was someone knocking at the door.
A key rattled in the lock. It had to be Gino or Leo. She hoped it would be her grandson. He was more likely to laugh than give her a ticking off.
‘Mamma!’
Fernanda winced. Now she was in trouble. ‘In here, Gino!’
Her son thrust open the door. ‘Mamma mia! What are you doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’
‘I’m only standing on a chair.’
‘And you’re stuck.’
‘Who said I was?’
‘Mamma, of course you are! You didn’t come to answer the door. Here, let me help you down.’ He put his arms around her waist, lifting her as though she were as light as a slice of soft panarello sponge cake. It always amazed her how her little boy had grown into such a strong handsome man.
‘Thank you. It was much easier to climb up.’ She gave him a rueful smile.
‘It’s a good thing I came past to see how you were. I was worried you’d still be upset about that girl. It’s horrible to learn you had a thief in the house. But what on earth were you doing climbing up there? Dusting Violetta’s portrait?’
‘I’ve decided to take it down.’
‘I don’t know what you were thinking, the glass could have broken and cut you if you’d slipped and fallen.
Let me do it.’ He lifted the picture down easily, without recourse to the chair.
‘Where do you want it? Are you moving it somewhere else? If you’ve got a new hook, I can bring my drill over later. ’
‘It’s going away in a drawer.’ She watched his face move as if unsure of what expression to adopt. ‘Pietro’s remains returning to the village, the plaque Leo is carving… I think it’s time I faced the truth about Violetta. To acknowledge what she did.’
‘I think you’re very brave, Mamma,’ Gino said softly. ‘I know how much you loved her.’
‘I still do.’ Fernanda choked back a sob. ‘But it’s time to take her portrait down.’
‘I should stay for coffee.’
‘No, you get on. You stopped by to check I was okay after that horrible incident with Amy and I am. You get back to Leo’s house, I’m sure there’s more left on that DIY list. Or are you seeing Stella?’
Surprise crossed her son’s face.
‘I can say her name, you know. And Gino, I know you love her. You always did. Will you invite her for dinner tonight? It’s about time, don’t you think?’
Gino’s face lit up. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I want to make her welcome. I hope it is not too late.’
‘It’s never too late, Mamma.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you tonight. I’ll let myself out.’
He undid the front door, whistling to himself as he stepped back into the street.
Fernanda picked up the portrait of Violetta. She studied it for a long time.
‘I am so sorry, Violetta.’ She turned it upside down and slipped it into a drawer. She tied on her apron and gathered up her dustpan and brush, polish and a cloth. Keeping busy would stop her from dwelling on what she’d done.
The morning passed quickly, what hadn’t been cleaned would have to stay that way. Fernanda now had a meal to prepare. Luckily, she’d been shopping the day before, planning some of the meals she thought she and Amy might share. The cupboards were groaning.
She chose two large zucchini and began to chop them.
One piece bounced off the chopping board, falling onto the floor.
Before she had the chance to pick it up, the little so-and-so rolled away beneath the unit.
Fernanda tutted. She didn’t know if mice were partial to green vegetables but she wasn’t willing to leave it there and take the chance.
Her first instinct was to crouch down but she wasn’t confident she’d be able to stand back up again.
Instead, she fetched the broom. With a wiggle, it would just fit underneath.
Careful not to push the zucchino further back, she manoeuvred it out onto the tiles, tutting at the small clump of grey dust she’d also liberated.
She turned the broom over to pluck it off.
Something metallic sparkled; a coin threaded on a leather thong was tangled up between the bristles.
She eased it out and polished the one-lira piece on her apron.
The hole drilled through it, the flourish scratched onto the back: it was unmistakeable.
Fernanda frowned; this made no sense. Violetta’s keepsake had been upstairs on her dressing table ever since she’d snatched it back from Amy.
She sank down on a kitchen chair, turning the coin over in her hands.
Eventually she stood up and made her way over to the stove.
She filled the Bialetti. Perhaps a shot of coffee might fire up her slow old brain.
She drank her coffee, savouring the rich taste, but she was still puzzled.
She returned to the work surface and started chopping the zucchini again.
Snippets from the previous few days floated in and out of her head, vague recollections swirling until they formed a fuzzy picture: Father Filippo calling on her, bringing his sweet little niece; the two of them absorbed in their discussions whilst the child flicked through Gino’s old picture book of saints’ lives; Fernanda consulting her calendar to mark the date of the church fundraiser; an apologetic Father Filippo jumping up when he realised the little girl had wandered off.
Had he found her upstairs? Fernanda tried to remember but she hadn’t paid much attention, her thoughts full of brass polishing and hymns.
But she did recall the guilty look on the child’s face.
She’d assumed it was because she’d had a ticking off but had one of her little fists concealed Violetta’s necklace?
Had a sudden pang of conscience prompted her to slip it out of sight as she played on the kitchen floor whilst Fernanda made more coffee?
Fernanda laid down her knife for a second time.
Slipping the necklace into the pocket of her apron, she climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
She half expected the other coin to have vanished but it was still exactly where she’d left it.
She laid Violetta’s necklace next to it.
Both coins were identical, minted in the same year, the hole in each perhaps drilled by the same hand.
She turned them over, studying the portraits of the old king on the other side.
The same style of curved line was scratched into the reverse of each but they were different ways around, one forming the mirror image of the other.
She pushed the coins together so their edges touched.
She’d always wondered about the significance of the crude etching, whether it was a hastily executed asymmetrical letter ‘U’ or a ‘J’ – a letter that didn’t belong in the Italian alphabet but appeared in a few foreign words.
It was only when the two coins were united that the drawing made sense.
The curved lines weren’t initials. Each was one half of a broken heart.