Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
WREN
Wren thought of the sirens of Capri as they made the crossing over the water and came to the solid conclusion that a myth was indeed a myth. How anyone could imagine that a place as beautiful as this could be shrouded in horror stories was beyond her, although she supposed that would be exactly what the sirens would want her to think.
‘I can’t see the lighthouse,’ said Alan, sounding faintly worried.
‘It’s on the other side of the island, Dad. See that taller hill? It’s behind there.’
‘Oh, right. Smashing.’ He rubbed his hands together and smiled. ‘So, what else do you fancy doing? I won’t bore you with the lighthouse all day long, I promise.’
Wren shrugged. ‘Well, there are lots of shops and cafes. Some museums, I think. The beaches if you fancy a bit of sun worshipping?’ Wren had put her bikini on under her clothes just in case the day took that kind of a turn.
‘Oh, I’m not sure the Italian sands are ready for my pasty flesh, Wren. Besides, I’d only be thinking of beach walks with Johnny Boy. I hope he’s doing alright.’ Alan’s shaggy brown hair blew around in the sea breeze as he put his elbows on the rail and looked out over the water.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Wren reassured him, confident that John would be getting thoroughly spoiled at Cliff’s. But the thought of home reminded her of last night’s aborted conversation about her mam, and how, before they’d left for the airport, she’d put a letter through Edie’s door.
She felt a little regretful about that now. She’d written the short note in the heat of the moment, when she was in the midst of the break-up and not thinking straight. Despite being a professional writer, she suspected the content might have come across as slightly unhinged. Explaining her suspicions that her dad wasn’t the connection to the Community Kitchen after all, she’d asked again if it could be her mam and said she’d pop in again when she was home. And now she worried that she’d been too heavy-handed and the older woman was sitting at home fretting about some kind of showdown. She would have to apologise and thought she might find a nice gift to take too.
Contrary to the legends, the ferry docked safely in the marina, and they disembarked with the rest of that morning’s tourists. It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning, but Wren guessed that Capri wasn’t the kind of place to have a quiet spell; it was thronging with people, so they shouldered their way out of the crowd and made their way uphill, away from the water’s edge.
This place was gorgeous, she thought, as they walked along street after street of colourful buildings. The shops all looked eye-wateringly expensive – jewellers, clothes, perfumes – so they mainly window-gazed and soaked up the atmosphere of an island that was its own little high-class world.
Alan looked in the window of a gift shop selling poster prints, throw blankets and ornaments.
‘You could get that in Home Bargains for a quarter of the price,’ he said, turning up his nose at a set of wood wick candles, which were admittedly the cost of a decent pair of shoes. But then they happened upon a crop of slightly more affordable shops where Wren bought a cute little baby outfit for Libby, and Alan snapped up a dog toy in the shape of a piece of farfalle pasta. Then, in the last shop, Wren found a snow globe with a tiny model of the island of Capri inside, the lighthouse and the famous grottoes sitting in a sea of blue plastic. Remembering how Edie had a penchant for trinkets, she bought that too, hoping it would go some way to make up for pestering her.
They then stopped at a pretty cafe on the edge of town, with a canopy of lemon trees shading the outdoor seating area, and had strong coffee and sfogliatelle , delicious shell-shaped Neapolitan pastries filled with ricotta and candied fruit.
‘We’re going to have to walk this off, Dad,’ she said, patting her tummy.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s have a wander. Maybe in the direction of the lighthouse?’ he added hopefully.
Wren smiled. ‘Come on then.’
They walked towards Anacapri and found themselves at the foot of Monte Solaro, the peak they’d seen from the ferry. The name rang a bell. She checked the holiday itinerary Alex had emailed her several weeks ago, so she was fully briefed and ready. Sure enough, a hike up Monte Solaro had been pencilled in. She also remembered that he’d shown her photos of the view from the top, which she had to admit had looked incredible. And then she saw a chairlift.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Alan, nodding towards the chairs, a satisfyingly lazy way to get to the top. ‘Then we’ll go to the lighthouse after?’
‘Why not?’ he agreed, and they went to pay for tickets.
As they made their ascent, she imagined Alex stomping his way up the rough path below and settled smugly into the rickety wooden seat.
The journey up was breathtaking, with the scrubby ground and trees below, and the vastness of the sea to look out on to the side. She looked back to see her dad grinning happily as he also took in the scenery. When they reached the top, the views were even more impressive. This was the highest point in Capri, and according to other people’s chatter as they wandered by, one of the most stunning views on the island. She couldn’t disagree as she stared out at the unending blue sea below, hazy in the midday sun. Rugged outcrops curved into the bay below, and a series of tall rocks, like sentries, jutted from the water. One had a tunnel underneath it, and she watched tiny boats scoot underneath. She was glad they’d come, and equally pleased she could enjoy it without being sweaty and out of breath from a strenuous hike.
They spent a while roaming to all corners of the viewing terrace, taking photos and enjoying the breeze. Then they reboarded the chairlift, Wren nestling her beach bag beside her, safely away from the edge of the chair.
When the chair reached the bottom and Alan got off ahead of her, Wren looped the straps of her straw bag over her shoulder, ready to dismount, but as her feet reached for the ground, she felt a jolt. Her bag was stuck. It wasn’t coming with her, and her shoulder was still tethered under the strap. Her heart spiked as she realised she’d missed the dismount point and the chair was starting to make its way around the corner to ascend the slope again. She tugged at the bag – no joy, the straw loops were stuck on something. The Italian chairlift operators shouted and waved their arms.
In a panic, she realised that the ground was slipping further away from her, so she pulled at the bag even harder, slipping in the seat as she thrashed back and forth. The chair gave a sickening swing, and below, she saw tanned faces goggling up at her and the whiter-than-usual face of her dad, mouth hanging open. Then, with a final, panicked tug at her bag, it suddenly came loose, and she lurched backwards, slipping from the polished slats. With a shriek, she slithered off the edge, just able to grab the armrest before plunging to her death, legs swinging in the air like a ragdoll. Shouts and screams came from below, and from the other passengers suspended around her. Everything came in terrifying snapshots.
The chair juddered to a halt, and the squawk of an alarm bell emanated from the control box. Wren dangled there for what seemed like a long time but was probably only half a minute. A weird thought popped into her head. Alex would be amazed at my upper body strength. Then the chairs dropped slowly into reverse and she was delivered back to safety, her toes shakily touching the ground.
Officials ran over, barking at her in Italian, gesturing wildly at the chairlift, at her, at her bag. She kept saying sorry, over and over, her face burning at her captive audience, all staring at her from their chairs or in the queue. As much as she’d been praying to live a minute ago, she now wished she could simply die and be buried exactly where she stood.
One of the staff wrangled with the chair she’d been sat on and produced something, holding it up to her face, as if it were damning evidence. It was a carabiner – her bag must have got snagged on it.
‘It’s not mine,’ Wren said, shaking her head, but the official pressed it into her hand, tutting. Not having the wherewithal to argue, she shoved it in her bag.
Alan pushed through the small crowd, his white face now sporting crimson patches across his cheeks. ‘Bloody hell, Wren, what happened there?’
‘I think I’ve just shown my bikini bottoms to half of Capri,’ she blurted then started laughing, slightly maniacally.
Alan rubbed his hand through his hair, not enjoying the joke, then another official wearing the chairlift uniform marched over to them.
‘Come with me,’ the official said, unsmiling, taking Wren by the arm. He led her towards the visitors’ centre at a brisk pace, Alan trotting behind.
‘Now wait here a minute, sunshine,’ he said. ‘She’s done nothing wrong. It’s your safety measures that need looking at.’
Wren glanced nervously at the official as he took her inside. ‘Am I in trouble?’ she asked, her voice meek from shock.
‘Sit here,’ he directed, and she obediently took a seat on a bench. It was a tourist centre with a gift shop and information leaflets rather than an intimidating office.
The man strode off, and Alan, after checking Wren was okay, followed behind, continuing to give him an earful.
Wren leaned back and rested her head against the wall, closing her eyes. What if she’d fallen? She imagined tumbling to her death in front of her dad and felt sick.
‘Kayak tours! Available today! Can I interest you in a kayak tour, madam?’
She opened her eyes exhaustedly and saw a leaflet six inches from her face, and beyond that its bearer, a cheerful man in a baseball cap.
‘Madam, you look like just the kind of person who enjoys water sports. And today is your lucky day. We have a few spaces available on our kayak tour of the famous grottoes. Can I interest you in a ticket?’
She robotically accepted the leaflet, squinting at it. The picture showed some smiling people in dayglo lifejackets posing in front of the mouth of a cave. Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt a little faint. When she looked up again, the tout was being hustled out of the centre by the man who’d brought her in here, who returned to press a cool bottle of water into her hand.
‘Drink this – you’ll feel better.’
She did as she was told, and she did indeed feel better. Satisfied she wasn’t going to create even more drama by passing out, the man left her be. At the other side of the visitors’ centre, Alan was having an animated conversation with a woman, with lots of hand gestures involved. Wren sighed and got up unsteadily. She was fine – he didn’t have to make a fuss.
‘Dad, I’m okay,’ she said, plucking at his sleeve. ‘Let’s just go.’
He looked around almost in surprise and unexpectedly buoyant. ‘You’ll never guess who this is,’ he said with a broad smile.
Wren looked at the woman, who was as tall as her dad, strong-looking, with black hair in a rough topknot. Her lightly lined skin was a little ruddy, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. On reflection, she wasn’t wearing a chairlift uniform, so maybe Alan wasn’t lodging a formal complaint after all.
‘This is Lina,’ said Alan, his voice tinged with excitement. ‘She works at the lighthouse!’
‘Oh! Hello,’ Wren said, holding out her hand for Lina to shake, realising only after she did that her palm was clammy from shock. Lina, however, didn’t flicker or wipe her palm, much to her credit.
‘It’s lovely to meet you – and your father,’ she said in excellent English.
‘Oh, we’re honoured to meet you ,’ interjected Alan, almost standing on his toes. ‘Wren, did you know that Punta Carena has the second-brightest light in the whole of Italy?’
‘Second only to the Lanterna in Genoa,’ said Lina with an air of pride.
‘Um, that’s great,’ said Wren, nodding and smiling. Wren had lost any enthusiasm for lighthouses in her early teens, when any parent’s job becomes very dull to a kid.
‘Lina’s going to take us up for a look! It’s not manned anymore, but since she volunteers there, we can get inside!’
‘Amazing!’ Wren was slowly shaking off the adrenaline of her near-death experience but was still too befuddled to do anything but agree. So she found herself following along as Lina led Alan out of the building and in the direction of the coast.
He checked cursorily to see if Wren was truly alright then walked beside Lina, talking feverishly about geographic range and Fresnel lenses. They may as well have been talking Italian. However, Wren wasn’t too put out at being excluded. Her dad looked absolutely thrilled to be talking to a fellow lighthouse enthusiast, and it was nice to see him socialising – a rare event. Plus, it gave her time to continue regaining her composure, and as they approached the sea, she found herself looking at the waves and feeling a greater sense of calm.
They came to a split in the path, and Alan and Lina paused to let Wren catch up. Lina pointed up the path to the right, where Wren could see the lighthouse in the distance. Then Wren looked back at the sea. If it had been a plate of food, her mouth would have watered. After the drama of the morning, she felt hot, sweaty and rattled, and the thought of sitting on the beach and cooling off in the sea felt incredibly appealing.
As she approached, Alan was jabbering again, something about focal planes and arcs of visibility. She realised by the look on his face that he’d clocked her hesitation.
He paused. ‘Are you sure you want to come, pet?’
‘Yeah!’ she said as brightly as she could muster, but her eyes were drawn back to the coastline.
Alan frowned. ‘Ah, well it’s only going to be shop talk. How’s about you go and have a rest? I’ll meet you when I’m done.’
She hesitated, hoping he wasn’t covering any disappointment, but then he gave her a little wink. Feeling more relieved than she’d anticipated, she agreed and they parted ways.
Wren strolled down to the south side of the island via numerous stone stairways to reach the Marina Piccola, where she could see the same rock formations she’d looked down upon from Monte Solaro.
Walking along the top of the beach, she found it was busier than she’d imagined. Rows and rows of towels and sun loungers scored the strip of sand, and the shoreline was chaotic with families splashing in the shallows. She wondered if it would be as refreshing as she thought to stand in the breakers with a beach ball being bounced off her head. Maybe not. Then, in the distance, she saw a row of large beach huts with signs outside. A group of people were hovering nearby, and some men and women were dragging kayaks from the huts onto the sand. She remembered the flyer the tout had thrust upon her and retrieved it from her bag. It was the same company, and what was more, it sounded familiar. A quick check of her phone confirmed she was right – it was the kayak company Alex had booked, and the reservation time was only twenty minutes away.
She looked out at the sea again. Away from the shore, which looked like a boiling pot of water with all the activity going on, it looked so peaceful. It took her only a few seconds to make her decision and head over to the huts to show the online booking on her phone.
A tanned, athletic and bossy Italian woman was clearly in charge and directed Wren to a nearby hut to get changed into the provided wetsuit and rubber shoes. She followed Wren to the door and said, tapping her sports watch, ‘You be quick now – we’re leaving very soon. Put your bag with the others; it will be waiting for you on the other side of the island when we’re done.’
Wren nodded and resisted the urge to salute, then quickly got changed, slapping some factor 30 onto the bits of her arms and legs that the short wetsuit left exposed, and clipping herself into a lifejacket. By the time she got outside, the others were bobbing in the shallows, all except for one kayak and a man standing beside it.
‘ Sbrigati! You go with this one here,’ the wiry little woman shouted from the shore, waving her hands impatiently at the remaining boat and shooing the man into the hut from where Wren had just come. She tapped her wrist again, and Wren grimaced, rushing forward.
A few minutes later, she felt the back of the kayak bob down as the man climbed in. She turned around and smiled politely. He was about her age, with a mop of sandy hair and an honest, smiling face, pink from the sun.
‘I’m Wren, by the way,’ she said over her shoulder as he settled himself into his seat.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he replied, handing her a paddle. ‘I’m Nick.’
They pushed off into the water and let the waves draw them forward.