Chapter 20
TWENTY
NICK
Light cut through the curtain like an unwelcome alarm clock. Nick blinked sleepily and for a moment forgot where he was. Then he felt the weight on his arm, and the strands of hair on his shoulder, and memories of the night before dropped into place.
His heart spiked, not unpleasantly. Seeing Wren on that float last night, the two of them crashing together again in another chaotic whirlwind. Then the fireworks, the kiss, and… what came after. The little rush of adrenaline he’d felt melted into a warm feeling in his belly, and he smiled up at the ceiling.
Wren stirred next to him and raised one hand to cover her eyes, grinning.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Morning,’ she replied, half her face still covered. ‘Argh. Don’t look at me. I’ve probably got mascara halfway down my cheeks.’
He peeled her hand away. ‘No, you’re good.’ More than good , he thought. He’d thought she was pretty since he’d met her, but this morning she looked beautiful. He checked himself as he thought this. It had been a long time since he’d been with anyone, and even then it had been Callie for all those years. He mustn’t get any big ideas.
Wren sprang from the bed and wrapped a sheet around herself, hurrying to the bathroom. Yes, best not get ahead of myself , he thought. She must have been finding this awkward. He busied himself by pulling on a T-shirt and making two cups of coffee while she was gone.
When she came out of the bathroom, she was dressed in her pyjamas and was fresh-faced. She took the cup gratefully and smiled, sitting cross-legged on the bed across from him. She sipped and looked away self-consciously, fiddling with her hair.
‘So…’ he said.
‘So…’ she said – then dissolved into laughter.
‘The awkward morning after.’
‘Yup.’ She gave him a look that was half-smile, half-grimace. He hoped that wasn’t performance feedback.
‘Not that I’m overfamiliar with an awkward morning after, mind you,’ he hastily added.
‘No! Me neither,’ she said, her face colouring. ‘Oh God, this is awkward.’
‘We’ve been through worse,’ he said. ‘I mean, this isn’t as disconcerting as getting trapped in a cave or getting punched in the side of the head.’
‘How’s it feeling today?’ she asked, gesturing towards his eye, which he presumed had developed into an impressive shiner. It did hurt quite a bit.
‘Can’t feel a thing,’ he said.
‘I still feel terrible. I can’t believe I got you thumped.’
‘Well, I don’t feel too good about making you hurl yourself at the harbour wall either, so I’d say we’re even.’ He smiled and only winced a tiny bit as his eye crinkled. ‘Anyway,’ he said, swerving any further discussion, ‘since we’re both feeling a bit better, maybe we can take one more shot at finding Richard. I’m going to head down to Sorrento after I’ve finished this coffee. You still want to come?’
‘Of course I do. My dad’s floating out at sea, probably manhandling a carp, so I’m all yours. I think we’re going to get results today.’
‘You sound very positive. More positive than I’m feeling. I mean, what are the chances of someone knowing exactly where this door is?’
The chances were surprisingly good. There was only one local newspaper in town, or at least that they could identify, and the guy in the office, who spoke excellent English, knew exactly what they were asking about. It turned out that the garden festival was a beloved annual event that he himself had covered, so he quickly produced a file on his computer with the article in question.
They scanned it and found the picture Sal had described – a house with a blue door and a bunch of brass grapes as a knocker. However, in front of it were about a dozen people, mostly men. It was a candid shot, with some people in profile, some wearing hats, some with sunglasses. There were a few of around the age he might expect, and some a little older, but none of them stood out. Whichever of them was Richard Keyes, he wasn’t feeling a cosmic connection to him through this picture.
They asked the journalist where the photo was taken, and he explained the house in question was situated in a small village called Minarolla.
‘The most beautiful garden. The place is owned by an English man.’
Wren and Nick took one look at each other, asked for directions and headed off into the hills of Sorrento once again.
Minarolla was a small cluster of terracotta-roofed buildings on the hillside, dotted with green trees and shrubs, and bright pink bougainvillea. They walked past a cafe where old men sat outside drinking espresso and playing chess, and a little school with kids playing in the yard. It was a place for families, Nick thought, which felt mildly reassuring.
Wren stopped in her tracks. ‘There it is,’ she breathed, pointing to a house on the far side of the cobbled square. It was a large townhouse built of sandy stone, with white-painted windows and hanging baskets on either side of a blue door with a brass knocker in the shape of a bunch of grapes. Nick stood still and looked at it, as if he was trying to see through the walls.
The man at the newspaper office had said it was owned by an Englishman, but now that he thought about it, that didn’t necessarily mean it was his dad. His heart sank a little as he considered the possibility that any one of the men in that photograph could have just been passing through. He had so many theories going around in his head, he had no idea what he’d say when he knocked on the door. But the thought that his father could be just behind it suddenly felt overwhelming and he stepped back a pace.
Wren looked at him with concern. ‘Are you okay?’
He swallowed dryly. ‘I think I just need a minute.’
‘Yeah,’ said Wren, brow knitted. ‘Yeah, of course you do. This is a big moment.’
They went back to the little cafe, and Wren took a table in the sunshine. Nick went inside, finding a shabby but authentic Italian bar with hissing coffee machine behind a Formica counter. Rows of biscotti lay underneath plastic cloches, and there were coffee-themed artworks on every wall. The moustachioed guy behind the counter was also pleasingly traditional, with a cloth thrown over one shoulder. He asked in clipped tones what Nick would like and briskly set to work. The bar was full indoors with people wanting a rest from the sun, and there was a sun-aged old man wearing a fedora sweeping the floor in between the tables and clearing cups. Nick took the coffees and headed back outside.
Wren was sitting with her head back, letting the sun fall on her face. Nick thought again how nice it would be if he was here just to enjoy her company. He glanced at her lips, remembering last night, but any feeling of desire was quelled by his anxieties. He sat down and placed her cup in front of her.
‘So… You okay?’ she asked, taking the biscotti from the saucer and snapping it in half.
‘No. Not really.’ He tried to laugh it off, but it came out sounding as brittle as the biscotti.
‘I don’t blame you. But there’s no rush.’ She nibbled her biscuit. He remembered what she’d said about her own mother the day before. He was getting an opportunity she’d probably kill for.
He slugged back his tiny coffee and stood up. He set his eyes on the house, feeling determined.
Wren stood up, smoothing down her shorts, and they stepped out onto the street. Nick’s heart rate picked up – whether it was from the coffee or the realisation that his moment was here – and he turned and took Wren by the chin. He leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth to the dry cackles and whoops of elderly men outside the cafe.
‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,’ he said, pressing his forehead to hers. She smiled up at him then kissed him lightly again.
‘I’ll be here when you’re done,’ she said, perching on a low wall and waving him towards the house.
He took a deep breath and marched up to the door, giving the grape knocker a firm rap. He waited for what felt like minutes but was probably only thirty seconds, then the door swung open to reveal a distinguished-looking man in his sixties. He had silver hair, lightly tanned skin and a neatly clipped short beard. He was wearing a blue shirt, open at the collar, and khaki trousers, and looked every inch the Englishman abroad.
‘Hello,’ said Nick. ‘I’m looking for Richard Keyes?’
The man stood staring at him, his face a storm of confusion, brow creased and mouth open. Did he know who Nick was? Did he see a resemblance in him? Nick waited, hoping he would say something… anything.
‘ Non capisco, signore… ’
Anything, thought Nick, but that. This wasn’t Richard Keyes. For all that he looked like an Englishman, he was quite obviously Italian and appeared to have no clue what he was talking about. But the newspaper had said an Englishman owned the house.
Nick took a step back, feeling his throat tighten. ‘Sorry, sorry. Wrong house.’ Then he paused. ‘Um, hold on, are you the owner? I was told there was an Englishman here. Inglese? ’ He gestured to the house.
The man’s eyes lit up. ‘ Sì, sì, inglese .’ He gestured to the house too. ‘Signor Harrison. Questa è casa sua .’ He pointed more theatrically to the building. ‘ Signor Harrison .’
Nick sighed and tried to plaster a polite smile on his face. Wrong Englishman. And he had no clue who this Italian man was or what further help he could be.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said, disappointment sapping his will to be understood. ‘It’s Richard Keyes I’m after, not Mr Harrison. Thanks anyway.’ He made apologetic gestures then backed away. The man closed the door, looking confused.
Nick walked back to Wren, who watched him approach cautiously.
‘No joy?’
He sat on the wall next to her and shook his head, looking down at his shoes.
‘I’m sorry. I really am. I was sure this was it.’
‘Me too,’ he sighed. ‘But I think this is the end of the road. I think that guy who answered the door might be some kind of visitor or maybe staff. He said the owner’s name is Harrison.’ This whole trip had been a wild goose chase, a sun-drenched waste of time. He put his palms on his knees and forced himself to stand up.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s walk you back.’
She stood up and rubbed his back, then they walked towards the hill path holding hands. They were just about to leave the village when the sound of feet came rushing up behind them. Nick turned to see the man from the house speed-walking across the square.
‘Ricky,’ he said, pointing to the cafe. ‘ Ricky! ’ He clasped his hands, clearly exasperated he couldn’t make himself understood, and Nick gaped at him. But then Wren touched his arm.
‘Nick, I think he means a man called Ricky works at the cafe.’
‘Richard? Richard Keyes… at the cafe?’ he asked, his heart beginning to pound.
‘ Sì, sì! Un signore inglese .’ He pointed at the cafe with even more fervour.
Nick dropped Wren’s hand and powered towards it, swinging the door open and stepping inside.
‘Richard Keyes?’ he asked, looking at the man behind the counter and remembering that he was quite definitely Italian too. He scanned around, wondering who else it could be.
The barista shouted, ‘ Eh, Ricky! ’ and there was clattering from beyond the main part of the cafe, through an opening that was screened off by a beaded curtain. The wizened old man who’d previously been clearing and sweeping nosed through the beads and looked askance at the barista, who waved a dismissive hand at Nick then tapped his watch.
‘ Dieci minuti ,’ the barista said to the old man and went back to cleaning coffee filters.
The old man regarded Nick, his dark eyes as piercing as a crow’s from underneath his fedora. He looked a little more familiar now that Nick was paying him full attention – he thought he might have been one of the figures in profile wearing sunglasses in the photo in the paper.
‘ Cosa vuoi? ’ he rasped, his head tilted back, his expression guarded.
Nick’s mouth was bone-dry. ‘English…’ he said, feeling suddenly stupid in his confusion.
Richard, or rather Ricky, narrowed his eyes. ‘I said, what do you want?’ His accent was southern, maybe with strains of Essex, and his tone was cold and unfriendly. He looked down his long nose at Nick, sizing him up. He was seventy if he was a day, something Nick hadn’t been expecting at all, since his mam was only in her fifties.
‘Um, if we could go somewhere and talk?’
Ricky stalked towards him, glancing about shiftily. ‘Listen, I told them not to send people to my work. He’ll get his money when I’ve bloody got it. Now piss off.’
He started to turn away, but Nick blurted, ‘I’m not here for money. I’m Nick. Your son.’
Ricky paused, mouth slightly open but eyes no warmer. He licked his lips nervously. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said to Nick. ‘I’ll meet you round the side.’
Nick nodded and obediently walked outside, feeling like a robot in his shock. Ricky could have asked him to lift up his shirt and belly dance and he’d probably have done it, since he seemed to have no control over his own mind. He saw Wren across the square, giving him two thumbs up, which he returned numbly, rounding the edge of the building where there was a bench, sun-bleached and with peeling paint. He sat on it, feeling like he was waiting to go into court or the headteacher’s office. After a minute, Ricky emerged from the back door of the cafe, looking over his shoulder. He sat down beside him.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said, hands on his skinny knees, not looking directly at him. ‘It’s been a long time since I wrote to your nan. Never heard nothing. Thought that was the end of it.’
Nick took him in – his leathery brown skin, work-hardened hands, rangy build. He tried to find himself in Ricky’s features but couldn’t see it. His sparse hair was grey with the suggestion of being fair at one time, and maybe there was something about the shape of his mouth, but other than that, he looked as much a stranger as he felt.
‘She kept it to herself. For a while. But I came as soon as I found out where you lived.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Well, roughly anyway. You’re not an easy man to find.’
Ricky eyed him sideways, a lopsided grin appearing on his lips. ‘That’s the way I like it, sunshine. Never let the grass grow under my feet.’
‘Right.’ Nick resisted the urge to relate this to Ricky’s abandonment of him, but it seemed to align well with a shady character like Sal not being able to seek him out. ‘So you never thought to come and find me? I mean, if you knew about the Community Kitchen…’
Ricky waved a hand. ‘Yeah, yeah. I get you. Let’s just say cash flow is sometimes an issue. The flights and whatnot. Out of my budget.’
Nick nodded. Ricky didn’t seem to be a man of great means. It kind of made sense.
Ricky looked at him squarely now. ‘Well, look at you. Chip off the old block, eh?’
‘Do you think?’ Ricky’s gaze ran over him, like he was cattle at market. There was something steely in his expression. Nick tried to be polite, even in his discomfort. ‘I’m not sure I’m seeing it myself.’
‘Nah, nah. I can see it. You’ve got my old dad’s eyes.’ He nodded, rubbing his bristly chin. ‘Yeah, I see it now.’
‘Wow.’ Nick felt a sudden rush of emotion, realising that he hadn’t just found a father but potentially a whole family. ‘Sounds weird, but I never really thought about having a grandfather – or grandmother. On your side.’
He cackled. ‘Well, don’t get too excited – at my age, they’re long gone.’
‘Of course. Sorry. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ Then a thought struck him. ‘Or other children?’
‘Nah, just me,’ he said, picking at one of his fingernails and looking up into the sun. He reminded Nick of a basking lizard, soaking up the rays. ‘And as for sprogs, heh, who knows, eh?’
Nick blinked. ‘You don’t… know?’
Ricky’s eyes glinted. ‘Like I said, sunshine, I don’t let the grass grow under my feet. Now, tell me a bit more about yourself.’
‘Uh, well, I live in Northumberland. Run my own glazing business. I’ve got a daughter. You… have a granddaughter.’
Ricky’s face remained impassive. ‘Right. And business going well?’
‘Yeah, it’s okay, I guess.’
‘Uh-huh. But you must have had a good start in life, what with your nan being a high flier and all that. And the family money.’ He held Nick’s gaze and quickly licked his lips.
‘The family money? What family money?’
‘Your mum said your nan was well off. Inheritances and whatnot. I thought that’s how she started her soup kitchen thing.’
Nick shook his head. ‘No. She started it from a trestle table on the street. The rest was donations…’
Ricky’s face hardened. ‘Right.’
Nick gave a quiet laugh; tried to make light of the mistake. ‘Believe me, if there was family money, I’d have an idea about it. Edie’s lived in a two-bed bungalow her whole life, and she gets by on a pension now.’
Ricky chewed his lip and stared off into the distance. ‘I see.’
The afternoon sun was relentless, baking hot, but the atmosphere around them had turned ice-cold.
‘Anyway, I’d best be back to work. Nice to meet you though, Nick.’ Ricky stood up and stretched, giving Nick a nod and a smile that now seemed mean around the edges.
‘Hold on,’ said Nick, jumping up. ‘Can I find you later? Catch up a bit more? Where are you living?’
‘I’m a bit busy, sunshine. Maybe another time.’
‘There is no other time. I’m flying back soon. I mean… I could come back again, fly out?—’
Ricky held up a hand. ‘Let me stop you there. I’m glad to meet you, but… well, I don’t think this is going anywhere.’
‘What do you mean? You wrote to Edie, asking about me . And I’m here now.’
‘I know, and you seem like a nice bloke. But I ain’t cut out for fathering. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
Nick opened his mouth to counter him again, but then a sinking feeling dropped into his gut. The family money. Edie being ‘high flying’. Business going well.
He took a step back, and a bitter laugh escaped from him. ‘Right. I think I see what’s happened here.’
Ricky didn’t even have the shame to disagree. He shrugged and wandered back to the cafe door. ‘Careful as you go now,’ he said over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
Nick’s jaw dropped. This man wasn’t his father. Yes, he might have impregnated his poor mother some thirty-three years ago, but there wasn’t a shred of paternal feeling in his body. And now it looked like Nick was just one of an unknown number of Ricky’s offspring, left behind like rubbish thrown out of a car window. Not enough monetary value to be worth his while. He felt sick, genuinely sick, like he might vomit right there and then where he stood. He swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth and turned around.
Feeling numb, like he’d been plunged into icy water, he walked away from the cafe as fast as his legs could carry him. The village swam in front of his eyes as he walked over the square, heading for the hill path. He was dimly aware of Wren rushing up to him.
‘What happened? Are you okay?’ She was breathless with concern.
‘I can’t,’ he managed, turning away. He stumbled towards the hill path then felt a pulse of regret. Wren looked on, her face creased with worry.
‘Listen, I’m sorry. I just need some time to get my head together.’
‘Of course. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I will be. Are you okay getting back?’
‘It’s only down the hill – don’t worry about it. I need to meet my dad soon anyway.’
She stood there, wrapping her arms around her middle. Nick wavered. This wasn’t what he’d expected to be doing after all the help she’d given him, but he was in no fit state for a debrief right now.
He jogged up to her; kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘I’ll come and see you. Tonight.’
She nodded, and he walked off down the path.
Nick somehow made it back to Naples after hailing a taxi, the driver rubbing his hands together at the fare he was due to get paid. There was a brief, slightly hallucinatory stop at a cash machine to get the guy his extortionate fare, followed by a drive along the coast that should have had him staring out of the window in awe but he’d seen only in faded snapshots. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at leaving Wren behind in Minarolla that grew fuzzier when mixed with the image of the man he would never call his father sitting hunched meanly on that bench.
He got out of the taxi and walked numbly up to the hotel. Travis was waiting in the doorway and rushed over, his face etched with worry.
‘Nick, where have you been? I’ve been trying to ring.’
‘My phone was on silent. My bad.’
Travis’s face crumpled, and he reached for Nick’s arm. ‘Listen, I’m sorry…’
How the hell did Travis know what had happened?
‘How did you…?’ he started to ask.
Travis’s face flashed with confusion, but he shook his head and his expression returned to anguish.
‘It’s Nanna.’