Chapter 29
Tilly’s fingertips are covered in flour, her bare shoulders warm from the late morning sun that slants in through the open-air kitchen attached to the crumbling Tuscan farmhouse at the top of the hill.
The air is sweet with the smell of apricots, figs and peaches growing in the orchard.
A view of golden yellow stretches ahead of her, the fields of sunflowers that entirely surround the villa in stark contrast to the piercing blue sky.
When Harper called to say that she had a free ticket to attend a pasta-making course in Tuscany, it hadn’t taken long for Tilly to agree to go with her.
‘When I heard “pasta” I thought of you,’ Harper said on the phone.
‘The place looks incredible. It’s a villa in the middle of nowhere.
Wouldn’t it be fun to go away together again?
It will mean being away over Joe’s anniversary, though.
But I thought we could mark it in some way while we’re there?
And I’ll be there with you to support you. ’
Ever since turning down the invitation to join Joe’s family Tilly has been uncertain about how to mark the day.
She knows her parents would offer to come and visit, or invite her to Hay for the weekend, but she isn’t sure she can face their worry and their well-meaning but sometimes smothering care.
She was leaning towards spending the day alone, but as soon as Harper suggested the trip she realized that, of all the people in her life, it is her sister she wants there with her on what Tilly knows will be a painful day.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to bring Raj with you?’ she asked.
‘There’s no one I’d rather have with me,’ Harper assured her.
So here they are, learning how to make pasta in an outdoor kitchen with views across the Tuscan countryside. Tilly pauses what she is doing, rubbing her hands on her apron and taking a photo of the view to send to the Paris Grief Gang WhatsApp group.
Cécile:
Incroyable!
Fairooz:
That looks so beautiful. I think you made the right choice about going.
Pierre:
Absolutely. If you’re going to be sad, you might as well be sad in the sunshine with pasta and wine.
John:
Quite right. Tuscany is one of my favourite places. Buon appetito!
Lola:
Have a great trip, Tilly. We’ll all be thinking of you on Joe’s anniversary xx
The others send heart emojis in reply and Tilly smiles to herself, slipping her phone back in her apron pocket.
‘Next, we crack an egg into the flour,’ comes the heavily accented voice of their instructor, Constanza, a grey-haired woman who makes up for what she lacks in height by sheer physical presence. Tilly is a little terrified of her.
Harper passes her an egg and Tilly does what she is told, watching as a yolk so bright orange it is almost red pools into the flour.
‘Now gently bring the flour and the egg together with your fingertips.’
Everyone diligently sets to work.
They are a small group: there is a honeymooning American couple called Tiff and Tim (Harper giggled when they introduced themselves, before realizing they weren’t joking, and hastily disguising the laugh as a cough), an English woman in her fifties called Deborah (who announced on their first encounter that she is here as a treat after a messy divorce) and a German mother and daughter duo, Ingrid and Emma.
Constanza walks around, a tea towel slung over her shoulder and a navy apron wrapped tightly around her waist, inspecting their work with the attitude of an army general checking on her troops.
‘More flour! Abbastanza! That’s enough! When the flour and egg have come together, you must gently knead it, like this.’ She demonstrates, her movements fluid.
As Tilly sets to work on her own dough she marvels at how the mess of flour and egg has quickly become something smooth and enticing. The colour is unlike any pasta she has ever eaten before – a rich gold not dissimilar to the colour of the sunflowers in the fields surrounding the villa.
‘Delicatamente!’ Constanza snaps at Tim, who has hands the size of melons and has been thumping his dough vigorously. A blush creeps across his face.
‘Now the pasta must rest,’ Constanza says once everyone has a neat ball of dough on their work surface. She puts them in the fridge.
A fresh jug of lemonade comes out and is poured around the group.
It is blazingly hot outside, the grass crisp and the terracotta tiles of the villa practically steaming.
But thanks to their position at the top of the valley there is also a light breeze that blows in and out through the open kitchen, the slanted awning above protecting them from the sun.
Once everyone has finished their drinks Constanza claps her hands together.
‘After siesta, we make pesto.’
Harper licks her lips and smiles at Tilly. ‘Mmm, I love pesto.’
‘You haven’t tried pesto,’ scoffs Constanza, ‘until you have tried my pesto.’
After a lunch of tomato salad, fresh fruit and crusty bread everyone retreats into the cool of the stone-walled villa, shutters closing and a hush descending on the hillside apart from the background murmur of the cicadas, bees and the softly cooing hens.
Tilly’s room is plain and comfortable, most of the space taken up by a four-poster bed with soft white sheets.
She climbs into bed and reaches for the book on the bedside table, her latest from Joe, collected last week.
From inside the pages of the orange clothbound hardcover she withdraws a letter, sinking back against the pillows as she rereads it.
Dear Tilly,
I remember you once saying that poems are like medicine.
That whatever your ailment, there’s a poem out there for you.
I hope you have been enjoying your year of books.
It makes me happy to think about these books bringing you even a little bit of joy.
But I also know that life can’t all be joy (oh, how I wish it could).
There are the quiet moments and the dark moments too.
I wish I could be there to help you through those moments now.
The Poetry Pharmacy seemed like the perfect choice: a book of poetry prescriptions to help you when you need them. I hope they bring you comfort. And I hope that the words of other people help you to see that you are not alone.
I love you.
Joe x
When she collected the book, Alfie was alone in the bookshop.
It felt awkward at first, remembering the feel of his hands on hers and how for a mad moment she had hoped he might hug her.
But the moment passed once Tilly told him about her upcoming trip to Tuscany and he started grabbing books from around the shop that were set there: A Room with a View, Under the Tuscan Sun, Diary of a Tuscan Bookshop, Still Life …
As she was about to leave, arms heavy with her next book parcel and a whole stack of his recommendations, Alfie said in a soft voice, ‘It’s Joe’s anniversary soon, isn’t it?’
She blinked back at him, stunned that he had remembered.
‘When I’m in Italy.’
‘I’ll be thinking of you.’
She picks up The Poetry Pharmacy now and turns to the ‘Love and Loss’ section. But before she can begin to read she is interrupted by the sound of her sister’s voice in the room next door.
‘I know … I’ve told you why I … Raj …’
Her sister’s voice is tight with tension, completely different to the carefree voice she has used all day. Through the wall Tilly hears a defeated sigh that sounds very much not like Harper.
‘Now isn’t the right time …’
Tilly is dragged away from her eavesdropping by the sound of her phone pinging on the bedside table.
Harper’s voice immediately quietens on the other side of the wall and Tilly feels guilty for listening in.
It’s none of her business. But whatever Harper and Raj were talking about, it didn’t sound like a happy conversation.
Rachel:
So, how’s pasta making in Italy? Not that I’m at all jealous … Hope the sun is shining for you. I know this week will be hard but I hope you’re able to have fun too. I’ll be thinking of you on the 15th. xxx
It feels strange to have Rachel mention Joe when they still haven’t talked about the months of silence following his cancer diagnosis. Maybe she should have brought it up by now, but they’ve only just found their footing with one another again.
Tilly:
Thank you. The sun is shining and the place is incredible. I learnt how to make pasta dough this morning, and tonight we’ll be cooking it with pesto we’re going to make in a bit. x
She attaches a photo taken from her window, faded green shutters giving way to a view of open countryside.
Rachel:
Wow, that looks idyllic. xx
Tilly:
It is.
She hesitates as another murmur of conversation drifts through the wall connecting her to Harper’s room. She knows her sister well enough to be able to picture the deep frown on her face. She types another message to Rachel.
Tilly:
Although, something weird seems to be going on with Harper. I can hear her on the phone with her boyfriend right now and it sounds like they’re arguing. I hope everything’s OK … x
Rachel:
Oh no, that sucks. Do you think they’re breaking up? Maybe that’s why Harper invited you on this trip? Maybe she needed this too … xx
Tilly stares at the phone screen, her thoughts rearranging themselves. She thinks back to their trip to Bali when Harper spent the evenings eyeing up men, seemingly for Tilly, but what if …?
There’s a knock at the door.
Tilly:
I hadn’t thought of that, but maybe you have a point. I’ve got to go. Chat again soon xx
Harper stands outside Tilly’s door, red-eyed but smiling.
‘Ready for more pasta making?’ Her voice is as cheerful as ever, but Tilly can hear the strain behind the bravado.
She is reminded of the time Harper fell out of a tree.
Harper refused to shed a tear because she didn’t want their parents to know she’d climbed higher than she was allowed.
It was only the day after the fall, when she passed out during their school PE lesson, that an X-ray revealed Harper’s arm was broken.
For weeks afterwards Tilly felt guilty, because she had been inside reading at the time, their parents entrusting her with looking after Harper while they were out for a couple of hours.
She wasn’t watching her sister closely enough then, and perhaps she hasn’t been watching closely enough now.