Chapter 18 Fenna – Day 5
Siena is teeming with tourists, bikes, art, and architecture.
As soon as they arrived, Marianne steered Fenna to Galleria Lombardi.
Despite not picking up a paintbrush in years, her mother-in-law clearly can’t escape the pull to be surrounded by art.
She explained how the collection of Italian Renaissance art is tiny compared to the vast gallery around the corner, but the space was air-conditioned and deliciously cool.
Luke and Gerry took Alba to get an ice-cream after her noisy protests attracted too many tuts and glares from other visitors, and Theo and Rosie went off somewhere.
She’s not sure where. Rosie has barely spoken a word to her all morning since Giovanni’s visit.
The scribbles in her notebook that she found in her beach bag play on her mind.
What does it mean? She hasn’t had the chance to google the address yet.
Marianne and Fenna have meandered silently around the peaceful space, pausing now and then to look at portraits from the sixteenth century that caught their attention.
‘Do you see how they’ve captured the light? It’s spellbinding.’ Marianne muses, shaking her head in awe at an oil painting of a vase of colourful flowers.
‘You paint better,’ Fenna says. Her mother-in-law might be lots of things, but she can’t deny her talent.
‘Oh, shush.’ Marianne lets out a tinkle of a laugh.
‘Do you miss it?’ Fenna asks.
‘Every day. It wasn’t a job to me. It was my passion.’
‘So why not paint again?’
She remembers Luke telling her his childhood stories of his mum locked away in a paint-splattered studio, emerging with unwashed hair and bags under her eyes after working on a painting for days.
He is proud of his mum but once confided to Fenna that he could never understand why people used to pay so much money for her pieces.
Marianne stiffens beside her. ‘No. That’s all in the past.’
Raffi wriggles in his pushchair and lets out a mewling cry.
Lunchtime. There is a bench in front of a wide fresco and Fenna settles on it with Raffi in her arms. It’s a scene of a woman and a man, side by side, his head against her ample, curved bosom.
Fenna peers closer at the shiny plaque underneath.
Saint Monica. Patron Saint of Mothers. This seems like the perfect spot to subtly whip out the muslin and feed her baby.
There is an occasional squeak of soles padding around, a polite cough and whispered Italian voices as visitors respectfully file past. Fenna reads the plaque below the painting once Raffi has latched on.
A paragon of enduring love, patience, and persistent efforts. Saint Monia was a mother who believed her son was capable of good.
She prayed tirelessly for many years for her wayward son, Saint Augustine to convert to Catholicism. Eventually, he rejected his immoral life and found his faith.
Seen by many as a model wife and parent, but others believe she submitted to her volatile husband’s abuse, meddled in her son’s relationships, and violated boundaries.
Marianne comes to sit beside her and clears her throat. ‘Why don’t you and Luke go out tonight? We don’t mind watching the children.’
‘Well, Raffi will need to come with us,’ Fenna says.
‘No he won’t, give him a feed and he’ll be fine. Even if you only go for one drink. You need to leave him one day, you know.’
Fenna pushes her hair from her face. Luke has been in such a strange mood recently, she’s not sure she particularly fancies spending one-on-one time with him. ‘I’ll see what Luke says.’
Marianne smiles as if she was expecting that reply. ‘I’ve already asked him. He said it would be fine.’
Fenna clenches her jaw. She doesn’t want to seem unreasonable.
It’s kind – and unexpected – of her mother-in-law to offer, but Raffi is still so dependent on her there’s no way she’s ready to leave him.
It’s not just his age. The horror of the break-in still hangs over her.
Fear pulsates inside her at the thought of it happening again.
Until someone is caught she won’t rest easy.
‘Thanks but I might have an early night.’
‘You’re on holiday,’ Marianne says, rummaging in her handbag for a bottle of mineral water. ‘Well, the offer’s there if you change your mind.’
Fenna flashes a tight smile and focuses her attention on her son, rubbing a finger over his velvety soft cheek.
‘I hope Theo and Rosie are having a nice time. It’s good for her to see the sights. I can’t believe she’s not been to Italy before,’ Marianne muses.
‘Mmm.’
Fenna can’t shake off the things she saw in that notepad she found in Rosie’s beach bag yesterday. What do the chaotic scribbles mean? Why would she have a local address written down, and a note saying ‘Fraser?’
‘What do you think of Rosie?’ Fenna asks.
‘Oh, she’s wonderful. She’s a positive, calming influence on Theo. Having a nice girlfriend like that will do him the world of good. Why? What do you make of her?’
Fenna chews her lip. ‘Erm . . .’ How can she explain what she saw without confessing that she went through her bag?
‘Go on?’
Fenna exhales. Here we go. ‘There’s something about her.’
‘Like what?’
‘Don’t you find that she asks a lot of questions?’
‘You were the same when we met you.’ Marianne chuckles. ‘We need to cut her some slack. She’s meeting all the family in one go, there’s lots to take in. Plus, the police knocking on the door every five minutes isn’t exactly welcoming.’
Thankfully Fenna was dressed when Giovanni visited at breakfast this morning, and not in her pyjamas this time. Not that he gave her a second glance. He was more focused on delivering the worrying news about Carla.
Gerry and Marianne don’t seem too concerned about the missing member of staff and Julietta thinks it’s a lovers’ tiff. She remembers what Luke said to her on the way here. ‘The local police need to be seen to be taking these things seriously, given the town’s history.’
What was Giovanni getting at singling her husband out like that? She was sure she saw Rosie’s eyes widen. There’s something about her. Something she can’t put her finger on. Her gut is warning her to keep her at arm’s length.
‘This is one of my favourites here,’ Marianne says, nodding to the painting in front of them.
Clearly wanting to change the subject. A Fraser family trait.
‘She’s also known as the saint of “trying your best”.
She dedicated her life to the salvation of her son.
She wept every night for him to change his ways.
When yours are teenagers, you’ll understand. ’
Fenna shakes her head. ‘That’s a long way off.’
‘It’ll come before you know it.’
People love to give advice about ‘enjoying the moment’ and ‘being present’ and ‘once it’s gone, it’s gone’, but after another terrible night’s sleep Fenna isn’t in the mood for a lecture about making the most of every second.
‘Sometimes we’re not the parent we want to be,’ Marianne says, her voice low. ‘All you can do is your best.’
A silence settles between the women. Fenna concentrates on her baby, milk-drunk and puckering his pink lips with sleepy eyes. She clicks her feeding bra back in place. Marianne gazes at the piece of art, head tilted, a faraway glaze on her eyes. She looks like she might cry.
‘Are you ok?’ Fenna asks. The silence of the gallery weighs down on her.
Marianne nods. ‘You’re doing a great job, you know. Being a mother is the hardest thing in the world. You try to keep them safe and protect them. It’s heartbreaking knowing that you won’t always be there beside them. Time is so precious.’
A rush of goosebumps covers Fenna’s skin, and not from the gust of cold air coming from the air-conditioning vents.
She’s never had a heart-to-heart with her mother-in-law like this.
Never heard praise from her. But there’s something Marianne is alluding to.
Something more she wants to say but is holding back.
She’s about to ask when a noisy American couple enters the space, the man recording himself on his iPhone, with a loud running commentary. ‘And here we have the next awesome room . . .’
Marianne pulls herself together. ‘Right, it’s high time for a glass of something cold.
’ She stands and attempts to brush the creases from her linen trousers.
‘Shall I meet you out the front?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer and walks away, saying hello to the couple as she goes, leaving Fenna sitting alone wondering what that was about.
She carefully places Raffi back in his pushchair and tucks a thin blanket over his turned-out pudgy legs. A rush of love washes over her. Perhaps she’s too harsh on Marianne for molly-coddling her sons; the fierce maternal love may shape and change over the years, but it never fades.
Her phone lets out a message chime. A member of staff tuts from behind her. Phones are supposed to be silent in the gallery. She mouths an apology and checks her text with a frown. It’s from their mortgage company.
. . . Insufficient funds. Please call us urgently.
She blinks and reads the message again.
What? Insufficient funds? The mortgage is paid from their joint account. They’re usually very good at keeping it topped up. There must be a mistake. She sits back down, her legs tingling, and logs into her online banking.
Her eyes dart down the screen. There’s a lurch in her stomach. She might be sick.
Where the hell is all of their money?