The Italian’s Baby

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘I’ve got a cushion for the pillow, and I just huddle up. It’s cosy, and I’m warm enough.’

  ‘You are now, but the weather’s turning.’

  ‘I like it,’ she said stubbornly.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but then it struck him that she was right. The place was homely and snug, and although it wasn’t actually warm it gave the impression of warmth. He thought of the Allingham with its perfect temperature control, and he could remember only desolation.

  ‘Well, if you like it, that’s what counts,’ he said, and went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Is this all the food you have?’ he asked, opening a cupboard. ‘Instant coffee?’

  His scandalised tone made her smile briefly.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is instant,’ she said. ‘I realise that to an Italian that’s a kind of blasphemy.’

  ‘You’re a quarter-Italian,’ he said severely. ‘Your grandmother’s spirit should rise up and reproach you.’

  ‘She does, but she gets drowned out by the rest of me. I don’t keep all my food in here. Fresh vegetables are stored outside, where it’s cooler.’

  He remembered that outside, attached to the wall, was a small cupboard, made of brick, except for the wooden door. This too had been scrubbed out, and fresh newspaper laid on the shelves, where there was an array of vegetables.

  ‘No meat?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d have to keep going into the village to buy it fresh.’

  He grunted something, and went back inside.

  She poured him another cup of tea, which he drank appreciatively.

  ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘And it doesn’t taste of soot. Whenever I’ve been here and made coffee, I’ve always ended up regretting it.’

  ‘Have you returned very often?’ she asked.

  ‘Now and then. I come back and cut the weeds, but they’ve always grown again by the next time.’

  ‘I wonder why you haven’t rebuilt it.’

  He made a vague gesture. ‘I kept meaning to.’

  ‘Why did you come here today?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was in the area. I didn’t know you were here, if that’s what you mean.’

  It would have been natural, then, to ask her why she’d taken refuge in this spot, when there were so many more comfortable places, but for some reason he was overcome with awkwardness, and concentrated on his tea.

  ‘You’ve done wonders here,’ he said at last, ‘but it’s still very rough. If anything happened, who could help you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m content.’

  ‘Just the same, I don’t like you being here alone. It’s better if you…’

  He stopped. She was looking at him, and he had the dismaying sense that her face had closed against him. It was like moving through a nightmare. He had been here before.

  ‘I’m only concerned for you,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Thank you, but there’s no need,’ she said politely. ‘Luca, do you want me to leave? I realise that it’s your house.’

  He shot her a look of reproach.

  ‘You know you don’t have to ask me that,’ he said. ‘It’s yours for as long as you want.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He walked outside and strode around to where the bike and trailer were parked.

  ‘Is that thing of real use?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, yes, if I persevere.’ She smiled unexpectedly. ‘And I couldn’t bring the wood for the range up in a car.’

  ‘You’ll be needing some more soon,’ he observed, looking at the small pile by the wall. Then he said hastily, ‘I’ll be going now. Goodbye.’

  He walked away and got into his car without another word. A brief gesture of farewell, and he was gone. Rebecca stood watching him until the car had vanished.

  CHAPTER NINE

  S HE tried to sort out her feelings. It had been a shock to see Luca, even though the sound of his voice, calling from outside the cottage, had half prepared her. He had looked nothing like she’d expected. He was thinner, and instead of anger there had been confusion in his eyes. It had been hard, at that moment, to remember that they were enemies.

  And, after all, what was there to say? They were civilised people. She could not have said ‘You used me, deceived me, and tried to trick me into having your child’. And he could not have said ‘You made a fool of me with a pretence of love that was really a display of power’.

  They could not have said these things, but the words had been there between them, in the stunned silence.

  Their meeting had been less of a strain than it might have been. He had asked no awkward or intrusive questions, and, except for one moment, had not disturbed her tranquillity.

  She told herself that she was glad to see him go, but the cottage looked lonely without him. It was his personality, of course, so big that it filled the place and left an emptiness when he departed. When he had been gone for a while the sensation would cease.

  She shivered a little and pulled her jacket around her. The weather had cooled rapidly and the place was rather less snug than she had claimed. The last few evenings she had stayed up late because the kitchen, with the range, was the only warm room in the house. She had tried leaving the door to the bedroom open, but the heat went straight through the open roof.

  She began to prepare some vegetables for her evening meal. When she’d finished she realised that she was running low on water, and took a jug out into the yard, to the pump. She hated this part because the pump was old and stiff, and needed all her strength. But the water it gave was sweet and pure.

  She was just about to press down on the handle when she saw that a car was approaching in the distance. After a moment she realised that it was Luca, returning.

  Setting down the jug, she watched as the car came up the track until it reached the cottage. Luca got out, nodded to her briefly, and began hauling something from the back seat that he then carried into the cottage. Following, Rebecca saw him go right through to the bedroom, and dump a load of parcels on the bed.

  He seemed to have raided the village for sheets, blankets and pillows.

  ‘I shall only be here a moment and then I’m going,’ he said brusquely before she could speak.

  He headed back to the car at once, delving inside again and emerging with a cardboard box, which he brought in and set on the table. This time the contents were food, fresh vegetables but also tins.

  ‘Luca-’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, and hurried through the front door.

  But instead of getting into the car he went to the pump and began to work it vigorously, making the water pour out into the jug.

  ‘One jug won’t last long,’ he said tersely. ‘Better fetch any other container you’ve got.’

  She fetched two more jugs and when he had filled those too he carried them inside.

  ‘Luca-’

  ‘I just don’t want you on my conscience,’ he said hurriedly. Then, as she opened her mouth, with a touch of desperation, ‘Be quiet!’

  Silence.

  ‘Can I say thank you?’ she asked at last.

  ‘No need,’ he snapped and walked out before she had time to say more.

  Through the car window he grunted something that might have been a goodbye, and in another moment she could see his tail lights growing smaller. Then he was gone altogether.

  In the bedroom she began to go through the pile of bed linen and realised that there was enough here to ward off the night chills. None of it was very expensive, nothing to overwhelm her, just the gift of a thoughtful friend, if she wanted to take it that way.

  But then she remembered the box of food, and something made her hurry back to the kitchen to begin turning it out and examining the contents.

  When she did not find what she was looking for her search became feverish, though whether she was trying to prove him better or worse than her suspicions she could not have said.

  There were several cartons of fresh milk, for which she was genuinely
thankful, tea, a box of shortbread biscuits, fresh bread, butter, ham, eggs and several tins of fruit. And two large, juicy steaks.

  But no sugar.

  No real, fresh coffee.

  Either of those things would have told her that he intended to return. Their absence left her not knowing what to think.

  She cooked one of the steaks that evening, and ate it with bread and butter, washed down with a large mug of tea.

  She made up the bed, not sorry to exchange the rough sheets for the smooth new ones and pile on the blankets, although she replaced the brightly coloured quilt on top.

  Before retiring she treated herself to fresh tea and shortbread, then slipped blissfully between the sheets. She had expected to lie awake for a long time, puzzling about Luca’s sudden appearance, but she fell asleep almost at once, and slept soundly for eight hours.

  In the morning she felt more refreshed than she had for months. She had been planning to go into the village to stock up, but Luca’s gift had made this unnecessary. She could keep her privacy a little longer, and spend today enjoying her favourite occupation, reading one of the books she had brought with her.

  She wondered if she ought to do some thorough housework first, in case he returned. She didn’t want him to feel that she was neglecting his property.

  So she cleared everything away, swept the floor and did a thorough dusting. But still she did not hear his car approaching, and the house began to feel very quiet.

  There was a patch of grass in the garden that caught the sun well, and where she could place her chair and read to her heart’s content. It also had the advantage that she could not see the track up which he would come, if he came.

  It was as well to be free of that kind of temptation, so she chose this spot. After a while, she moved.

  When she did finally see a vehicle it was not Luca’s expensive car, but an old van that lurched drunkenly along the rough track, until it came to a standstill just outside the gap in the fence that served as a gate. Luca’s head appeared through the cab window.

  ‘Have I got room?’ he yelled to her.

  She studied the gap. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He jumped down and came to see for himself.

  ‘No, it’s too narrow by six inches. OK, I’ll put that right.’

  He went to the back of the van and returned with a large hammer, which he swung at the wood until it gave way. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt, and looked like a different man from the one she had known recently.

  One hefty kick completed the demolition of the wood, enabling him to bring the van further in and halt near the front door. He jumped down and looked up into the sky, then at his watch.

  ‘I’ve got time to make a start, anyway,’ he said.

  ‘A start on what?’

  But he’d already gone to the back, opening the doors. Inside was a mountain of long planks, and a ladder, which he pulled out and carried around the side of the house, setting it against the wall, just below the hole in the roof.

  With Rebecca watching, he climbed up and inspected the damage with the eye of a professional. She saw him tap some beams and try to shake them. What he found seemed to satisfy him, for he shinned back down the ladder.

  ‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ he said.

  He spoke hopefully but he wasn’t looking at her, and she knew that what she said next was crucial. It would take only a word to wither him with the snub she sensed that he dreaded, or to set their relationship on a new, less stressful footing. The future would be decided in this moment.

  ‘Tea already?’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘You’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘But the British always give their workmen tea,’ he pointed out. ‘Otherwise no work ever gets done.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said lightly.

  It was done. For good or ill, she had made it possible for him to stay.

  While she made the tea she heard him crawling about on the roof, until he descended, went to the van, and came back with a smaller ladder that he took through to the bedroom.

  She knew he would check to see if she’d used the sheets and blankets he had brought her, and was glad, now, that she had. A few moments later she found him in there, examining the roof from the inside.

  ‘Those beams won’t stand any weight,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to take them down, so for a while you’ll have less roof than you have now.’

  ‘It hardly makes any difference,’ she pointed out cheerfully. ‘A large hole or a very large hole, the effect is the same.’

  ‘True. I’m glad to see that you have the right pioneering spirit.’

  ‘Meaning that I’m going to need it? All right, I’m prepared for the worst.’

  ‘You’re lucky something hasn’t fallen on you already. Look just there.’ He was pointing upwards.

  ‘Let me get closer.’

  ‘All right.’ He held the ladder while she climbed up, and she could see at once what he meant. The beams were less sturdy than they looked from below, and would not have survived much longer.

  ‘Come down,’ he said, ‘and I’ll get rid of them.’

  ‘Will they land on the bed?’ she asked.

  ‘Some of them, yes.’

  ‘Then give me a moment to cover it.’

  He helped her protect the bed with the old blankets, then said, ‘Right. Stand well clear.’

  He was giving orders again, but it did not irk her as it had done before, because here his expertise justified him, and there was reason in everything he did.

  Nor did she feel like getting too close when he started swinging the hammer and sending wood crashing down. Some fell outside the house, but some landed inside. Having made an appalling noise, he studied the result with satisfaction and began clearing up the wood.

  He performed this task with brisk efficiency, without seeming to notice that this was her bedroom. His only comment came when she tried to lift a heavy plank.

  ‘If you do that, what am I for?’ he asked, sounding pained.

  She stood back, and waited until all the wood was gone. But then she insisted on helping him gather up the blankets with their burden of dirt and splinters. Together they carried them outside and shook them thoroughly, resulting in a double coughing fit.

  ‘Now we both look a mess,’ he said, trying to brush dust out of his hair and from his clothes. ‘I need to go into the village, and I think I’ll go now before I get any dirtier. Do you want anything?’

  She hesitated only a moment before saying, ‘Yes, please. I’d like some sugar, and some good coffee.’

  It was acceptance, the sign that she was making a small space for him. She wondered how he would react.

  ‘Fine,’ he said briefly. ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No, thank you. Nothing else.’

  He jumped into the van and made a noisy departure. He was gone an hour and when he returned he had more provisions. There was food, milk, meat and pasta, and the back was piled high with logs, each about twelve inches long.

  ‘For the range,’ he said. ‘You’re going to run out of them soon.’

  She had been planning to go to the village for more logs, but it was a heavy job, and her bouts of queasiness had left her not feeling up to it.

  She wondered if he suspected, but it was too soon for her to show. And Luca was not perceptive enough to guess.

  But when she tried to pick up some logs he stopped her instantly.

  ‘Why don’t you take that?’ he said, pointing to the box of food. ‘I could do with some pasta. You’ll find vegetables, tomato purée, and Parmesan cheese.’

  It meant nothing. Of course he wanted to do all the heavy work because his pride was tied up in this. And he had always been chivalrous, she recalled. How he had loved to wait on her and tend her, as though she was almost too precious to touch. How gently he had spoken to her, never raising his voice, trying to stand protectively between her and the world.

  It was old-fashioned an
d definitely not ‘liberated’. She was a modern, independent woman, who needed no such cosseting. But her eyes softened as she recalled how wonderful it had been.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled Luca.

  She came out of her happy dream. ‘Did you speak to me?’

  ‘Yes. I said, are you going to make that pasta, or are you going to stand there dreaming all day? There’s one very hungry man here. Get moving!’

  To his bafflement she began to laugh. She tried to stop but something had overtaken her and it quickly became uncontrollable.

  ‘Becky-’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m trying to-to-’

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded, aggrieved.

  ‘It’s just the contrast-never mind. It’s not important.’

  ‘If it’s not important, what’s stopping you feeding me before I die of hunger?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m on to it now.’

  She grabbed the box and hurried inside, still laughing. It took a moment to bring herself under control, but she felt better afterwards. Somehow the little incident had restored her sense of proportion, and she had a feeling it had needed restoring.

  Her pasta skills had been rusty when she’d first arrived here, but she’d been polishing them up, and now made a respectable job of it, including the tomato sauce.

  ‘Ready in ten minutes,’ she called.

  He looked in through the window.

  ‘Fine, I’ll just clean up a bit. The logs have made me dirty again.’

  She gave the pasta another stir before going outside, where he was at the pump. He’d stripped off his shirt and was trying to pump water over himself with one hand and wash himself with the other. Since the pump belched water only jerkily, he wasn’t managing very well.

  Fetching a few useful items from the kitchen, she went to help him.

  ‘I’ll do the pump,’ she said, handing him the soap.

  He soaped himself thankfully while she poured water over him. The sun glinted gloriously off every drop streaming from the spout, over his long back and powerful arms.

  ‘Now your hair,’ she said, spraying something over the dust that seemed embedded in his scalp, and massaging hard to work up a lather.