Secret of the Song

by Cathie Hartigan

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Lisa,’ Jon said between clenched teeth. He folded his arms and crossed his legs too, retreating into as small a space as possible. ‘That was a coincidence.’

  ‘That’s what I thought then, but there’s everything else. Sophie’s arm, the tree—’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no, no. Look, you’ve had a bang on the head—’

  ‘Ahem,’ said a voice from the end of the bed. A nurse stood waving cheerily. ‘Sorry to break up the conversation, only there’s a reporter out in the corridor.’

  Jon pushed his chair back with a searing scrape over the floor. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, looking at me with that ghastly remote expression that made me wish the tree had knocked me out for good. ‘We’ll talk again.’

  The nurse went with him and I felt tears well up. I grabbed a tissue from the box Mum had brought in and squeezed it against my eyes trying to push back the tears. Everything seemed even worse than ever.

  ‘Oh, Jon,’ I moaned. A musical! For children. It couldn’t be more wrong. The curse was widening its territory. Like a virus infecting everyone it came into contact with. If any harm should come to Mollie …

  My head throbbed when I blew my nose. I kept my eyes shut, and as the stars cleared from where I pressed against their lids, I peered through, not a flimsy veil at all, and not embroidery of thread but of substantial wrought iron. The frontispiece appeared before me as great gates and even though I took hold and shook them, they remained locked. When would I ever get through?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Napoli 1590

  ‘Please let me stay, Sister. I can be helpful. I don’t mind hard work and my sewing is good.’ I handed her the apron I’d been mending.

  Sister Caterina smiled and sat down beside me. We were in the convent cloister. The central courtyard had been planted with lavender and roses in square beds surrounded by box. It was less grand than the courtyard at the palazzo but much tidier. I had noticed that as soon as a petal fell then the first nun to pass would go and pick it up. Everywhere in the convent was kept well, and prayers were happily uttered whilst doing even the dirtiest jobs. I remembered all the squabbles amongst the kitchen maids at Palazzo San Severo, how Laura would complain, how everyone complained about something or other.

  ‘I know that, Silvia.’ She tied the strings behind her back then smoothed the fabric over her knees. ‘If anything your sewing is too good for us. Why, I can’t even see where it was torn.’ I could see the patch perfectly well, but I’d done my best in spite of the linen being coarse and old. ‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘you can’t stay if you have no purpose here. This morning Mother asked me about you and I didn’t know what to say. You are no longer a child …’ She was interrupted by a hoopoe landing noisily on the roof of the cloister opposite where we sat. A few stones clattered down the tiles. Hoo-hoo-hoo, it called and was answered by another just above our heads.

  ‘There are a lot of those in the woods around Gesualdo,’ I said, glad to be distracted from my predicament. ‘I used to go to sleep to the nightingales singing and wake up to hoopoes. Before I knew better, I thought they were the same bird with a different song for night and day.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Sister Caterina. ‘I’ve never actually seen a nightingale, although I’ve heard one or two.’

  ‘They aren’t much to look at, that’s why. Not compared to the hoopoe. You see the way the feathers fan on its head? That lovely honey colour? I always think the black tip looks as if its been dipped in ink.’ We both shielded our eyes from the sun and looked again at the bird on the roof. ‘I once embroidered all the braid on a dress in a pattern based on those feathers,’ I said, remembering the labour, and Donna Maria not thinking much of it in the end. ‘Do you think it would be better if we were all nightingales, Sister? It seems to me there’s a lot of unhappiness and trouble caused by beautiful things.’

  ‘But the song of the nightingale is one of the most beautiful in the world,’ she said, ‘and what unhappiness does that cause?’

  ‘It kept me awake sometimes.’ I knew I was grumbling over nothing. ‘But I suppose I should be thankful you can’t embroider a song.’

  ‘Can’t you, Silvia? Why I thought you could embroider anything.’

  I was startled at this, but knew by the smile in her eyes that she was teasing me. ‘Oh, Sister,’ I said, shamefaced. ‘Am I boastful about my skill? I do not mean to be.’

  ’No, you are not,’ she said. ‘Although you should beware of those without your talent, saying as much. Now; there is work to do.’ She gave her apron another stroke and stood up. ‘What I will do, Silvia, is find out if any of the other convents require a needlewoman. It would not be fine work, of course, but it might be something. Besides, I was thinking that perhaps when Salvo comes back …’ She didn’t need to say more.

  I did not know what to think about Salvo. He had been away for so many weeks and I had heard nothing. Every day, I took out the little carvings and the copy of the frontispiece with our likenesses etched so finely. Why had he not written to me? As I looked at his work, it seemed to me more beautiful than any of the expensive pictures that Don Carlo had at the palazzo and the castle. Perhaps his travels had changed him. Or he had acquired a patron who demanded his time? Even so, why not write and say so?

  Men … were they all either wicked or faithless? I wondered about the things men and women did together in private, and how much I had desired Salvo that day. That lovely day. Did everything change with habit, though? It seemed to me it did, and always for the worse. Donna Maria had had no joy with her three husbands. Even I had heard the rumour that the first, Federigo, died of exhaustion from spending too much time in his wife’s bed, and the second, old Alfonso, died trying. Donna Maria herself told me that he’d been too feeble to succeed. Don Carlo liked the whip and as for Don Fabrizio … I remembered the nightdress.

  Then, with a start, I remembered all the nightdresses. The ones I had mended even before Don Fabrizio. A warm tear trickled down my cheek; I realised it wasn’t only men that had their particular fancies.

  More weeks went by and I tried my very best to be useful at the convent, but I could see they didn’t need me. Sister Magdalena, in charge of all the needlework, began to complain that I was too quick with my needle. I think she really meant good rather than quick, but I didn’t say anything and began to count to three between each stitch.

  I was very glad of my little cell when I woke each morning. It could not have been more different from the palazzo. There was no velvet, no silk, no tapestries or embroidered hangings. The chapel would be very ornate when its renovation was finished and while there were frescoes above the doorways and in the refectory, the rest was plain. Everything about the convent soothed me, which was just as well, for the nights were a torment.

  Sometimes I could not tell whether I was awake or asleep for my dreams were of people and places very familiar to me. They would begin in happy places, the lemon grove, the quayside, or just quietly sewing, but I would always be drawn back to the horror in the same way.

  Donna Maria is seated before her mirror while I stand behind. We are laughing together. She is wearing the nightdress with the black cuffs. On the table, her jewel case lies open and I am offering her different necklaces to try. She has many and we cannot decide. The pearls are lovely, so too is the gold chain and crucifix studded with gems, but we settle on the rope of garnets. I lean down, so that my face is beside hers in the mirror. How beautiful she is, and I confess, I don’t look too bad either. We are very pleased with ourselves.

  ‘Yes,’ she says to me, ‘that’s perfect, Silvia. What would I do without you?’

  Her voice is as clear as the nightingale’s song is sweet. But then something happens to the mirror. It blurs our faces, so I can’t tell one from the other. Perhaps it is Don Fabrizio’s face I see instead. In my hands I am holding each end of the garnets, for I have yet to fasten them, but for some reason I can’t fathom, they feel less t
han solid. I look down and discover that the stones are slipping through my fingers; in fact they are no longer garnets but great drops of crimson blood. When I look up, I see the jagged slash across my lady’s neck and as the blood spurts out and splashes across the mirror, her head tilts to one side and begins to fall.

  It was always dark as pitch when I woke. I’d peer into the black, searching for light, but all I’d see were the same scenes wherever I looked. Two figures,one seated and one standing, their outlines crude like poor frescoes. My eyes would be full of tears and the little bed shaking with the hammering of my heart. Gradually, I’d see the outline of the window and on a moonlit night, the silhouette of the crucifix hanging on the adjacent wall. It offered little comfort.

  The conversation with Sister Caterina had made me anxious, but it was also good to be reminded that I was no longer a child. Twenty! It was a very old age to be.

  I realised that while it had pleased Donna Maria to have me by her side nearly all the time, sometimes she would pet me in the same way she petted Margarita who was only ten. When I thought back through the years I had spent in Napoli, the number of times we had left the palazzo apart from going to church were very few. Donna Maria was invited out by other women of her status as a matter of politeness, but she wasn’t a popular guest and pleaded illness more often than not, especially after she’d met Don Fabrizio.

  The Sisters did not imprison me, but when I ventured out to seek work, I would see evil faces in every door or in the gloom of the narrow alleyways. The noise of men’s voices, even if only a sudden greeting, made me jump in fear.

  There was no work. Or perhaps there was, but nobody wanted to employ me. Once I mentioned Palazzo San Severo, there’d be frowns, then a shake of the head. I was something to do with the city’s great scandal, and just my presence in the house of the murder was enough to place suspicion on my head. That I was in the next room, I did not tell anyone, for I soon realised it would be the equivalent of plunging the knife into dear Donna Maria myself.

  I was beginning to give up all hope when Sister Caterina called me to the chapel. Father Strozzi stood with arms crossed and resting on his ample belly, contemplating the altar. He was not praying.

  ‘Ah, Silvia,’ he said. ‘What a very good thing it is you are still with us.’

  I wasn’t sure whether he meant in the flesh or in the convent but I smiled anyway. Even though I’d always mistrusted his smiles and gestures of affection, it was cheering to hear that I was of some small worth.

  ‘It is, Father?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You are just who we need. Donna Severina has written to me.’

  ‘Donna Severina?’ I said.

  ‘She remembered that your mistress – God rest her soul – was to pay for the new altar cloth and has agreed to honour her wish.’

  I was surprised that Donna Maria’s mother would wish to remember anything about her daughter at all. They barely spoke to each other, and in the light of the family suffering the shame of her infidelity, this offer was very generous.

  ‘So,’ Father Strozzi went on, ‘who do you think came to our minds when we thought about who might execute such a task?’

  I looked at both Father Strozzi and Sister Caterina and felt a burst of heat rush to my cheeks. Whatever it was that instantly lodged in my throat, it prevented speech. I dropped to my knees and bowed my head. Tears dotted the floor and I wiped them away with the back of my hand.

  ‘Oh, th-thank you,’ I said, when I could manage to say anything. ‘You have saved my life.’

  ‘I think that might be something of an exaggeration,’ said Sister Caterina. She raised me to my feet. ‘Your life has not been in peril.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do here and the Mother Superior said—’

  ‘Oh, let’s not worry about that. Now you have an excellent reason to stay, and we are all glad.’ She swept her arms wide. ‘Besides, Silvia - and and I hope our Father in heaven and Father Strozzi here on earth will forgive me for this - but it pleases me a great deal that with you in charge of its making, our altar cloth will be the finest in Napoli.’

  It was a good thing I was wearing my apron. A handkerchief would have been no use at all for mopping up so many tears.

  Relief was better than any sleeping draught. The next day I woke refreshed and more cheerful than I could remember since … since … No! No looking back. I threw off the bedclothes and stood up, for unlike on all the mornings since my arrival at the convent, I was keen to rise.

  It was midwinter and the water in my basin was very cold, but I hardly noticed when I splashed my face and hands before dressing. My mind was full of other things. An altar cloth. I would have to source the fabric, the thread, decide on the design. Then there were the colours to consider … why, it would keep me busy for months and months! I could not resist humming to myself.

  There was a sensible pot of money, not a fortune, and the convent was a place of simple calm. It would not do for me to design a gaudy cloth. It would be of the finest linen I could buy, and then I would do my very best embroidery.

  I was well acquainted with the cloth merchants, and after a little bread for breakfast, I wrapped my thickest wool shawl about my shoulders and set off. No evil faces leered at me from the shadows and I even enjoyed the sharp sting of sleet on my cheeks.

  My head was full of thoughts about the design. Both Father Strozzi and Mother Superior assumed that I would depict the story of Christ, but after my conversation with Sister Caterina in the cloister garden, and also, truth be told, because of the frontispiece that Salvo had given me, I suggested Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden might be my subject. They were surprised, but after a short discussion without me present, I was told that I could go ahead with some samples for them to see.

  The streets weren’t very crowded for it was still early when I left the convent. The quickest way to get to the cloth merchant meant passing the front door of Palazzo San Severo. If Don Carlo was back … I hesitated, but then thought he’d most likely use the entrance by the stables, so I would risk it. I pulled the shawl down low over my forehead and hurried along, past the place where I’d seen Laura talking to Don Giulio. I could not bring myself to look up at the window where I’d been standing.

  In fact, I was so busy inspecting my boots that I did not see the figure approaching until it was altogether too late. Before I could do anything to save myself, I felt the full force of him strike and a moment later, the ground was rushing up to greet me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The hospital let me out later that afternoon with a box of painkillers and an assurance from Mum that I wouldn’t be left alone for twenty-four hours. The flat was amazingly tidy, all the washing up not only done, but put away, and my theory that I had too many mugs to go in the cupboard was clearly not proven. The music had been patted into straight-sided heaps and there wasn’t a Barbie in sight. Mum had magicked all the bedding away from the sofa too.

  ‘You’re a star, Mum,’ I said, easing down onto it. I was a bit surprised and hurt that Mollie had opted to go to her dad’s instead of coming with Mum to get me, but his telly could get loads more channels than mine.

  I was even more surprised when Michael phoned later and said that Mollie wanted to stay with him for the next few days.

  ‘Can I speak to her?’

  ‘Erm …’ He held his hand over the phone so I could only hear muffled noises. ‘She’s in the bath,’ he said, eventually.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t do baths.’ God knows, it’s difficult enough to get her into the shower. There was another pause and more indistinct conversation. I knew it was her voice though. ‘For goodness sake, Michael,’ I said. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  Mum hovered over me. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, dear?’

  ‘Yes.’ I mouthed at her. She looked worried but then Michael coughed loudly in my ear.

  ‘She says she’ll ring you.’

  ‘Oh really? Well, tell her to make it
soon.’ I switched off the phone and felt a renewed and enthusiastic throbbing in my head.

  ‘Mollie’s a bit upset,’ Mum said, handing me the tea. ‘So she thought she’d stay at her dad’s for a few days. But the good thing is,’ she went on brightly, ‘I’ve made your bed up in her room.’

  ‘What’s she upset about? She was all right when she came to the hospital with you.’

  ‘That was before Jon’s visit though, wasn’t it?’ She had fetched the biscuit tin and offered it to me, looking down so as not to catch my eye.

  ‘But …’ I was going to say, what’s that got to do with it, when everything dropped into place. Of course, Mollie knew all about Jon’s musical. It was the big secret and she would have the starring role. If Jon had said it was all off, Mollie would be livid, not cross. I put my hand in the tin, pulled out the first thing I came to and bit into a pink wafer. Mollie’s favourite and my last choice. Sweet sawdust that turns to glue once combined with saliva.

  ‘Are you sure you said the right thing to Jon, dear?’

  I shrugged, feeling exceedingly miserable.

  All evening the phone kept ringing, or at least, that’s what it seemed like. None of the calls were from Mollie though. Or Jon. Gran phoned to complain about her neighbours. Sophie phoned to see if I was all right, but couldn’t stop because she was about to serve up Robert’s dinner. That depressed me on all sorts of levels.

  Mum flirted with Charles for a good twenty minutes on her mobile, during which time the doorbell rang. I opened it and found that my disapproving neighbours had bought me a get-well poinsettia. They’d heard about the tree coming down while listening to the news on Radio Devon. Was this new warmth because I was an object of pity, or because I was a celebrity? I couldn’t decide. It was a kind gesture, I told myself firmly, when I closed the door. Don’t be horrid.