by Hannah Howe
“How’s Vittoria?” I asked while easing myself on to an armchair.
“Quiet,” Mac said. With his right thumb, he pointed towards the ceiling, towards the bedrooms.
“Any problems?” I asked.
“No one menacing has presented themselves, if that’s what you mean.”
We paused while a footballer went sprawling in the penalty area; his teammates rushed to the referee and demanded a penalty. Numerous replays showed that no one had touched the footballer; he’d taken a dive; another reason why the game did little for me.
“You talked with the good Dr Storey?” Mac asked while shaking his head at the TV screen and the ‘simulation’.
“Uh-huh.”
“He gonna help?”
I nodded. “If Vittoria agrees.”
The television cameras followed the footballer, the diver, and an opponent, the man who’d allegedly chopped him down. An argument ensued. During the fracas, the chopper clutched his face then, rather dramatically, fell on to the ground, as though poleaxed. Once again, the all-seeing eye of the television camera revealed no contact. The game was descending into a circus, complete with clowns.
“You made up your mind yet, about the good Dr Storey?” Mac asked, shaking his head as the referee brandished red and yellow cards aplenty, sending the divers from the playing field.
“I love him,” I said, “my mind is firm on that.”
“You gonna marry him?”
“I’d like to.”
“So, what’s holding you back?”
I thought for a moment, then replied truthfully, “I don’t want to spoil what we have. I can be difficult to live with, as you’ve pointed out. Also, nightmares of my life with my ex are still there, in my head.”
“The good Dr Storey is not a violent man.”
“He’s not,” I agreed. “There’s a little bit of fear there, emotions left over from Dan, but I think I can control them.”
“Then go for it,” Mac urged.
Maybe I should just commit myself with gay abandon. However, marriage was a big step and I had to feel sure that the ground remained firm beneath my feet. Potentially, this was the turning point of my life, the biggest decision I’d ever make.
“The finances also bother me,” I confessed. “Our previous conversation tells me that you’d understand that, Mac.”
“The good Dr Storey earns more money than you?”
I nodded. “He’s a top man in his profession; he’s very well paid; I’m a pauper by comparison.”
“But you love each other, equally?”
“I think we do.” I paused then added, “Yes, we do.”
“Then you’re equals,” Mac said. “Be done with your prevaricating; grab the man by the hand and rush him to the altar.”
On the television screen, the millionaire footballers were running around with more purpose. Then, glory be, someone scored a goal. Naturally, a section of the crowd went wild, while the rival supporters slipped into despair. The television director zoomed in on the joyful supporters, who immediately pulled faces and waved at the cameras. Indeed, the supporters were more excited about their television appearance than about their team scoring a goal. Ah, that fleeting moment of fame, the drug that drives modern society.
“Have you decided about moving in with your lover?” I asked.
Losing interest in the game, Mac switched off the television. He stretched his long legs, his stiff back, and sighed, “Not yet, Missy.”
“What’s holding you back?”
He pointed to his shoulder holster and a wicked looking Beretta. “My work is not exactly conventional.”
“What does your lover do?”
“He’s in the arts.”
“Does your lover know about your work?”
“He does.”
“And what does he think about it?”
“He’s cool.”
“Then go for it,” I said, echoing Mac’s advice.
Mac grinned. He caressed his huge ginger moustache, smoothed his whiskers. “You know what, Missy; we’re both mustard when it comes to dishing out advice, but vinegar when it comes to taking it.”
“Interesting turn of phrase,” I smiled.
“I’m not just a thug.” Mac thrust out his chin. He stared straight ahead, his face deadly serious; “I read cookbooks as well.”
The sound of footsteps pitter-pattering on the stairs concluded our conversation. Dragging her feet, and with her head bowed, Vittoria entered the living room. She sat on the sofa, away from Mac, keeping her distance. She appeared sleepy, as though she’d just stumbled out of bed.
“How are you?” I asked.
She blinked, but did not answer.
“I’ve spoken with V.J. and your parents. I think I can buy you a little time, but I need your cooperation.”
Vittoria blinked again, then she glanced at Mac. While still eyeing Mac, she asked, “To do what?”
“I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Dr Alan Storey.”
Now her eyes flashed in my direction. “You want him to examine me?”
“He’s not a medical doctor,” I explained; “he’s a psychologist.”
Vittoria picked up a pillow. She placed it in her lap. While hugging the pillow, as a child hugs a teddy bear, she asked, “You think I’m sick in the head?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “But I do think it would help everyone if you had a chat with Alan.”
Vittoria stared at the blank television screen while I glanced at Mac. Mac was literally scratching his head, lost for an answer, an explanation as to Vittoria’s behaviour.
I said, “You cut your hair for a reason; what reason?”
A heavy silence ensued.
“You scratched your arms for a reason.”
Silence, interrupted by the gentle sound of rain as it tapped against the windowpane.
“Will you meet my fiancé, please?”
Silence, except for the rain, whose beat became more insistent, carried on the wind, swept in from the sea.
“Listen, Lassie,” Mac said, his tone soft, gentle, cajoling, “we’re trying to help.”
Now the rain hammered against the windowpane and, in the distance, the delicate sound of thunder.
I said, “You harmed yourself, but who harmed you? What did they do?”
Lightning illuminated the room, flashed across Vittoria’s face, highlighted her hollow, haunted eyes.
“Your father’s a very belligerent man,” I said. “If he wants to do something, he’ll do it. I can keep him off your back, but I have to offer him a reason.”
Mention of Vincent Vanzetti dragged Vittoria out of her reverie. She glanced at Mac, at me, then said, “If I meet with your boyfriend, you’ll keep my family away?”
“I promise,” I said.
Vittoria hugged the cushion again then used it as a towel, to stem the flood of tears, to dry her cheeks. She sniffed and said, “Okay, I’ll meet him.”
Chapter Sixteen
The following evening, after work, Alan met Vittoria Vanzetti. However, first, he said ‘hello’ to Mac.
“How’s it going?” Alan asked. “How’s business?”
“Booming, until I met your better half.” Mac scowled at me. “Now I’m stuck in a financial rut.”
“You’ll get your cut,” I said patiently.
“Aye,” Mac sighed, “and the moon’s made of cheese.”
While Mac stood guard at the door, I led Alan into the living room. Vittoria was sitting on the sofa with a cushion in her lap, her eyes staring vacantly at the blank television screen.
“Hello,” Alan said. “I’m Sam’s fiancé.”
Vittoria glanced up. She squeezed her eyebrows together, knitted them into a sharp frown. “You’re Dr Storey?”
“Alan. I’m here as a friend, not as a psychologist; I’m not here in a professional capacity.”
Alan sat on an armchair, well away from Vittoria. He was dressed in jeans and a casual sweater. He leaned back,
exuding a natural air, a sense of calm.
Through her hawk-like gaze, Vittoria studied Alan for close on a minute. Then she turned away, to reward the wall with her empty stare.
Leaning forward slightly, Alan noticed the textbooks, which sat next to the sofa. The textbooks tilted like the Tower of Pisa and threatened to topple over. However, like the tower, they retained their balance; like Vittoria, they were on edge, yet refused to fall down.
“Those books take me back,” Alan said, “to my student days. You’re studying to become a psychologist?”
“Child psychologist,” Vittoria said in a small, childlike voice.
“Are you enjoying the course?”
She shrugged, a minuscule movement of her left shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“And you enjoy music,” Alan said, noting the CDs, which littered the floor.
“Yes.”
Alan’s eyes wandered over the CDs. He spied a favourite and smiled. “Stereophonics, a great band.”
Vittoria turned sharply. She remained cautious, yet I sensed that Alan intrigued her to some degree. As she stared at him, I noticed that she wore no make-up on her face and no earrings, despite the piercings in her earlobes. With a hint of accusation, she said, “You’re too old to listen to the Stereophonics.”
“Why do you say that?” Alan smiled.
Vittoria scowled. She offered Alan a quick assessment then said, “You must be in your forties.”
“Why should age be a barrier to good music?” Alan asked reasonably. “Why should we impose artificial limitations on ourselves?” While Vittoria thought about that, he continued, “A teenager can love Beethoven; a pensioner can love rock music. I love music of all genres, all styles. It’s all there to be enjoyed.”
Vittoria stared at the CDs, her face sullen. Clearly, at some point in her life, those CDs had brought pleasure. But now everything seemed to bring pain.
“What else do you enjoy?” Alan asked.
Vittoria’s eyes flicked to a collection of shells, the shells she’d gathered from the beach. She’d moved those shells from the hall table on to a tray in the living room. They were there for a purpose, but Vittoria lacked the motivation to add rhyme to their reason.
“You made these?” Alan asked, referring to her shell necklace and bracelet, which she’d discarded from her person.
Vittoria hesitated. Then she nodded, slowly.
“Very pretty,” Alan smiled.
Vittoria shrugged. “I just string together stuff I pick up off the beach.”
“You like walking on the beach?”
She nodded.
“Will you make something for me?”
She frowned and almost smiled. Almost. “You want to wear a shell necklace?”
Alan nodded towards yours truly. “To give to Sam, as a present.”
“I don’t know about that,” Vittoria said, her frown now firmly in place.
Even though it had been a brief conversation, Vittoria looked tired. Indeed, Alan sensed that she was tired. He said, “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Maybe I could call in again tomorrow.”
Vittoria shuffled her feet. She stared down to the ground. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted, though the varnish was chipped on every toe.
“I have some books in the attic,” Alan said, “from my student days. They’re just gathering dust. You can have them; they might help you with your studies.”
I moved forward and studied Vittoria’s feet. As you might expect, her soles were dirty, but I also noticed a bruise, creeping up her instep on to her shinbone.
“I’ll drop the books in tomorrow. Is that okay with you, Vittoria?”
Finally, she dragged her gaze away from the ground. She stared at Alan then gave him a curt, resigned nod.
With Mac resuming his duties, Alan and I left the house.
Chapter Seventeen
The following evening Alan called on Vittoria. As promised, he’d gathered together a parcel of books, dusted down from his attic. He was carrying those books when he entered the living room.
“How are you?” he asked.
Vittoria shrugged. “Okay, I suppose.”
Alan tapped the books. “These tomes served me well as a student. Some of them might be out of date now, but you’re welcome to them. When you have a moment, you might like to read them.”
With no real enthusiasm, Vittoria accepted the books. She studied the spines and noted a title by Sigmund Freud. “The Interpretation of Dreams.”
Alan nodded. He asked, “Do you agree with Freud’s theories?”
Vittoria sat up. She leaned forward slightly, displaying mild interest. “How can I argue against Freud?” she asked. “I’m just me, a nobody.”
Alan smiled. He sat on the armchair and placed his hands behind his head. When he relaxed he liked to slouch, claimed it was good for his back.
“He’s just Freud,” Alan said, “a person with a string of interesting ideas. Personally, I don’t agree with his ideas, but that doesn’t mean I’m right, or wrong. There’s nothing wrong with absorbing ideas we’re opposed to; it helps us to clarify our views on certain issues. And, incidentally,” he added, “you’re not a nobody; your theories are as valid as Freud’s.”
Vittoria inched forward. While cradling Freud’s book, she asked, “Whose ideas do you believe in?”
“I like to formulate my own ideas, but I do believe in the Humanists. Have you studied the Humanists?”
Vittoria frowned. She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“The ideas of Maslow and Rogers, the hierarchy of needs, the self concept...I think you’ll find them fascinating.” Alan sat forward. Although Mac and yours truly were in the room, it seemed as though Alan and Vittoria had minds only for each other. “It’s stopped raining,” he observed. “How about a stroll on the beach. We can pick up some shells, for Sam’s bracelet...”
Vittoria followed Alan’s gaze to the window, then through the window to the sand dunes and the beach. “Okay,” she said after a moment’s thought.
While Alan and Vittoria walked along the beach, Mac and I strolled through the sand dunes. The day was blustery and showery, so the beach was largely deserted, ideal for Alan’s purpose, at a guess.
From a distance, we watched as Alan tossed pebbles into the sea, stooped to examine scatterings of driftwood, and talk with Vittoria. Although still reserved, she seemed more at ease today and, occasionally, offered the suggestion of a smile.
“I wonder what’s troubling her,” I mused.
“The good Dr Storey will get to the bottom of it, have no doubt. He’s a fine man. Maybe I should move in with him, after offering you first refusal, of course.”
I arched a cautionary eyebrow. “He likes you, Mac, but I can promise you, Alan is firmly heterosexual.”
“Care to elaborate?” he grinned.
“No I would not.” I turned to glance at Mac, who was staring at me with intent. “Don’t look at me like that,” I complained; “look at the sea.”
The wind had blown my hair across my face and I felt content to leave it there, until my embarrassment had faded and the colour had drained from my cheeks.
“Maybe I should move in with you and Faye,” Mac suggested. “How is Faye, incidentally?”
“She’s settled in well. She’s in North Wales, touring a chain of hotels as a mystery guest. She’s a bit obsessed with neatness. Actually, more than a bit obsessed, but she’s loyal and dedicated, a good worker and a good friend.”
“You take in a stray cat and a lady with a troubled past,” Mac reflected, “ever thought of opening a home for waifs and strays?”
I grinned, “If you did move in with us, it would be like the morning rush hour in the bathroom.”
“Aye,” Mac nodded, “and I need my morning bathroom time, me; I need a good half hour to shave my head.” He ran a hand over his bald pate. “If I didn’t, you see, my hair would be as long as yours in no time.”
“You’re going bald, Mac; yo
u shave your head because you have a rapidly receding hairline. And,” I added, “a bald head makes you look more of a brute.”
“I’m no macho man, me,” Mac insisted while puffing out his chest, while dragging himself up to his full height, “I’m just a little pussycat.”
“The heavy with a heart.”
“Aye,” he grinned, “and an empty wallet.”
While studying Alan and Vittoria, I said, “You’re obsessed with money, Mac.”
“No, not me. Just showing a healthy interest in the filthy lucre. It’s my Presbyterian upbringing, you know.”
On the beach, Alan and Vittoria examined a series of large rocks and boulders. Many of the boulders were smooth and flat, relics from the days when limestone was quarried on the beach and burnt in limekilns to make fertiliser. In the seventeenth century, the bay was a port. However, a local landmark, Tusker Rock, ensured that many ships were wrecked and so the locals abandoned the port and returned to the land. A hundred years later, smugglers made use of the bay and, apparently, secret passageways ran from the beach into the village of Newton. What secrets did the village hold? What was troubling Vittoria? Would Alan obtain the answers?
While Alan and Vittoria continued their chat, gathered shells, examined the flotsam and jetsam, used driftwood to score pictures in the sand, I said to Mac, “Tell me about your upbringing; I know nothing about that.”
Mac eyed me with some suspicion. Then he delved into his greatcoat pocket and produced a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate. He offered the chocolate to me. “Care for a bite?”
“I’d rather hear about your past,” I said.
Mac broke four squares of chocolate from the bar and slipped them into his mouth. He proceeded to suck and chew with great contentment.
“You ain’t gonna tell me, are you?” I surmised.
“Maybe one day,” he conceded.
