by Rosanna Ley
The train journey to Weymouth was lengthy enough to make her relax, and it was fascinating to watch the scenery of England sweep past. It was just as she’d read and imagined, just as Dante had told her. Grey skies with shimmerings of silver mist, crowded platforms in built-up suburbs giving way to quieter and older towns and villages. As the train got closer to its final destination, there were harbour towns of Bournemouth and Poole – both in East Dorset, she knew from looking at the map she had bought – and the views became more rural. Fields of a vibrant green, with woolly sheep grazing, old yellow-stone farmhouses, winding streams, and trees with leaves of red, russet, amber, and yellow. Autumn was cooler here, yes. But it certainly wasn’t all grey.
According to her map, Weymouth was the most easterly part of West Dorset, so this was where Chiara was starting her Dorset journey. She’d booked into a small hotel on the sea front, and spent the next day finding her bearings, walking around the town and trying to get used to the fact that she, Chiara Mazzone, was here in England at last. It all felt so strange – not just the language, but the people, the place. There was a bleak chilliness to Weymouth that was at first unsettling and then rather soothing. The beach was sandy, the Georgian architecture rather grand. But she could see straightaway that this was not the right part of West Dorset. She must move on.
Back at the hotel, Chiara emailed Isabella. She couldn’t simply stop thinking about them. Had she left them in the lurch? She hoped not. She had been looking after The Lemon Tree Hotel for so long that even here, as unsettled as she felt, as unfamiliar as everything was, the hotel in Vernazza remained close to her thoughts.
Is everything all right, Bella? she asked her granddaughter. Are there any problems? Is your mother OK? And you? How are you? She considered asking about Ferdinand Bauer, but managed to stop herself. It was not her business. Look at how everyone had interfered in her love life when she was a girl, and look at the results.
The reply pinged back in minutes, while Chiara was still sitting staring out towards the sea, lost in a dream – showing her that Isabella was working on her laptop, probably while sitting in reception. She imagined this in her mind’s eye and gave a satisfied nod.
Everything’s fine, Nonna. Mamma’s fine too. How is England? Are you managing all right on your own? Anyway, don’t worry about us – just enjoy your break!
No mention of Signor Bauer, she noted. Was that good or bad?
Chiara thought of Elene. She wasn’t one for emails, so maybe she’d send her a text message later. She had no idea how Elene had felt about her going away. She hadn’t liked the thought that her mother might try to find Dante – that was natural. But any other concerns she had hidden well. Chiara suppressed the age-old twinge of guilt. Basta. Enough. She remembered what Giovanna had said. She was doing this, not for her daughter, but for herself.
The next day, Chiara consulted her map, and the girl in the hotel reception and, according to her instructions, caught a bus from the king’s statue (George III apparently) to Abbotsbury, where she spent the rest of the day exploring the pebbly beach and the swannery. She even walked up to the atmospheric St Catherine’s Chapel on the hill, which reminded her of their hilltop sanctuaries in Italy. Some things then, were the same the world over. She looked out over the impossibly green fields towards the sea. Abbotsbury was a pretty village – though rather manicured for her taste, but again, it wasn’t the right place. It most definitely wasn’t Dante’s place.
Chiara tried not to panic. This wasn’t a long stretch of coastline – it ran from Weymouth to Lyme Regis, and she already knew from pictures she’d seen that Lyme wasn’t the place Dante had described – so she must be getting close. The helpful girl in reception at her hotel in Weymouth had booked her into a small place in the village, so she would stay the night and then move on. Thank goodness she had only brought a small suitcase. She didn’t want to rush through all these parts of England that she had longed to see, but on the other hand, the true purpose of her visit continued to burn steadfastly inside her. She had to see him – just one last time.
From Abbotsbury she booked into a small B & B in Burton Bradstock further up the coast. She went there by taxi this time – the buses were not frequent in this part of the world, and Chiara resented the waste of her time spent in waiting for them. But by the time she got to Burton, travelling along an open, scenic and hilly road that boasted spectacular sea views over Chesil Beach, Chiara was beginning to see the attraction of West Dorset for Dante. This road alone almost rivalled the beauty of her own Cinque Terre, though the sea was vaster and arguably less picturesque. But she could sense what held him here.
At first, it seemed that Burton might be the place. Chiara left her bags at the B & B – my goodness, she was beginning to feel like such a nomad – and walked along the beach road to Hive. Her confidence was growing with every day that passed; her life in Italy – her old life – almost seemed to belong to a different Chiara. This new woman was still finding her bearings, it was true; she was a stranger in a foreign land. But she was becoming braver. Perhaps she was even settling into a new version of herself – a more adventurous woman who was ready and willing to explore new places, find new horizons.
Chiara almost gasped when she reached Hive Beach. Because surely here were the golden cliffs? She walked over the beach towards the sea, almost blinded by the brightness of them in the afternoon sunlight, half expecting someone to shout out her name. The water was grey, green, olive, and about every shade in between. Chiara was fascinated by it. If there wasn’t such a chilly breeze she would have wanted to swim – and there were a few people and a dog braving the elements and splashing around in the waves.
She found a sandstone path that led up to a rather run-down hotel (Chiara was relieved she wasn’t staying there) and a house that apparently belonged to some famous British musician, according to a dog-walker who seemed to want to make conversation. Beyond this, it was possible to walk along the cliff to a place called Freshwater Beach, and then back along the river. But there was no Italian gelato – just a rather nice seafood café on Hive Beach, and a very English ice-cream parlour. Chiara tried not to feel too disappointed.
‘Is there somewhere nearby that sells Italian gelato?’ she asked the girl behind the counter. She had auburn hair and green eyes – a striking combination.
The girl looked a touch annoyed. ‘Have you even tried our ice cream?’
‘No. Yes. Oh, I’m sorry, yes of course I’ll have the vanilla please.’ It was probably the safest. Chiara took the proffered cone. ‘I’m looking for someone, you see,’ she explained to the girl. ‘He’s Italian. He makes ice cream.’
‘Ah.’ The girl’s voice softened at the hint of romance. ‘You should have said.’
Chiara paid her with the unfamiliar coins. ‘I know he lives somewhere in West Dorset,’ she confided. ‘And I know there are cliffs like these.’ Which sounded a bit mad. What kind of person in this day and age searched for a compatriot on the basis of a description of some sandstone cliffs? But from Dante’s description, she thought she’d recognise the place, and in her heart, Chiara knew Burton Bradstock – beautiful though it was – wasn’t it.
The girl frowned as she handed back her change. ‘You could try West Bay,’ she said. ‘It’s not far. Outside Bridport, just along the coast road.’
Chiara headed back to her B & B to investigate this further. Rather to her surprise, she was beginning to enjoy her adventure, but she hoped she’d find Dante soon. Was she being foolish? Was she on a pointless mission? Was she far too old to be thinking this way? Chiara steeled herself. She was only fifty-nine. Who knew? Perhaps it wasn’t too late. At the very least they could talk. At the very least she could tell him how sorry she was that it hadn’t worked out between them. And meanwhile, she could experience a taste of his beloved Dorset for herself. Because if she didn’t even try . . . How would that make her feel for the rest of her life without him?
Back in her room, Chiara looked up
B & Bs in West Bay. There was one just up the hill called West Cliff that had a sea view, she read. It sounded perfect. She called the number.
The woman sounded very pleasant. Yes, there was plenty of room, she said, as long as Chiara was staying two nights or more. It was the end of the season, and not yet half term.
‘I could come this afternoon,’ Chiara told her.
Her current landlady offered to take her to West Bay for a small charge to cover petrol. ‘There’s still a railway station down there in the bay,’ she told her. ‘Though much good it does anybody.’
‘There are no trains?’ Chiara was curious.
‘There were trains to Bridport and West Bay once upon a time,’ she said. ‘Until the branch lines were closed in the 1960s. Come to think of it, I believe they closed the station at West Bay even earlier. It never quite took off as a holiday resort, I reckon.’
Chiara wondered why they would have stopped the trains like this. It seemed short-sighted to say the least, and if they could have a train station in a place like Vernazza . . . But it was a pleasant drive, and she sat back in her seat to enjoy it. Even if she didn’t find Dante – and at this thought her new-found courage almost failed – then at least she would have travelled to another country alone, she would have gone somewhere different, done something that didn’t involve The Lemon Tree Hotel or her family. That would be an achievement in itself.
They turned left off the main road and soon came to a village with a large car park, a hotel, and a distinctive mound of small ginger pebbles piled so high on the beach that it was impossible to view the sea. Chiara felt a pull of excitement deep in her chest. There was a disused railway station just as her landlady had said, and a harbour lined by kiosks selling fish and chips, burgers, seafood, and . . . ice cream. Chiara hardly dared look at these kiosks as they passed by in her landlady’s car. Had he mentioned a kiosk? She couldn’t recall. Boats gently nudged each other in the harbour. There was a hotch-potch of buildings in the village – some old, some newer; some pretty, some entirely defeated by the elements they must have fought for so many years. It was, she decided, exactly the kind of place Dante Rossi would feel at home in. Not too neat, not too rundown. A real place, with sea air and a slightly weary soul.
They drove up a hill, and Chiara glanced back to see a path snaking up a grass-covered golden cliff. The sea was visible now too. Broad waves were crashing on to a ginger and gravelly beach, and the sea rocked and gleamed in the autumn sunlight beyond. Chiara’s heart did a double flip. She had the strongest feeling that this was indeed the place.
CHAPTER 45
Isabella
It had been a strange few days for Isabella.
Aware that she was still only wearing Ferdinand’s fleece and her flimsy nightdress, she had hot-footed it back to the hotel and sneaked in the rear entrance through the kitchen. Her mother was already up doing the breakfasts though, and naturally, she spotted her.
‘Bella! What on earth are you doing?’
‘Oh, I just went outside for a walk, Mamma.’ Isabella edged towards the door. The sooner that she made it up to her room, the better.
‘In your nightclothes?’ Her mother’s eyebrows rose.
‘It was such a lovely morning.’ Isabella gestured towards the window. ‘For October.’ Fortunately, the sun was indeed shining. ‘I didn’t want to hang around and er . . . get dressed.’ She laughed. Did that sound convincing?
‘Really?’ Her mother frowned. ‘If your grandmother were here I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy about that, Bella. I mean, what about our guests? What sort of impression are you giving them of The Lemon Tree Hotel? We have our professional credibility to consider, you know.’
At least, Isabella thought, she hadn’t said anything about a missing painting. Ferdinand must have got it back in time. ‘There was no one around, Mamma.’ She moved closer towards the door. She had to make sure this was the case, that the Bordoni Gabriel was once again hanging in its rightful place and had not been missed. She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘It was so early when I went out. Only just dawn.’
‘So where did you go?’ Mamma wasn’t letting her off that easily.
‘To Aunt Giovanna’s.’ That much at least was true. ‘Then we had coffee and cornetti, and got talking, and I just didn’t notice how late it was.’
‘Hmm.’ Her mother nodded.
She could always rely on Mamma to understand delays where food was concerned.
‘And how is Aunt Giovanna?’
Isabella thought of her aunt’s expression when she had seen the painting of the Last Supper. It had been worth being there just for that. ‘She’s well.’
‘Good. I’ll take her down something to eat at lunch-time. I’m making a squid-ink risotto.’ She frowned at her daughter. ‘Better get dressed quickly then, Bella.’
‘I will.’
In the lobby, the Bordoni hung just as it always had. Only . . . Isabella put her head to one side. It might be a little off-centre. But there was no time to do anything about that now. Fortunately, it was still too early for guests to be around, and she was able to slip up the stairs and into her own room without being seen. She shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and exhaled. What a morning it had been so far . . . So, was that it? Was that the full mystery of the missing painting and the reason for Ferdinand’s presence at The Lemon Tree Hotel? She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that there was something more.
*
Over the next two days she was too busy to think about it too much however. Her grandmother had been right – they were getting quieter now that it was late October, but there was a lot to show Emanuele, who had taken over her grandmother’s shifts on reception, and there were other problems with deliveries and bookings that she had to manage alone. Her mother had told her about Febe’s pregnancy and that she wouldn’t be working next season. With Nonna away there was plenty to do.
Ferdinand had not yet left the hotel to return to Germany – he’d been here now for almost three weeks – and yet she’d swear he was keeping out of her way. They’d had drinks and coffee, snatched a quick walk, and even had dinner one evening, but there was none of the intimacy of the night in the olive grove. He was still here – which had to mean something. And she’d been so sure of how he’d felt . . . But if that was the case, why was he now creating a distance between them?
Isabella was due some time off for sure. Ferdinand was nowhere to be found, and many of their guests were leaving because the weather was certainly on the change. She looked outside. It had been a fine early autumn and it had hardly rained for months, but now the sky was dark and heavy with clouds. Even so, she needed to get out, she really did. With Nonna away and their planned renovations on hold; with Ferdinand playing some sort of waiting game . . . She felt unsettled. She’d go down to the village, she decided, buy a few supplies, spend some time by the harbour at the water’s edge, and try to shake herself out of this mood.
She took a bag and a light jacket and scarf and set off through the olive grove. The wind was whipping the branches of the trees – perhaps there would be a storm? When she got to the cliff edge she stood looking out over the prickly pears and juniper. The ocean was not smooth and glassy as it had been for most of the summer, but thick and green, blurred by mist, the waves smashing on to the rocks that surrounded Vernazza in rolls of fizzing and foaming water, spraying on to the cliff side. The clouds were darker towards Monterosso, and it was so hazy that it was even hard to make out the contours of the village from here. There was a grey bleakness to the landscape today that made her shiver, a kind of eerie calm. Even the houses didn’t look as colourful as usual. The low cloud was certainly putting a dampener on the scene.
She thought of her grandmother, in Dorset. No doubt it would be even bleaker there. Was she looking for Dante Rossi – this man who’d had such an effect on her when he visited The Lemon Tree Hotel earlier this month? Isabella still felt sad that her grandparents’ marriage had come t
o an end – you didn’t expect it somehow of your grandparents . . . Weren’t they, after all, too old for that sort of thing? But she’d always had so much respect for her grandmother, and so she instinctively trusted Nonna’s decision. There were reasons, there must be. Although surely she wasn’t about to fling herself into another relationship at her age? And if she found Dante Rossi in Dorset, if she did embark on a relationship with him . . . What then? What about The Lemon Tree Hotel and her life here with her family?
The sky was growing still darker as Isabella made her way down the steeper steps into the village. There were still plenty of people around, even though the wind was beginning to whistle down the narrow alleyways. Tourists came to Vernazza all year round – though not as many now in the last week of October as invaded the tiny town in the summer. And although tourism was their business, Isabella thanked God for that. Everyone needed some respite. This village – her village – had never been meant to house so many people, it had never been intended for so many feet to walk the cobbles, for so many strangers to use the little shops and cafés. It was a strain on Vernazza – not to mention on those locals who didn’t make their living from tourism and had nothing to thank it for.
The first drops of rain fell as Isabella was approaching the small harbour down the narrow walkway by the pink, yellow, and terracotta houses. The green wooden shutters in most of them had been drawn closed. The boats had already been brought on to the piazza as they usually were when there was a forecast of bad weather. And it was raining harder now, fat drops splattering on to the pavement. Some people were already dodging into shops, cafés, and bars to avoid the downpour that was now looking to be a certainty.
‘Ciao. It’s looking bad.’ A restaurateur she knew greeted her as he started stacking together the chairs outside his place. He looked up at the sky. ‘There goes the lunch trade, huh? It’s the scirocco. You should get home.’
