by Helen Pryke
“I may just do that,” I said, stretching. “If I can ever find the energy after all this cleaning.”
At long last, everything was gleaming. The tiles on the floor were visible, the parquet upstairs waxed and polished, the broken window pane replaced, and everything smelled fresh and new. We all stood back and admired our handiwork.
“I don’t know how to thank you all,” I said, and I meant it. I’d loved having the women in the house, chattering while we worked, the time passing so quickly that it was no effort at all. And I knew that I was going to miss having them around me all the time. To tell the truth, I was quite scared of being by myself again, I didn’t want to have to think about the past, the mistakes I’d made, of having to face the future alone. Being with these women had been a buffer to all that.
“We’ve enjoyed it, and it’s been lovely getting to know you,” Aunt Liliana said. “Finally I get to see Angela’s daughter, after all these years.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be dropping in so often you’ll be sick of the sight of us,” Giulia said, smiling. “Don’t think we’re going to abandon you up here at the cottage. But we will leave you alone this weekend, so you can enjoy some of the peace and quiet you came here for. And Bea wants to meet her cousin,” she added. “She’s talked about nothing else all week.”
“Please, do drop in whenever you want,” I said. “And I’d love to meet Bea, too!”
All week long, I hadn’t even thought about touching a drop of alcohol; not because of any magic in the cottage, but because I was so damned tired from all the cleaning. I was in bed by eight o’clock every night and asleep one minute later.
One weekend. A whole weekend by myself. ‘You can do this,’ I told myself sternly. No more excuses, no more putting things off. Two days to think. I still had to find the magic Mum had talked about, if it really existed. Now that the house was in order, maybe I could finally relax and get in touch with my surroundings.
I got up on Saturday morning and decided to do some weeding. After a couple of hours, I concluded that whoever said it was good therapy should be shot. I found nothing therapeutic about kneeling on sharp gravel, digging up weeds with a blunt knife. Standing up afterwards was torture – my knees popped, my muscles protested at having to stretch and my shoulders felt so bunched up that I was sure I looked like Quasimodo. But the few square metres of drive I’d cleared looked fantastic.
I stretched my whole body, trying to loosen the cramped nerves, and turned around in a circle, inspecting all my hard work. I groaned at the sight of the weeds growing amongst the bushes in the garden, the ivy spreading over one side of the house and threatening to block an upstairs window, the ancient trees bowing over from the weight of their untrimmed branches. I threw down my knife and stormed back indoors, defeated for the day.
“A gardener, that’s what I need,” I muttered. I found that being alone made me talk out loud much more often. “I’ll ask Aunt Liliana on Monday, she’ll know someone.”
After all that fresh air and gardening, I could have done with a nice, cold glass of wine. I clenched my hands into a fist, my desire for something alcoholic consuming me. I started opening the kitchen cupboards like I’d gone crazy, knocking things over in my frenzy to find a bottle of something, anything, then slamming them shut in fury when my shaking hands found nothing. Of course, there wouldn’t be anything in the house, we’d taken everything out when we cleaned. But nobody had touched the garage yet. Perhaps… I ran out to the ramshackle garage, with its sagging roof and broken windows. Nobody in their right mind would go inside, it looked like it would fall down with the slightest breeze.
“Oh, fuck it,” I exclaimed and threw the doors open. A thick layer of dust covered everything and long cobwebs draped down from the ceiling. I carefully stepped inside the garage and saw a big old dresser, with secateurs, a trowel, old seed packets, and a myriad of other gardening implements scattered across the top. I crouched down and pulled at the bottom cupboard doors.
There were rows of tall, wine-shaped bottles stacked neatly inside, a small, handwritten label affixed to each one.
“Frutti di bosco,” I read out loud. “Fruits of the forest. Uva nera. Black grape. Prugna. Plum. Lampone. Raspberry. Mela. Apple.” I counted thirty bottles and re-read the labels. “Fruits of the forest, black grape, plum, raspberry and apple.” It sounded like a mantra. “Oh, Grandma Luisa, thank goodness you liked to make your own wine.” I could have wept. Thirty bottles. With a bit of care, I’d have enough to last me a couple of months, maybe longer. After all, I wasn’t going to drink a whole one every day.
I grabbed a cloth, dusted off each bottle and took them all back into the house. I found the perfect hiding place in the cupboard in the hallway, which I could lock with a key. My alcohol. Hidden safely away from prying eyes. A habit that I somehow couldn’t break, not just yet. I didn’t want to let Mum down, but I knew I couldn’t stay off the booze forever. Not until I found that damned magic she’d kept on about, anyway.
I took out a bottle filled with a deep-red liquid and read the faded label. “Hmm, fruits of the forest. Sounds delicious.” In my mind’s eye, I saw myself going back to the kitchen, taking a corkscrew out of the drawer and hearing the cork come out with that oh-so-familiar popping sound. I could almost smell the sweet aroma of the wine, my mouth watering as I imagined that first sip, the warm, fruity liquid sliding down my throat…
“No!” I quickly placed the bottle back into the cupboard and slammed the door shut, locking it. I had to be strong, try to resist.
Since weeding as a distraction hadn’t worked, I grabbed a book and a sun lounger and headed to the garden. I set myself up in a cool, shady spot under a large tree that looked to be at least a hundred years old. There was a slight breeze that took away the heat of the afternoon sun, and the sound of bees droning among the branches of the tree helped me to relax. A few pages in, my eyelids fluttered and I drifted off to sleep.
“La dolce vita, eh?” I heard a voice call out.
I woke up with a start and saw Mark standing over me. “Wh-what?” I mumbled, confused. “How did you get in?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to scare you.” I squinted as I looked up at him, the afternoon sun directly behind his head. “The gate wasn’t locked. I hadn’t heard from you all week, so I thought I’d pop in and see how you are. The village is buzzing with news of your arrival, your family are so excited you’re here.”
I struggled to follow what he was saying as my head was still a bit fuzzy from my short nap. “We’ve been cleaning all week, the house was in quite a state,” I managed to say. “I was going to call you next week, I needed the weekend to recover…” I wanted to say, ‘from my family’ but suddenly felt guilty after everything they’d done for me. “From all the hard work,” I finished lamely, as I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the lounger.
Mark laughed. “You don’t need to tell me about Italians and needing to recover from them,” he said. “I’ve been here fifteen years now, since I married my Italian wife. We’re divorced,” he added, noticing my frown. “The marriage lasted ten years, which I consider a miracle, seeing how they were always interfering. Her mother was always dropping in, telling us how to live our lives, what we should be doing, eating, even thinking! I couldn’t take any more in the end, and I told my wife it was either her mum or me. And here I am, divorced.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “You could have gone back to England.”
“Ah, I love it too much here,” he said. “The countryside, the wonderful weather, even some of the people. You can’t get all this in England.”
“You might find someone else,” I said. He was definitely good-looking enough.
“I might,” he agreed vaguely.
I suddenly realised that I was sitting down on a comfortable sun lounger while he was still standing up. “What a terrible host I am. Let’s go into the house and I’ll make a coffee.”
He chuckled. “I’d prefer something
stronger, seeing as it’s after five o’clock.”
I stood up and led the way back to the house. “Unfortunately, I haven’t got anything else, just water, juice or coffee,” I said, my heart beating fast. There was no way I was going to share my wine with anyone else.
“I’ll remember to bring a bottle next time,” he replied.
I opened the back door and gestured him inside. “That’s OK, I don’t drink anyway.”
Rule number one: keep all temptation out of the house. And rule number two: ignore the fact that there’s a cupboard full of wine just down the corridor!
We sat and drank coffee, making small talk. I found him pleasant enough, but my mind kept drifting to the wine. It was a relief when he finally declared he had to go.
“Call me next week, I’m free most mornings. We can go for a coffee if you like.”
“OK,” I replied.
“Are you all right? You seem a bit distracted.”
“Oh, I was doing some gardening earlier, the sun’s given me a bit of a headache.” Why wouldn’t he just go? I could feel the wine calling me, singing to me, its lure dragging me towards it, irresistible.
“Bye then.”
“Yeah, sure, bye,” I said breezily. I’d closed the front door before he was halfway down the garden path. He’ll think I’m so rude, I thought, giggling, but I didn’t care.
I couldn’t hold back any more. I ran to the cupboard, unlocked it and took out the bottle of fruits of the forest wine. I placed it on the kitchen table and took a corkscrew out of the cutlery drawer, anticipating the ritual uncorking with growing excitement. The pop of the cork, the delightful smell as I inhaled its rich, fruit scent with musky undertones… then an image of Mum standing before me with folded arms leapt into my head, a disappointed expression on her face.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I whispered. “I can’t, not right now. Please understand.” The image disappeared and all I could see was the open bottle on the table, the empty glass next to it. That glug glug sound as I poured the wine, the glass filling with the deep red liquid, not a drop spilt as I gave the bottle a final twist and put it back down with a flourish.
“One glass,” I murmured, “just one.” I squeezed the cork back into the bottle and replaced it in the cupboard in the hallway, locking it away. I removed the key and put it in a kitchen drawer, out of temptation’s way. The glass was still on the table, majestically waiting for me. I wanted to drain it in one gulp; my body was crying out for its sweet nectar, but there was a small, masochistic part of me that wanted to make me suffer for this prize.
I carefully carried the glass outside to the sun lounger, picked up my book, and sat down. “You’re going to enjoy this drink,” I told myself sternly, “just like anyone else would. A nice, relaxing glass of wine after a hard day’s work in the garden.” I put the glass close to my nose and breathed in. My head was filled with the scent of alcoholic fumes with a hint of raspberries, strawberries and blackberries, such a wonderful aroma that made my mouth water. I took a sip, closed my eyes, and waited. The flavour was an intense fruity mix that hit the back of my throat, followed by an instant warmth spreading through my stomach. It felt so good, so right, so… natural.
By the time I finished the glass, the sun had disappeared behind the nearby hills and the air was growing chilly. The last birds swooped crazily in the sky, their final moments of freedom before it was time to roost. A dragonfly flitted in front of my face, startling me.
“Oh, shoo,” I said, watching as it flew away. I was feeling relaxed, happy, more at peace with the world than I’d felt in a long time. The dragonfly came back, perched on the arm of the sun lounger, then flitted away again as I moved my hand. I smiled. When it came back a third time, I stayed completely still. It hovered in front of my nose, flew a few metres to my right, returned, then flew away again in the same direction. Curious, I watched it. It repeated the same movement several times.
“It’s almost as if it wants me to follow it,” I whispered. Then I laughed out loud. “Good grief, get a grip. You’ve only had one glass!”
But something was happening. My senses felt sharper than usual, I could hear insects moving in the grass at my feet, the leaves above me sucking nutriment from the tree, birds’ feathers rustling in the wind as they flew high in the sky. Strange, sweet perfumes floated through the air that I’d never smelt before, unrecognisable but somehow familiar. I could feel the vibrations coming from the dragonfly’s wings as it beat them at an impossible speed to hover before me.
As if in a dream, I stood up and followed the dragonfly. It led me down towards the end of the garden where I hadn’t yet had the chance to explore, through a small gate in an overgrown hedge to a wild, unkempt area. Here there were fruit bushes strangled by weeds, and brambles grew over everything, catching on my clothes as I made my way through the tangled undergrowth. It was strangely alluring, this patch of unexpected wilderness. The dragonfly stopped a few metres ahead of me, hovered for a few seconds, then flew straight up in the sky and disappeared out of sight. I went over to where it had been a moment before and saw that there was a huge mass of ivy growing up from the ground. The sky was getting darker now, but I could see a shape underneath the ivy. I pulled a few strands, and suddenly the whole thing came away in my hands. I looked closely at what I had uncovered and screamed.
Chapter Four
I stood in the kitchen, trembling, my hands shaking as I made poured myself a glass of tap water. The calm, relaxed feeling was long gone, and my head was pounding with unanswered questions. I kept replaying in my mind the moment all the ivy had fallen away, uncovering a tombstone. Who the hell was buried there? I started to think I’d dreamt it all, there couldn’t possibly be a grave at the bottom of the garden. I bitterly regretted drinking the wine.
One day. That was all it had taken, one day of solitude and I’d immediately turned to alcohol. Mum’s wrong. I’m too weak, I’ll never get through this, I thought. I’d tried so hard. I’d even locked the bottles away, but it was stronger than me, the pull was too strong to resist. I remembered how I’d felt after drinking the glass of wine, those strange sensations, the dragonfly, and I wondered what on earth my great-grandmother had put in the wine to make me react in that way.
I suddenly felt exhausted, as if I had lead weights in my pocket. I finished the water and left the glass in the sink for the next morning. Even though it was only eight o’clock, I didn’t want anything to eat. I just wanted to crawl into my bed and sleep until the next morning. Tomorrow I’ll deal with things, I thought tiredly, tomorrow.
Rather than the oblivion I sought, however, my dreams were filled with confused images of dragonflies darting around a garden full of graves, landing on the headstones with their wings humming so loudly that I had to cover my ears. I ran haphazardly, trying to catch them before they woke up the slumbering inhabitants in their coffins. I tripped over the edge of a grave and fell heavily to the ground, the freshly-dug cold earth caressing my cheek, a maggot writhing just inches from my nose. A bony finger broke through the ground, turning to point at me, and I wanted to scream but instead inhaled mouthfuls of dirt. I was choking, suffocating, unable to move, my eyes fixed on the grey bones of the rest of the hand inching their way towards my neck. I willed myself to wake up. My mind kept screaming, this is only a nightmare, it isn’t really happening, but I continued to gasp for air, desperate for the oxygen my lungs needed. Finally I knew no more, and drowned in blessed darkness.
The sun woke me up early the next morning and put an end to the nightmares. I felt as if I’d run a marathon and my nightshirt was damp and clammy where I’d sweated during the night. After a shower and two very strong cups of coffee, I began to feel slightly more human. I stared out of the kitchen window at the garden. From here, I couldn’t see the hedge I’d gone through the evening before and everything seemed the same as usual. But it wasn’t, and I didn’t know if it could ever be the same for me again. The idea of someone being buried out there sent shive
rs down my spine. Was it even legal to bury someone in your garden? I suddenly thought. Will I have to call the police?
I rinsed out my coffee cup and the percolator, trying to delay the moment I’d have to go back into the garden. After the nightmares I’d had, that was the last thing I wanted to do, but I knew I had to go and check it out. I tidied up downstairs, putting away a couple of magazines, rearranging the ornaments on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, but eventually I had nothing left to do.
I was hesitant as I slowly walked down the garden path towards the gate in the hedge. It was a warm day, the air filled with the sounds of chirping birds and insects scuttling about on their daily business. The magic I’d sensed the evening before was gone, though, and I felt only dread as I opened the gate.
I could clearly see where I’d passed the evening before, crushed grass and weeds showing the way. I opened the gate and went through, looking carefully around me. There were bushes and plants everywhere, some very old, their twisted branches dark and thick under masses of weeds, while others were much smaller and lighter in colour. This part of the garden was protected by an old, moss-covered stone wall on three sides and the hedge and gate where I’d entered on the fourth. Several trees stood against the wall, covered in pretty white blossom. I wandered over to look at them, sure that they were apple trees. A slight breeze blew through the garden, and clouds of blossom floated in the air around me, like confetti being thrown over a bride’s head, settling in my hair and on my shoulders. I reached out and caught some in my hand, the delicate flowers tickling my palm.
I didn’t know how long apples took to mature, but I guessed that by the autumn I’d have enough to make plenty of cakes and pies, maybe even some jams. I thought I’d give cider a miss, for obvious reasons, and besides I had great-grandma’s apple wine. I whirled around, and saw a row of grape vines in a corner, and over there some blackberry bushes… I realised I was standing in great-grandmother’s garden where she had grown the fruit for her wines.
