by Helen Pryke
He leaned towards me and sniffed appreciatively. “Ah, Liliana, she knows how much I love her cakes.”
“And this is for your dog, maybe she’d like something to chew on.” I handed him the plastic bag. Rather than bite my ankles, I thought.
“Come back to the house, then. I’ll make a coffee and we can eat some cake,” he said. He whistled to the dog and I followed him along the dirt track, already dry and dusty even though it had rained the previous day. Trying to keep up with his vigorous pace, I guessed he wasn’t as old as he looked, despite his white hair and leathery, wrinkled face.
This time I didn’t try to talk about Bruna, the baby or the grave and, to my surprise, spent a pleasant couple of hours in Mario’s company. He knew everything there was to know about the fruit bushes in the Grove and gave me plenty of advice on how to care for them. We avoided talking about the family, but he had plenty of gossip regarding the villagers. He’d known most of them since he was a child, and relished telling me about scandals that had happened before he was born.
“Mamma told me all about a woman from the village, Caterina. It was after the war. Her husband came back after being away for two years and found her in bed with his cousin! Mind you, they all knew something was goin’ on, because she always wore lipstick and stockings… things that weren’t easy to come by in those days, you see… and they kept wondering how she got them. And she thought she was somethin’ so special, all hoighty toighty, looking down her nose at everyone. Turned out she’d slept with a load of American soldiers during the war, and they were still sending her presents. Her husband threw her out of the house, last they heard she was on a boat to America, off to one of those soldiers. Even her own family disowned her.”
I almost choked on my coffee. “I always imagined you Italians as being faithful, putting family first… you know, being Catholics and everything, especially in those days.”
“Hah!” he snorted. “Men and women are the same the world over, my dear, regardless of religion and family.” He looked sad for a moment, then perked up again. “I must tell you about the butcher, Grassi… you won’t believe this, I didn’t when I heard it. After the war, there was a shortage of, well, of everything, really. There was never enough to eat, especially in the small villages. The cities fared a bit better. This Grassi, he’s slaughtered all the cows he had, but it’s not enough, people were still demanding meat. So he starts selling game… pheasants, quail, hare, rabbit… you name it, whatever he could catch, he sold it. Said hunting was good, wildlife was abundant. Then people started to mention their cat was missing, just the odd one here and there at the beginning, but then it became more and more frequent. And old Grassi always had a well-stocked counter. But they finally had enough to eat, so no-one said anything. Then the economy picked up and he stopped selling game and went back to selling beef and pork. But they all knew what they’d been eating.” He chuckled at the story he’d probably told a hundred times already.
“I don’t know whether to laugh at his craftiness or to feel sad because they were all so hungry,” I said, shocked that he was so relaxed about the whole thing.
He shrugged his shoulders in that oh-so-Italian way. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? They survived the war, and he helped get them through it. We Italians are very good at ignoring the how and why, and just concentrating on the here and now.”
By lunchtime we’d eaten half the cake and Bella had chewed most of the meat off her bone. Mario put a saucepan of water on the stove.
“I’m going to make some pasta for lunch, if you’d like to stay.”
“Oh no, really, I don’t think I could eat anything, I’ve eaten so much cake. I think I’ll go back to the cottage and do some gardening, burn off some of those calories.”
He glanced over at me. “If you want, I could come over this afternoon, give you hand.” Shocked, I didn’t answer immediately. “Well, it was just an idea,” he said grumpily. “I quite understand if you don’t want me around. It’s just that I haven’t got anything else to do…”
“Of course I’d love you to come over,” I said. “I was just surprised by your offer, that’s all. Aunt Liliana said you preferred your own company.” I stopped, annoyed with myself. Just when things were going better, I had to say too much.
To my relief, Mario laughed. “And she’s right, when it comes to those interfering busy-bodies. But you’re different. I like you, and I’d like to help you restore Mamma’s garden.” He smiled. “I’ll be over about three o’ clock, if that’s all right.”
I was already working in the Grove when Mario turned up with Bella at his heels. I couldn’t help thinking that Bella was a most inappropriate name. I’d never seen such an ugly dog in all my life.
“Hi, I’m glad you came,” I called out as he opened the gate.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” I tensed up at the grumpy tone of his voice.
He looked around, curious. “I haven’t been in here since Mamma, you know… since she died,” he murmured. “It’s a bit overgrown, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit.” I watched Bella sniffing around the plants, following a trail only she could pick up.
“You know, she told me it used to be called the Dragonfly Grove.”
“What a pretty name. Why did it get shortened to the Grove?”
“I don’t know. Probably ’cause the dragonflies disappeared. Mamma said she always called it the Grove, and so did her mother. I guess the original name got lost over the years.”
“Pity, I like it.” I wondered how many dragonflies there had been before.
“Well, less chat, let’s get on with things. Where do you want me to start?” Eager to get on, his eyes lit up as he looked around the garden and his face relaxed as he reached out and gently stroked the new buds of fruit.
“I’m clearing the weeds so they don’t choke the plants, like you told me to do.”
He frowned. “Don’t touch that one in the corner over there.” He gestured to the far wall, where there was a tall, overgrown plant with large leaves and bell-shaped purple flowers.
“I haven’t got that far yet,” I replied.
“Leave it alone, I’ll deal with that one. It’s poisonous, you see. Mamma never let me go near it when I was little. The leaves, berries, flowers… if you touch ’em, you need to wash your hands right away. It’s lethal.”
“I’ll let you deal with that one, then.” I was grateful I hadn’t reached that point of the garden, and realised how much I had to learn. I briefly wondered what such a poisonous plant was doing in here, but dismissed the thought. I handed him a pair of gloves. “You could start pruning the plants I’ve cleared if you want. I don’t really know how to do that and I’m scared of damaging them.” I handed him the rusty pruners I’d found in the garage.
“First we need to sort these out.” He turned them over in his hand, tutting and shaking his head at the state of them. “They’re probably blunt, and I need to get rid of all the rust. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I saw him disappear into the garage, and smiled as he started whistling a cheerful tune. I wondered how long it had been since he’d whistled like that. We worked together all that afternoon, me clearing weeds and Mario pruning and trimming the bushes. Bella ran around, digging holes and spraying dirt everywhere, snapping at wasps and flies. She finally ran out of energy and lay down in the shade, tongue dangling out of her mouth as she watched us hard at work. I noticed that even the dog avoided going near the centre where the grave lay, still half-hidden by weeds and ivy.
We worked together in the Grove for the next several weeks, starting from the outer edge and working our way inwards. Mario arrived at eight o’clock on the dot every morning and let himself in. It seemed that the bone had definitely helped with Bella accepting me, and my ankles were safe. Every morning she launched herself at me, slobbering my hand with wet, doggy kisses, then crunched a handful of dog biscuits while Mario and I drank our first espresso coffee of the day. Then it was out
into the garden for the rest of the morning. I enjoyed my new, relaxing routine: working with Uncle Mario during the day, then walking down to Aunt Liliana’s for dinner and chatting with the family, and phoning Mum every Wednesday and Saturday to keep her up to date with everything. Mark tried ringing a few times but I never answered his calls. He could go to hell as far as I was concerned.
Mario was surprisingly talkative during our lunch breaks, even though he’d sometimes go off on a tangent or forget what we were talking about. I still saw that wild look in his eyes, but he seemed a lot calmer than the first day. I kept a careful eye on him though, observing his mood as we drew closer to the grave. I had to admit, I was worried that he’d go crazy again, and this time there was nowhere for me to run.
I realised that I hadn’t thought about alcohol or Luisa’s wine ever since we’d started our gardening project. Even when watching TV after dinner, my only concern was about planning the next day’s work. I began to wonder if this was the magic of the cottage that Mum had talked about.
That final morning, everything started as normal. We drank our coffee and ate some croissants Mario had brought with him. They were still warm and we relished every mouthful. It promised to be a hot day and we decided to get as much work done in the morning as possible, so that we could rest in the afternoon. The Grove was almost finished; there was only the area in the middle to finish off, with the grave silently waiting for us. Mario seemed oblivious but I couldn’t help feeling tense.
I pulled the weeds out by their roots, savouring the satisfying ripping sound as they released their hold in the earth. I threw the clods into the wheelbarrow behind me and picked up the small gardening fork. I turned the soil over, breathing in that unmistakable smell of rotting vegetation and freshly-turned earth, and used the trowel to place a dollop of manure at the base of the bush.
“That’s right, now turn the earth again to mix it all together,” Mario said approvingly, standing behind me with his hands on his hips. “You’re a good gardener, girl, I’ll give you that, but there’s still so much more you need to know and I’m too old and tired to teach it to you.” He sighed. “There’s a book, a recipe book for all those wines and potions, Mamma had it… it was passed down from daughter to daughter through the generations, each one adding to it. After Bruna left, there was no daughter to give it to. Mamma had to pass it on, though, otherwise the secrets would have been lost. The Grove is old, much older than you’d think. All these bushes, planted so long ago…” His voice faded as he lost himself in reminiscing.
I smiled at the faraway look on his face. “Shall we call it a day?” I was tired and sweaty, and couldn’t wait to get under the shower. It had been a long morning.
“All right,” he replied, coming back to the present with a jolt. He looked around. “We’ve done a good job today, haven’t we?”
I nodded. “Fantastic,” I said, looking at the freshly-trimmed plants, all neat and tidy now. I stretched my arms, and the trowel slipped from my grasp. It made a dull, metallic sound as it hit the ground.
“What was that?” Mario asked, and bent over to pick it up.
“Don’t…” I started but it was too late. He’d already seen the grave.
He stood as still as a statue, just staring at the headstone. His face turned white as a sheet, and he suddenly looked much older. Bella trotted over to see what was going on, whining, then lay down at his feet, her ears perked, her nose sniffing the air. He reached down and absentmindedly stroked her head.
“I remember the day she was born.” He spoke so quietly that I had to move closer to hear his voice. “Poor Bruna, she was in labour for forty-eight hours, we thought it’d never come out. But then, there she was… this pink, screaming bundle with a powerful set of lungs.” He turned towards me, a tear rolling down his weathered cheek. “I’d forgotten,” he whispered, “I’d forgotten about the grave, how could I forget…”
“It’s all right.” I tried to soothe him, shocked by the devastated look on his face.
“I need to tell someone,” he murmured. “Please, dear God, I need to say…”
I touched his arm. “Let’s go indoors, Uncle Mario. I’ll make us a cup of tea and you can tell me everything.”
He followed me back up to the cottage, Bella at his heels. I gestured for him to sit down at the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for him. I pottered about making the tea, giving him time to compose himself.
I sat down with him, two cups of steaming tea in front of us, a bowl of water on the floor for Bella. I stayed silent, waiting for him to speak. I didn’t have long to wait.
“B-Bruna was so beautiful,” he began. I nodded. Mum had some black and white photos of her when she was in her teens, and she’d been extraordinarily beautiful.
“I was the youngest of the three of us. No-one else in the family had much time for me but she did. She looked after me when Mamma was working in the Grove, or making her wine, or tending the sick in the village. Mamma and Teresa were happy to leave her to it, they had their own lives, their own things to do. My father told Bruna to stop mothering me, that I’d have to grow up, learn to do things by myself, but she refused. He was jealous of me, taking up her time.” He paused, breathing heavily. I smiled reassuringly at him, not knowing what to say.
“Then Bruna got pregnant. Mamma went through the roof, shouting and screaming at her, telling her what a stupid girl she was. My father was more understanding, he calmed Mamma down and told her these things sometimes happen, that we had to help her.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“Oh, about eight. Old enough.” He coughed. “My father was a strict Catholic, he went to church every Sunday and prayed before going to bed. He’d never have approved of sex before marriage, and especially not having a baby. I couldn’t believe he was being so calm about it. So I watched him. And Bruna. She refused to say who the father was. I wanted to find out, so I could go and beat him up, make him suffer for what he’d done to her.”
My heart broke at the image of this eight-year-old boy determined to seek revenge for the wrong done to his sister.
“I followed her when she went to the village, watched everyone she spoke with, but she seemed perfectly normal with everyone. Then, one evening, I was sitting in a corner playing with my tin soldiers. Mamma was washing the dishes, my father was in his armchair, listening to the radio, and Teresa had already gone outside. Bruna was helping Mamma, drying the dishes. Mamma told her to go and lie down as she looked tired. She had to pass by my father’s armchair to get to the stairs, by now her stomach was getting bigger and it was difficult for her to squeeze through. I liked to watch her waddle around, it amazed me how something could be growing inside her like that… I saw him reach up and take hold of her hand to stop her, and then he whispered something. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I clearly saw the expression on her face. It was of pure hatred, and it shocked me to the core. I’d never seen such a horrible look ever before, not from anyone, especially not from Bruna.” He rubbed his hand over his hair, making the white wisps stand up in all directions.
“She hissed at him, ‘Don’t you ever touch me again, you dirty bastard.’ That I did hear, and it made my heart go cold with dread. She snatched her hand away and stormed out of the room. Mamma didn’t even turn around, she just tossed me the drying-up cloth and told me to take over. I looked at my father… his face was white with anger, his lips locked tightly together, and his eyes were fixed on a point on the wall.” He took a sip of tea, then put the cup down with a shaking hand and wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin. “And then I knew.”
“He was the father of Bruna’s baby,” I whispered, shocked, but at the same time horrified that I wanted to hear more.
Mario grunted. “I tried to ask her about it, but she told me to keep quiet and not breathe a word to anyone. I said she could talk to me if she wanted to. But she never did.”
“Oh God, Uncle Mario, I’m so sorry,” I said. I now understood why he’d g
one a bit crazy, anyone would have under the circumstances.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” he said. His eyes were wide, staring at me, and I felt he was almost pleading with me to let him unburden himself after all this time.
“Go on,” I said faintly, bracing myself. But nothing could prepare me for his next words.
“Bruna killed the baby.”
“What? No, that’s impossible.” I stared at him incredulously. “Aunt Liliana said Bruna was over the moon when the baby was born, that she never got over her death.” I looked at Uncle Mario, imploring him to say that he was lying.
But he shook his head. “Yes, she loved her, but over the years I’ve come to realise that she never wanted the child,” he said sadly. “How could she, when it was her own father who got her pregnant? Every time she looked at her, it must have reminded her of what had happened. One afternoon she went upstairs for a nap… we heard her screaming a couple of hours later. She came running out of the house with the baby in her arms, but it was too late. It was dead. Natural causes, Mamma told Papà, Teresa, everyone in the village. But I was there when it happened. I heard Bruna say she was so tired, she just wanted to sleep...” He buried his face in his hands, an enormous sob escaping his throat. I reached over and touched his arm, uncertain of what to do. He sat up straight and looked at me with a haunted expression. “Mamma told her she must have suffocated the baby in her sleep, without meaning to.”
I put my hand over my mouth, unable to take in what he was saying. I couldn’t believe that Bruna had killed her own baby, it was a concept I couldn’t comprehend. I had to change the subject, for his sake and mine. “You’ve known your father was the father of Bruna’s baby all this time, and you’ve never told anyone?” I asked eventually.
“Bruna made me promise. I couldn’t go against her wishes. Then she left for England, just like that, and left me here alone, knowing what I knew. I wanted to kill my father, I swore that as soon as I was old enough, I’d make him pay for what he’d done. But I never got the chance. He died of a heart attack the year after she left. So the bastard got away with it.”
