‘I won’t tell …’
And suddenly she was weeping, into her bunched shawl, which she pulled from her shoulders roughly, angrily. She wept audibly, with copious tears wetting and staining the shawl. No more words, only strangled sobs which sounded desperately sad. Oh, Paola!
I placed a hand on her shoulder, and she did not shrug it off. So I pulled her to her feet and embraced her, my older sister, and she sobbed on my shoulder. Oh – I felt it in her; it was all the resentment about John, and all the memories of Basile, rolled into the aftermath of the funeral.
I caught my breath, and felt my chest crowd with emotion.
‘Don’t you cry too,’ she mumbled. There was a small repressed laugh. ‘How sad we are. How miserably, stupidly, angrily, terrifyingly sad.’ She wiped her face on the shawl, stood back and sniffed. ‘Better now. Thank you.’
I watched her leave the sitting room, back straight, book hugged to her chest, ruined shawl trailing behind her.
Five minutes. It took five minutes for me to take it in. Paola; strong, unflappable, serious, solemn Paola, had loved an older man, a family friend. Our mother’s lover. So many years ago. It could have meant everything to her in those early years.
I only loved – liked – funny Italian village boys who whistled at me when I cycled down to the ice cream shop in my shorts. I didn’t even remember any of their names. I smoked cigarettes on corners, listened to Italian pop songs blaring from tiny cafés, cycled frantically fast homeward, uphill all the way, with my siblings, and went back to school in September, in a navy blue gym slip, without a backward thought.
I never had an inkling of what Paola thought or felt. Ever. We were so different. Years apart in age. And now I felt protective of her, did I? She appeared crushed and vulnerable. Almost old and frail when she wept like she did, on my shoulder. Damn and blast John. Silly man! She loved him and he let her down.
Someone put their head in the door. It was Lori. ‘Auntie Suzanna – I think I’ve kept you two apart long enough. I need to practise now.’
‘What a lovely smile, darling. Yes – off you go. What did you talk about for such a long time? I didn’t think Lewis had so much to … discuss!’
She came part of the way into the room and lowered her voice. ‘It’s so sweet. All he talks about is you.’
Brod
Adoption
The strange thing about spending a week with one’s siblings after so many years was the fundamental change one witnessed. The false impression they remained the same people one knew as a child is ingrained, well entrenched, until one spent enough time talking and watching. They were in fact nothing like the children they used to be. Nothing.
Suzanna, for one, was not as mercenary or selfish as she was as a teenager. Still as self-conscious about her appearance, however. Nigel was a lot more cagey and secretive, but his tantrums – not surprisingly – were somehow not as frequent. I still kept waiting for one. Paola – I didn’t know about Paola. All we noticed was her capacity to recreate scenes and snatches of our childhood we had long forgotten. I thought we all feared what she remembered. She was more terse and grumpy, if anything. The end of a marriage could do strange things to a woman, I supposed. And Mama’s funeral affected us all.
And what about me? I was more jumpy. More prone to confusion, more emotional, at fifty-five. I messed up my reading in the church. I hardly made it all the way through without swallowing and wincing. It would have been so embarrassing to break down mid-sentence. I didn’t dare make eye contact with Grant. He must have held his breath the entire time. He did say, earlier, when I showed him the readings Nigel had chosen, that mine was far too long. I did add Mama had left written instructions. He was sure Nigel had added to the pieces; marked out longer sections from the works listed.
The music affected me more than I could say. Days passed now and I was less numb, so the effect started to seep into me. My throat always seized to Abide with me. To have it sung at one’s mother’s funeral was intolerable. It still cycled through my head. I wondered what the Italian guests thought of it all.
And through the singing, and the whole thing, with tears brimming, I wondered whether Grant prayed. It can happen when one finds oneself in a church. I know for certain he’s not the type – he doesn’t believe in much, but I imagined him praying for me to change my mind about adopting.
Now what put a baby in my head? I have no idea, but I had watched any number of celebrities – gay or not – with their adopted children, and I suddenly got this yen to be a parent. How perfect it could all be. Grant’s eyes were wide with disbelief when I mentioned it.
‘You must be joking.’
‘I’m perfectly serious.’
He gradually, over weeks, built up an argument in favour of not changing things, until we faced each other on this Fiesole funeral trip, where he seemed to have all his excuses lined up in a row. ‘I don’t think we’d make ideal parents – do you? We’re so random. Topsy-turvy and all over the place.’
It was rubbish, of course. We were both quite organized and clean and tidy. ‘We are not.’
‘We travel a lot.’
‘Children aren’t cartons of raw eggs, Grant – they can travel. They … they grow. I mean … Lori and Tad!’
‘I do see them. I imagine it took a fortune to raise them.’
I smiled. ‘It did, actually. Nigel was always grumbling about bills and things. Dentists, trips, school fees … he never stopped.’ I stopped my mouth with my hand. I should have spoken positively. Foolish, silly; mindlessly sabotaging my own arguments. ‘But look at all the …’
‘Joy? Happiness? I’d rather be an uncle. So would you, Brod. I don’t see you avidly interested in your nephew and niece.’
‘What are you saying?’
He spread his fingers and grimaced. ‘It’s not like you’re so interested in children. It’s … it can be … it is momentous. I mean, difficult. Almost impossible. A mammoth task. Never-ending. Not something you try for a while. It’s a forever commitment. Tremendous – I’m not sure I’m cut out for all the complication.’
‘How many times have we had this conversation?’
He laughed and hurried his pace. ‘Every time we have free time to stop and draw breath. We are two very busy people, Brod.’
‘Mm – I know.’
‘I can’t see you carrying a baby capsule or whatever it’s called in to the child-minding centre … or whatever it’s called … at your bank in the commercial centre of Manchester. Or the Brussels branch, where you go four or more times a year.’
‘Shall we choose to enjoy this break now?’ Apologetic. I felt sorry for raking it all up again. Besides, quite frankly, I was not so sure any longer. It was obvious now what caused my confusion.
Nigel
Harriet is told
I chopped and diced vegetables without a real plan in mind. Soup? A stew? What was I doing? Someone said we should all troop down to a restaurant for one of the last nights; so what was I doing preparing so many things? The kitchen table groaned with bowls of prepared vegetables.
‘We bought too much, Nige.’
‘Harriet honey, we need to empty the fridge. It’s a shame to throw out such a lot of stuff.’
‘So have we all sorted out whether we’re staying in or going out for dinner?’
‘Brod and Grant would like to go out.’
‘Tonight or tomorrow? Paola too?’ Harriet put the heels of both hands on the table and leaned forward. I could see she held herself in check and spoke through a stiff pair of lips. ‘Your big sister is acting … seventeen. No – seventy. I’ve never … what is it? Hormones? Menopause? Age? Stubbornness?’
I had to step back and take a breath before answering, or something I regretted might escape my own lips. Paola could be so condescending she was capable of putting anyone into a frozen moment of rage. When she asked if anything by Palestrina would be played at the funeral, it was a dig at me, but also a slur on Mama’s taste in music. I w
as not about to do the same to her. As a boy, I would have hidden one of her skates, or snipped off one of her bathing suit straps. I’d grown out of petty juvenile revenge. Best to say nothing.
‘Come on, Nige – surely you’re not reaching for an excuse for her? She marched past me in the passage. She hardly blinked. Why doesn’t she talk to me? It would only be civil.’
‘Sit down, Harriet.’ I reached for the kettle.
‘When you start boiling kettles and filling teapots, Nigel Larkin, I know there’s something meaningful going on. What’s happened now?’
I smiled at my wife. At least she conceded there was something she didn’t know. ‘You’re impatient, that’s all. Sit down and open this tin. It’s got cantuccini in it.’
‘I’ve put on a couple of pounds since we’ve been here this time.’
‘We need to take a walk and go up and down those winding lanes and steep stepped streets.’ I had to smile. She was quite easy to placate.
Nibbling at one of the almond biscotti, she was now completely calmed. ‘Okay. Now tell me what’s wrong with Paola.’
‘John was getting ready to go on a conference in Queensland … or somewhere, and …’
‘Oh goodness. Is he all right?’
‘He left.’
‘What?’
‘He’s left the marriage, just like that – and told her at the front gate, with a taxi waiting.’
Harriet swallowed the last of the biscuit, and hooked her dark hair behind her ears. ‘You’re joking. Who told you this? Poor Paola. No wonder she’s as rigid as a … and she had to get through the funeral and all the rest, all on her own.’
I poured hot water onto three spoons of tea leaves. The scent filled the room. ‘She’s a bit in awe of you, I think.’
‘Of me – rubbish. I mean …’ Her eyes grew wide. ‘Even Lewis is … ’
I knew what she meant. ‘Only Lewis can be Lewis.’
‘He’s behind Suzanna all the way, and at least nods and smiles before he runs away from us.’
I tidied away the peel, still wondering what to do with the diced vegetables. ‘Yes. He’s lovely to Suzanna, which is what matters. He’s not the pancake-making type, or the chatty type, but he’s fine.’
‘They never had kids, so they’re not like us, Nige. We’ve had to rally together …’
‘… even if only to pay the bloody bills.’
‘Ha!’
‘So cut Paola some slack, eh?’
My wife shook her head apologetically. ‘What is Paola going to do?’ But her eyes were somehow full of a feminine knowing. ‘Oh, gosh … the will surely worked out in her favour, if what I ...’
‘I don’t know.’ It had worked so well in our favour I wasn’t willing to discuss it with any of my siblings yet. There was still the acceptance document to sign. Were we all putting off discussing it, for fear of upsetting such a fine balance? Mama had thought it out so well it would be a pity to destroy it all with a pointless heated argument. ‘I don’t know what Paola intends to do.’
‘She’s always been secretive and sort of quiet and brooding, though – hasn’t she?’
‘She’s not like you, Harriet – you’re pretty forthright and blunt.’
Her chin dropped. ‘Oh – thank you very much.’
‘Well – you are. I always know where I stand with you.’
She was mollified. ‘At least, it’s something. At least you haven’t left me … in the front garden, with a taxi meter running. Did he give a reason? Damn John. What was he thinking?’
‘Couldn’t have thought very much about anything, could he? Paola said he met someone.’
‘Met someone? At sixty-two or how old he is? Met someone! After twenty-something years with your sister. Or nearly thirty … or whatever! And there I was thinking they had the best relationship of all.’
It was my turn to thank her very much.
‘You know what I mean, Nige. They never had trumpet lessons to argue over, or teeth, or blazers, or the bloody phone-and-internet bill. Or the alternator on the clapped-out car.’
We laughed together in the same way. I reached for a biscuit and passed her a mug. She had already eaten two.
‘Leave us a biscuit, all right?’
She laughed again.
‘This reminds me of when I’d sit down here with Mama, me and her alone together. She would tap a finger on my door and say Nigel, pancakes, so no one else could hear, and we’d sit here gorging ourselves and talking.’ I dropped my head and squeezed my eyes shut for a second. Being the youngest, and having least memories of my father, I supposed Mama paid special attention to me and my tantrums and demands. ‘I could be pretty ghastly as a child.’
‘You haven’t changed much.’ Her brilliant smile lit up the kitchen.
Paola
A few changes
I drove down to Prato on my own, leaving the other three gathered on the back terrace, in the sun. They had pulled some kitchen chairs out there, and a small table, and Harriet brought a tray laden with things.
I was pleased to have the zippy little rental at my disposal, over the moon about the will, but still wondered how I would manage the obvious negotiation required, to get specifically what I wanted from the bequest. Also, importantly, without telling anyone about my lotto win. I could imagine Harriet’s face if she got to know about the events crowding the days around Mama’s death. I can imagine her mouth forming the words, What? I don’t believe it. It can’t be true.
But it was. I was coming to terms with it all, but I must have appeared pale and stunned to her that first day, when I climbed out of the car and she asked why John was not with me. Stunned, numb, and still in a state of shock. Still awed by the amount of money in my bank account. Still dazed, trying to get used to the fact Mama was no more. It was more than one person could handle. Now I had the will to consider.
Mama did it all very cleverly, I had to admit. I had to admire her retention of brain power, fairness, intellect, control; everything we remembered her for. She did it all in a way I would have liked to run my life. I never had four children – and I was never a widow. Neither did I have houses in two places. Our lives were nowhere near the same. I still dearly wished for what she had, however, for years. Something ineffable – but she had it. For years going about knowing I had a less crowded life, more freedom, was what I thought was most satisfying. I supposed it was, of course.
No – what was I thinking? I went for years wanting what she had – a house crowded with the laughter of children. Which never came.
The bitterness rising as I wound down to Prato, though, was a new brand of resentment brought on by something other than my own causes. I did not create my current predicament. I wasn’t the one who chose to be suddenly single and very nearly lost.
I had to deal with it, though. I had to handle it all with some sort of calm integrity. Not my words. Funnily enough, it was Harriet who, to my surprise, provided the words. After I stormed past her a couple of times, wanting to stick a Neptune trident tine in her eye, and also in one of Nigel’s, she stopped me, right in front of the big windows near the brown armchair Mama would sit in when she came in from the garden, her shoes caked with soil. I was in the dark about what my sister-in-law wanted, but I simply could not be rude. It was too late in life for my wall god to come to the rescue.
‘Paola. Nigel’s told me. I won’t say I’m sorry, because no one’s been hurt or killed or anything.’ She paused, in a breathless gap in which she tried to gauge my reaction.
I gave none.
‘I know you will cope, with your amazing calm integrity.’
Surprise kept me on the spot, with sunshine in my eyes, with my mouth open. I had to look her in the eye and thank her. ‘I couldn’t say anything, Harriet, when I drove up the first day, and you asked about John. I couldn’t speak about him. I was completely … absolutely … livid.’
She gave a half-smile. What did she know about wretched anger? What could she possibly know about pa
ralytic fury?
I went on. ‘And yes – I have a sort of plan. Well – I’m forming a plan, and it feels good to be able to do things independently.’
‘You of all people … of course. You have your writing and your wonderful world. Solitary, you can be, integral, successful. You should know you are envied by many.’ And she walked off towards the kitchen, and her husband and children.
Tad had reappeared from somewhere, still in his threadbare blazer, which he apparently could not bring himself to abandon, and Lori was talking about the festival in Florence again.
I was transfixed to the spot. My wonderful world, she called it. This was how she regarded what I did. Years went by and we fixed in our minds what others might think of us. We were so often wrong.
I was wrong about Harriet. She was not supercilious and arrogant. She seemed a touch envious and admired my life as a writer. I had never thought of myself as calm, or integral. Or solitary and successful – but I could be so. If I appeared so to her, there had to be an element of truth in it. We would never see eye to eye about life, and we could never be real friends, but I could not dismiss her out of hand.
Calm and integral. Hah! I drove downhill to the Via Sestese and took it all the way into Prato. The traffic was quite incredible. I had to keep my head. The address the notary supplied did not appear to be a hospice or home. It was not easy to find. I should not have volunteered to be the first to visit Matilde, after all, and would have done better to wait until someone else had found the place and could give me directions. Driving on the right was not what I would have called comfortable, and with no one else in the car, I felt on edge and constantly scared something would happen. If driving was on the right, did one give way to the left? Hm. Give way – Italian drivers did not give way. There was not enough room on the road, for a start.
Everything made me jump. Come on. I had driven in Europe so much in the past. Was this a sign of age? Was I growing old? Even one instance of a back wheel riding the curb rendered me shaky.
A Funeral in Fiesole Page 11
