Standing in the little citrus grove was a kind of farewell.
I put an arm around her shoulder. ‘We can always visit, Harriet.’
She smiled and chewed on juicy orange segments I handed her. ‘I don’t know about always, but yes, we’ll be back.’
Suzanna
Skipper
Driving away was a touch sad. It was all over; the funeral, meeting the family, telling everybody about our plans and things! Exciting in a way, to be able to plan so much more comfortably now.
Lewis had the car waiting, all packed, with Otto wagging his tail, peering over the back seat. My husband stood with his back to me, fingers loosely at the door handle. He wanted to go.
‘Off we go, Lewis. All is ahead of us now.’
‘All thanks to Mama and her vision, Suzanna.’
‘I guess!’
He was quiet for a moment, putting the car in gear and allowing it to freewheel a bit down the uneven drive. The crunch of gravel was punctuated every now and then by some larger lump of soil or rock under the wheels.
‘You guess?’ He talked without making eye contact.
‘Hmm?’
‘Did you say all your goodbyes all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excited about the boat?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Do you realize Mama’s foresight puts us in a position to be able to drop everything and go sailing for good and all, Lewis?’
It was his turn to nod. ‘Of course I do. What I’m not sure of is whether I want to drop everything.’
Oh. He had had the opportunity to do a lot of thinking on his own. It was plain on his face, whose profile I peered at in the grey light. Grim mouth, and crows-feet creases at his eyes as he squinted at the road ahead. I wanted to exclaim, Lewis!
But I didn’t. This was no time to hurry him along. It would be hell afloat to be trapped on a boat with a reluctant partner; one who did not want to be there. The success of our adventure relied heavily on both of us being comfortable and happy with our plans. Both of us willing to cast off wholeheartedly and sail away content.
When had I started to see this clearly? When I considered poor old Paola. Devastated and astounded by the premature ending of her marriage. I saw in her what unpleasant surprises could do to a woman in her fifties; set her immobile and unfulfilled on a difficult spot to move from. I didn’t want it to happen to me!
‘No surprises, Lewis. Tell me what’s actually on your mind.’
‘Really?’
‘Really truly!’
Not having to look me in the eye gave him the freedom to speak plainly, driving down into Florence, his eyes firmly on the road. I was so glad we set off early, before the traffic grew bad.
‘Suzanna, my greatest fear is the prospect of living in the strict confines of a boat with you acting like skipper. Captain. Boss.’ He did the Larkin thing of giving three names to the one thing. It was a long sentence for Lewis. Long and specific.
‘I won’t …’
‘Yes, you will. It would wreck everything. I know we won’t always be on the boat. I know we’ll be home a lot too, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my days as galley slave.’
‘Lewis!’
‘So I’ve decided something.’
My heart sank. In one or two sentences, Lewis dashed my hopes and plans. There were no words to describe my crushed feelings. I sat back in the seat, lay my head against the rest, and closed my eyes.
‘Are you listening, Suzanna?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going off to take a course. I intend to get my skipper’s ticket. On someone else’s boat, in my time, at my pace.’
I sat up. ‘What?’
‘When we step on board Char-à-banc, if we do get her, I want to be skipper. I know you’re the sailor, you’re the one with the dream. I have a dream too, though, and I won’t let it take second place to yours.’
My voice was low. I could hear poor old Otto panting in the back. ‘O – kay.’
Lewis smiled. ‘Okay. Yes. Okay, so – we’ll both be skippers, and we’ll take our adventure in turns. In stages. Stages I can handle – at my pace.’
‘Goodness, Lewis – you can give a girl a shock.’
He laughed. He knew he had slowed me in my reckless rush towards my brand of adventure. Put the brakes on a bit. Added a bit of caution!
‘When you signed the succession acceptance document a minute ago …’
I looked at my watch. ‘It’s two hours ago. I can’t believe it.’
‘Yes, we’ll take the ring road and be away from Florence quite soon. When you signed that paper, Suzanna, it sort of sealed our fate.’
I laughed at his ominous words. ‘Oh, Lewis. Lighten up!’
‘Yes. I will. You lighten up too. Let’s not hurtle into this – I want us to take our time. We’ll do all the sailing you like. I don’t doubt for a minute we’ll get Char-à-Banc. Mama made it all so much easier. Let’s not go too fast.’
I put my hand on his thigh, on his unfaded new jeans. ‘Anything you say, Skipper.’
Brod
An unusual revelation
Grant was downstairs helping Paola plan her trip to Naples. I knew why she was going, now she said a sentence or two about it. She was never one for going into too much detail. Besides, I saw there were obvious personal reasons she did not want to go into. Grant, however, was a very intuitive guy. Which was one of the reasons he always saw through me. I used to mind, but when I realized it was because he was interested in me and my thoughts and views, and how I did things, and that it was not an issue when it took a long time to make up my mind about something, it was fine.
Grant was a complex person, and his subtle way of observing things, saying neutral sentences instead of cutting personal statements, seemed quite charming; until people saw how clever he was. And caring. He missed his calling, and should have been a psychologist. Some sort of therapist.
‘Design is therapeutic, and very personal, Brod. I responded to the call. I love working with people.’
What he was doing with Paola was not work, though. He saw her as family. It was a compliment to me as well as to her.
‘The train is the best idea – you were right.’ His finger trailed down the map. ‘And when you get there …’
She glanced up at him from Mama’s brown armchair. ‘You do know why I’m going to Naples, don’t you?’
Grant tilted his head. ‘We both do, Paola. You’re going to visit Basile Sottalbero.’
‘His grave.’
‘Are you sure Matilde gave you the right details?’
‘She gave me an address. I have someone to search for … his grandniece. Her name is Beatrice Sottalbero, and she lives in the Vomero district.’
‘Wow. Fancy.’
Paola fixed surprised eyes on Grant. ‘You know Naples?’
‘I visited on holiday with my parents.’
I waved a finger at him. ‘I thought you said they never took you anywhere!’
‘This was a disaster they weren’t willing to repeat.’ He laughed. ‘Years and years ago. We stayed halfway up the hill, underneath the Vomero, and had quite nice views. I don’t remember much – but my people did say the Vomero was home to the upper middle class.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Snobs, they were, Mum and Dad. A bit supercilious and upwardly mobile – more concerned about what people thought than how things affected me, in fact.’
This was an unusual revelation. It clarified things for me to see Grant confiding in Paola.
She smiled and went on about the artist’s grandniece in Naples. ‘Matilde said she paints too.’
‘Oh? Have you looked her up?’
I saw it hadn’t occurred to Paola. Her laptop was quickly unfolded and she tapped and scrolled until she found something. ‘Well – come and see at this. She’s got a good website. Apparently quite successful … and she’s won awards.’
‘What’s her work like?’
She swivelled the computer around so w
e all could see.
Grant and I looked at each other, then at Paola. ‘Rather good. Very active. See what she does a lot of?’
‘I know.’ Paola was not about to jump to conclusions or decisions. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Brod.’
Grant asked for the laptop to be twisted around. ‘Very interesting. Is this anything like what her uncle used to paint?’
‘No, not similar at all. I can’t see any of his vision there. You never know, though. Beatrice Sottalbero seems to be more decorative and less conceptual … quite realistic, I would say. Technically quite good.’
‘Well – one has to be, if one paints trompe l’oeils. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
We all gave signs of agreement. Grant tilted his head. ‘Well, have a lovely time in Naples, whenever you plan to go. It might … You might …’
Paola stood and smoothed the front of her long skirt. ‘Yes – I might and I might not find her. And if I do, we might not hit it off.’
‘True. In any case, good luck.’
Her hand wavered. ‘Are you two leaving soon?’
‘We have to. Grant has a project coming up in London. I should get back to the bank before they toss me out.’
Grant laughed. ‘Not much chance of it happening. You’re right, though, we should get back, now all the papers are signed and everything’s in place.’
I rubbed my chin. ‘Must shave before we go. Do you think Nigel was right about the moustache?’
Grant and Paola responded together. ‘Yes!’
‘So why didn’t anyone tell me … oh. All right.’ He laughed. ’How long do you think it will be before the succession is settled?’
‘The notary said a matter of a few weeks. Everything was so well-planned and organized. Mama has well and truly vaulted Italian bureaucracy.’
‘It’s what I thought when I saw the striking statue at the cemetery – the one down the avenue, where …’
‘The woman with her head in her hand.’
‘Oh?’
I went on. ‘Yes. I thought – it’s Mama thinking. Contemplating, planning how to leave us a fair division without us having to fight, choose, sort out, come to divisions ourselves.’
‘I thought the statue was about deepest grief.’
I half-agreed with my sister. ‘Yes and no. I saw Mama thinking. It’s a beautiful statue.’
She did not say anything.
‘Listen, Paola. When you find Beatrice … I mean – if you do like her, tell her about our frescoes. Tell her about the wall gods, how we’d like them restored.’
‘Wouldn’t it be fantastic?’ Grant’s eyes left the window.
She agreed. ‘It would. I have this vision of those walls brightening, coming back to what they once were. The hall would be transformed.’
‘I have dreams about how this place could look one day. Look and feel.’
‘So do I, Brod. So do I!’ My sister rearranged her shawl, picked up her laptop and book, and climbed the four steps back to the kitchen.
I watched her go, wondering whether it would all work out the way I imagined it would.
‘Come on,’ Grant said. ‘We can’t take all evening to pack.’
I called after Paola. ‘What’s going to be done about transferring utilities … all that? What’ll … um?’
Her face was calm. ‘Dottor Ugobaldi has it all down pat, Brod. I’ll return from Naples in a few weeks, and it’ll all be done. He is without question as efficient as he seems.’
I thought he conceivably had a staff of six. But she was right.
Grant and I talked in the car on the way down to the ring road around Florence. The traffic was dreadful, but Grant was the most patient of drivers, which is why I left it to him.
‘So do you think it will work, Brod? I’m getting excited about it all.’
‘I think so. Mama left the Fiesole villa to Paola and me, just us two, for a reason. We’re the two most likely to keep it and restore it properly. I don’t think it would have been the same if John were still in the picture. He’s not, however. Mama could not have known it. She knew Paola and I would see eye to eye.’
‘For sure?’
‘Oh, most definitely. Paola’s finding her feet, and looking forward to living in the villa, for good.’
Grant smiled broadly. ‘And did you like her idea about the little house at the back?’
‘Well – didn’t you? It would suit us so well. It will be gorgeous when it’s done up. You will have a great time doing that. Also, we might very well have an artist for the frescoes.’
‘I could see a coat of arms painted on the chimney breast in the small house.’
I laughed. ‘See? I knew you’d love this. It’s fabulous we don’t have to buy anybody out. Mama’s magic.’
‘Paola’s idea, of running a retreat for writers from all over the world, of hosting conferences and workshops … do you think it would work?’
‘Hard work … I can see it happening. It’s still far in the future. We’ll have to concentrate on the renovation first.’
His forehead creased. ‘I was so surprised she did not baulk at the cost. If we go halves on everything, it will work out to be quite reasonable, precisely like she said, but it’s still quite a lot of money. You and I can manage, without a doubt, but what about your sister … ?’
‘I told you she was the most likely of us to be able to afford it.’
Paola
Christmases
My plan to visit Naples on my own fitted in perfectly with everything else. All my siblings were quite ready to leave the villa. It was plain they had had a sufficiency of contact with me and each other. They all started moving out, having signed the final document, packed, and said their farewells. Some resentment and awkwardness was still in the air. Things were always stilted in Larkin goodbyes. We never quite got it right.
We lied about how we felt. We lied about what we saw in each other. We lied about the past, and the future. Truthfulness died long before Mama went, but it was benign mendaciousness; it was something we all recognized and accepted. To experiment with honesty was disruptive and dangerous. We could not all be Harriet. We bade our farewells to her with good grace, I supposed.
Suzanna and Lewis were off quickly, thanks to his organized packing. I went up to them in the hall, where my sister had stood her perfect burgundy handbag on the round table.
‘Well, then, Paola! Goodbye and … goodbye. Ciao.’
I had to ask. ‘Suzanna – do you remember being given a box of sweets, which converted into a jewel box when we were little?’
She grimaced like I had gone completely mad. ‘A jewel box? Full of sweets? No, Paola. Was there ever such a thing?’
I waved a hand, as if to dismiss some flighty butterfly wavering into the hallway. ‘Nothing. No. Um … forget it. Goodbye.’
She kissed me on both cheeks and was gone.
It was a bit distressing, but we all were affected by the last meeting with Notaio Umberto Ugobaldi. That could have been it.
The notary was businesslike as usual. Only one thing he said was cause for regret. He looked at us in turn, and regarded the papers in front of him. His spectacles glinted; the weather had suddenly changed, and shafts of sunlight came through the large windows. ‘There was an intention, on the part of your mother, Nina Larkin, to write a letter to each of you.’
There was a combined intake of breath. I could see eager expressions in Brod’s, Suzanna’s and Nigel’s eyes. My heart stopped at the thought of reading a letter from Mama.
‘But I am afraid her infirmity overtook her, before she could tackle the task. She left it too late. However, I am very sure you each might imagine what she had to say. Her legacy is obvious – her will was fair. It is abundantly clear she left you more than mere material things. In these envelopes, I have folded a photocopy of some notes she made. They are practically illegible. They are nonetheless yours.’
No letters. We were all disappointed. There was nothing one
could do about some of life’s omissions.
I watched them go, either from the balcony outside the upstairs drawing room, or from the front steps. It felt good to wave them off. It gave me a new sense of propriety, of being in charge. Of owning something which didn’t have anything to do with John. There would be a divorce settlement, but it didn’t matter much to me how the split went now. My future was pretty much decided by Mama’s wise thinking. Running a retreat for writers in this rambling house would be good, especially if it was done up well. I could rely on Brod and Grant to get the renovation right. The expense would not be a bother – the details would be taken care of without the need to economise or compromise. It would be beautiful when finished.
Brod said something about Mama’s exceptional rugs, so I had no doubt he’d got them squirreled away somewhere, to be returned to their original places as soon as ladders, scaffolding, debris and all the mess was cleared away.
How long would it all take? I wondered. Neither I nor Brod and Grant were in a real hurry … and yet we were eager to start it and see it to completion within a reasonable timeframe.
My next task was to look up Beatrice Sottalbero. I knew I’d be seeking resemblances and differences to her great uncle Basile. I knew I’d trail all over Naples seeking his work to examine and link to memories I had of him. It would tie a loose end which had flown and fluttered, untied, for far too long.
I had two photographs – one of Papa, and one of Mama, taken in Cornwall, which I wanted to be copied, converted into matching oval paintings. I might very well find Beatrice and she could fit the bill, and take on a commission, on my visit to Naples. It would mean a complete break from my Melbourne life, but a continuation to what I’d found here in Fiesole. My old self.
I made a resolution last night – to spend time in Cornwall too. And Wales – my desire to visit Wales had never been entertained, let alone fulfilled, when John was around. Strangely, so strangely, I wanted the rest of my life’s Christmases to be English ones, just like the ones of my youth and childhood. Not strictly to recapture anything – or even to cancel the Australian Christmases I’d had – but to fulfil a wish for red and green and silver. A wish for cold weather, churches lit up with more than mere light. Choral music, boots and scarves, and the rich smell of oranges, plum pudding, and real English baking. I needed the music of Byrd and Elgar and Holst – they didn’t only belong to Nigel.
A Funeral in Fiesole Page 18
