by Maeve Haran
‘They can’t.’ He indicated his rucksack under his chair. ‘I’ve got this clever thing that ties it to my chair.’
Monica couldn’t help giggling just a little.
‘You think I’m ridiculous,’ he stated with a rueful grin that made Monica crease up with guilt. ‘I suppose Claire does too. Funny old Martin. I was angry with her when she said she was coming here.’
Their burrata arrived and they dipped their wonderfully crunchy bread in the tomato-infused olive oil provided at every table. ‘It seemed so selfish, just leaving us. And to be honest, I thought all this assessing it for a hotel was nonsense. Claire’s a local caterer, not someone with experience of cooking for a smart hotel, even if she has always had this thing about Italy.’ He sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘But then I thought maybe she needed a break from me.’
He looked up and smiled. ‘I wasn’t always this dull. When she met me I wanted to be the new Bob Dylan. I expect you think that’s funny too.’
But Monica, who had heard people laugh when she said she was a librarian, and laugh again when she said she was a librarian at the University of Buckingham, didn’t think it was funny at all.
‘Good for you, Martin.’ She raised her glass and clinked it against his. ‘“Tangled Up in Blue”!’
Martin raised his glass, looking stunned. ‘Do you know, that’s my very favourite of all Dylan’s songs?’
‘Me too,’ Monica replied, thinking of Claire and Martin and Sylvie and Tony, and the mess love got people into. ‘You should keep playing,’ she said finally.
‘I haven’t touched a guitar in years.’
They noticed that they were the last in the restaurant.
‘So, where do you want to go now?’
‘There’s a walk I’d love to do. Steps that would take us all the way up the hillside to Lanzarella.’
Monica laughed helplessly as Martin looked on, wondering what on earth he’d said. It was the same walk she’d done in the pouring rain with her backpack when her wallet had been stolen.
Monica stood up and called the waiter over in her perfect Italian to pay the bill.
‘Gosh,’ Martin said, impressed. ‘You are full of surprises.’
As they set off towards the route for Lanzarella, Martin glanced guiltily at Monica’s feet. ‘Will your shoes be all right?’
‘Oh yes, I always wear sensible shoes.’
‘You sound rather mournful about that. Do you yearn for high heels?’
‘Absolutely not. Actually, I have a pair of black patent sandals which are definitely not sensible.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You look as if your feet are the same size as Claire’s.’
‘Bigger,’ Monica admitted. ‘Size seven! She tried to borrow the sandals and they were too big.’
‘Sounds like you’ve all been having a lot of fun.’
They had, Monica admitted, had a lot of fun. There was nothing, she’d discovered, like female friendship to make you feel good about life.
They walked along the narrow path, once used by mules, the only means of transport between the port of Lerini and Lanzarella at the top of the mountain. It was a glorious afternoon and everywhere the scent of wild thyme and purple sage filled the air as they trod it underfoot. ‘It really is an extraordinary landscape.’ Martin stood for a moment, entranced. ‘The mountains so high, these amazing, deep ravines, and yet so near the sea.’
Monica nodded, realizing how much she’d come to love it.
‘Look,’ Martin suddenly ducked behind a rock and pulled Monica with him, ‘it’s a honey buzzard! They used to massacre them as they migrated. Skylarks, song thrushes, goldfinches too, seventeen million a year. They’re trying to stop it now.’
Monica could hardly speak at the terrible thought. To think that perfectly ordinary Italians like Giovanni or Luigi might come out and hunt songbirds was too appalling.
‘We hunted poor old Reynard the fox for long enough,’ Martin reminded her. ‘Man isn’t very civilized under the skin.’
The librarian in Monica wasn’t having that and for the next hour, sitting in the moss-covered nook so that they could see any more passing honey buzzards, they happily argued about man’s inhumanity to man, and to other furrier creatures, and whether or not cruelty was intrinsic to the human character.
They were passed by several labouring Italians who thought they were entirely mad until they caught the strains of their English accents, and then they knew it for certain.
Eventually they started up the path again. When they finally got to the top step and walked along the narrow path to the villa, they found Angela already on the terrace reading a book. ‘You’ve been a long time,’ she commented.
‘We’ve walked all the way from Lerini,’ Monica pointed out gaily, ‘arguing all the way.’
‘Sounds glorious.’ Angela leaned back on the wicker lounger. ‘How was Capri?’
‘Crazy and beautiful as ever.’
‘You’ve missed Tony’s attempt to win over Sylvie with the biggest bouquet out of captivity.’
‘Did it work?’ Monica asked hopefully.
‘Not really. He seems to have decided to go home.’
Martin started walking towards the house but Angela grabbed Monica to keep her a moment. ‘I thought you ought to know. Hugo says Tony was hitting on the hen parties staying in his hotel. And their mothers.’
Monica stared out at the mist settling on the distant blue horizon. ‘What crap. I’ve spent more time with Tony than the rest of you, and I don’t believe a word of it. They might have been hitting on him, you know what it’s like when hen parties get going; they eat men alive just for fun. And I just don’t believe Tony would make that mistake again.’ She fixed Angela with her best your-book-is-six-weeks-overdue expression. ‘And if I were you, I’d wonder why Hugo Robertson wants you to think so.’
She disappeared down into the garden to let Angela think about that one. Monica wasn’t sure why he was making this accusation, but she didn’t trust Hugo Robertson. He reminded her of those chocolates that were sweet and soft on the outside with a hard centre you could break your teeth on. She just hoped Angela wasn’t going to break a tooth.
Angela watched Monica disappearing down the steps into the garden with mounting irritation. What did she care whether the others liked Hugo or not? But, oddly, she found that she did care, that she wanted them to like him.
It struck Angela again what a curious bunch they were: Sylvie with her hippie silks, Claire still mumsy, Monica now oddly smart but still a librarian underneath, and herself. And yet somehow they all got on. The other night Monica had shocked them all by suggesting that maybe Stephen had asked them because he felt sorry for them.
No one needed to feel sorry for Angela Williams. She could take care of herself. Couldn’t she?
From the bottom of the garden, Monica could see Claire walking up the drive from the bus stop and ran down to intercept her.
‘Bloody hell, Claire. What were you thinking, walking around holding hands like that in broad daylight?’
Claire shrugged as if she’d had no choice. She had an irritating little smile that really annoyed Monica.
‘If I hadn’t thrown water over myself and rushed over, you’d have walked slap bang into Martin!’
‘Maybe that would have been for the best.’
‘No, it damn well wouldn’t. You might think you’ve fallen for Luca and his sodding lemons in record bloody time, but you could at least consider the feelings of the man you’ve been married to for thirty years!’
Claire had never seen Monica so angry. ‘OK, OK, maybe you’re right, we should tell him in a way that won’t be such a shock, but I don’t get why you’re shouting and swearing about it.’
‘Because I’ve lived with my mother, that’s why, the most selfish being on the planet, who never even thinks other people have feelings!’
‘OK, Monica. Thank you for keeping Martin occupied, and if you could do it for just a few more days, L
uca and I will think about what to do next.’
‘You’re completely sure, then? How do you think your son and his wife will take it?’
‘They’re grown-ups, they’ll deal with it. They might even decide to find their own place.’
‘Poor Martin.’
‘Yes, well, Martin doesn’t tend to notice other people anyway. He’ll be fine. Beatrice’ll be calling us for dinner soon. I’d better dash up and change. Thanks, Monica, I couldn’t do this without you.’
Monica sighed. It suddenly struck her that she was trying to help Tony get back with Sylvie and Claire make up with Martin, she who’d always believed you should never interfere in other people’s lives. How had it happened? She looked around at the beauty of the evening garden. This place seemed to have a magic microclimate of its own. The morning glories were closing their heads, while the scented stock and nicotianas were just beginning to release their heady night-time aromas. Banksiae roses tumbled among the pale pink fragrant daphne – Luigi told her they started flowering in February, imagine, and kept on till June – while statues peeped out of the vegetation as if at any moment they might come alive. There was some kind of strange enchantment in this place, even practical Monica couldn’t deny it.
But surely they were all too old to be a Rosalind or a Perdita?
The sudden thought of Angela as Titania and Hugo as an upmarket Bottom made her crack up with laughter.
‘You sound happy,’ said a voice behind her. It was Martin, spruced up for dinner in a striped white shirt, and jeans which he’d probably ironed.
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘and for God’s sake don’t ask me why.’ She skipped up the steps to the terrace and accepted the glass he was holding out. Monica took it, thinking as she did that Claire was wrong. Martin did notice other people’s feelings.
‘So what’s the plan tomorrow?’
He waved a map at her. ‘Are you up for tackling Pompeii?’
Monica nodded. ‘Do you think Claire might like to come?’ she suggested.
‘Oh no.’ Martin clearly had no suspicion of what was going on with Luca. ‘She wants to go and find out more about lemons. I suppose it’s useful, if you’re a cook. She’s never been the slightest bit interested in history.’
‘Pompeii it is, then.’
‘Great. I’ll work out the travel arrangements.’
Monica smiled. Claire found this deeply annoying, she knew, but to her it seemed quite endearing. But she was well aware, from listening to her colleagues at the library moaning about their spouses, that what seemed endearing when you walked up the aisle could be the very thing that drove you wild after twenty years of marriage.
The meal was marvellous, as it always was. Zucchini flowers stuffed with ricotta followed by roast quail and a satisfyingly flinty dry white wine.
Martin, noting how small the birds were, elbowed Monica and pointed.
‘I’m sure they’re farmed, not shot while they migrate,’ Monica reassured him.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Angela asked crossly.
‘Martin was telling me how many migrating songbirds they hunt in Italy. Seventeen million.’
‘And did you know, they blind the canaries so they sing at night as well?’ Martin added for good measure.
Angela put down her knife and fork. ‘Can we not talk about this over dinner?’
Martin sipped his wine. ‘So do you get fed like this every night? Breakfast and lunch too? And given this great wine?’ He looked at the label and got out his trusty guidebook. ‘This one’s about forty quid a bottle.’
An embarrassed silence descended on the table.
They all looked at each other.
‘Stephen’s a rich man,’ Sylvie announced robustly. ‘He seems to want to keep the place and let people come here as his guests.’
‘Until now,’ Claire reminded. ‘Don’t forget the offer he’s had.’
‘From Hugo,’ reminded Monica.
Sylvie glanced at Angela, who seemed determinedly quiet.
‘Why wouldn’t he sell it?’ Angela suddenly said irritably. ‘According to the staff, he hardly ever comes here. His wife liked it but that was twenty-five years ago. Selling makes a lot of sense.’
Down-to-earth Monica was the first to fill the uneasy silence that followed.
‘How much is beauty worth, and peace, and a kind of magic that’s having an effect on all of us?’
They looked at her, startled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean we’re all changing, becoming different, something’s happening to us.’
‘What utter rubbish,’ announced Angela. ‘I’ll see you all in the morning. I feel like an early night.’
They watched her depart.
‘Come on, leave her alone,’ Sylvie remarked. ‘Did you see my flowers?’
They all trooped out to have a look. ‘They’re amazing,’ Monica enthused. She loved flower arranging, but these were really special.
‘I know,’ Sylvie said.
‘Does that smug smile mean that you’re forgiving Tony?’ Monica asked hopefully.
‘It means I like the flowers,’ Sylvie replied.
‘And you’re wearing his nail varnish,’ persisted Monica.
‘Monica,’ Claire hissed, pulling her aside. ‘Just leave it.’
‘Those roses,’ announced Martin, beginning to sneeze, ‘are just like the ones in the garden.’
Behind them, Beatrice had suddenly appeared. ‘Signori,’ she announced, shooing them towards the terrace. ‘Coffee is on the terrazza. Immaculata has made special biscuits with amaretto.’
‘Thanks for doing this,’ Claire said quietly to Monica at breakfast on the terrace next morning.
‘No problem. I wanted to go to Pompeii anyway.’
‘At least Martin will sort out how you get there,’ Claire added with an edge of bitterness.
Of course Claire was right. In fact, Martin was deeply irritated that a direct bus from Lerini to Pompeii had been axed and they had to go via Sorrento and then catch the Circumvesuviana train. Monica wondered if she should pass on the warning that this was the most pickpocketed train in Italy but, given that she’d been fine on the train and had lost her wallet on the ferry to an extremely handsome young man, there didn’t seem much point.
At least the journey was along the lovely coast road. Monica smiled at all the tourists on the bus clinging on to the handrails, terrified of ending up in the crashing waves next to the road. Monica knew better.
At Pompeii they began with the grassy forum, its majestic columns proclaiming it to be the main piazza. ‘I wonder if they had coffee shops here,’ mused Monica. ‘You know, early Caffè Nero, where you could get a cappuccino and a muffin when you bought a slave.’
They wandered through the Temple of Apollo and on to the Temple of Jupiter. ‘Not that their gods seem to have been much help when it counted,’ muttered Martin. Next were the fish and meat markets. And then they found themselves at the small triangular building that formed Pompeii’s famous brothel.
‘I hear the frescoes are quite hot stuff,’ Martin pointed to his guidebook. ‘Too rude to feature in here. Designed to turn on the punters and show them what was on the menu. Are you up for it?’
‘Why not?’ Monica replied, thinking of past pleasures. ‘I’m over twenty-one.’
And hot stuff they were. There was one lady with an enormous rear draping herself over the end of the bed so that she could offer free access to her ample amenities.
‘Her bum’s bigger than Kim Kardashian’s,’ pointed out Monica, proud of her up-to-date cultural references.
Another was being treated to fellatio by an enthusiastic toga-clad punter.
Martin was transfixed by a soldier with a two-foot penis while Monica’s particular favourite was a lady about to pleasure herself with what looked like a ferret or some such furry creature. ‘Ouch,’ she commented to Martin, ‘what sharp teeth you’ve got, Grandmother!’
Monica stared out into
the heat haze already settling on the historic ruins.
Were love and sex over for her? Perhaps that was the reality for a woman in her position, but if so it was sad.
They decided to cool down in the shade and share the bottle of water they’d brought.
‘Oh well,’ Monica commented. ‘Nothing changes, does it?’
‘I think your experience must have been rather different to mine,’ Martin commented a shade bleakly. ‘Claire was always in a rush to put something in the oven. Sorry,’ he apologized instantly, ‘that was most inappropriate of me to make comments about my wife.’
They got up and headed for Pompeii’s most famous landmark, The Garden of the Fugitives. Here were the world-famous plaster casts of thirteen men, women and children who had come for shelter from the burning lava and pumice stone raining down on Pompeii, only to find the lava too heavy for the roof, which fell in and suffocated them.
Monica stared at the grey figures silently. Their power lay in their utter immediacy and defencelessness. It was as if the deadly suffocating lava had killed them only moments before instead of in AD 79.
Some lay in the foetus position, hands over their heads, children on their backs as if they had died while they were sleeping, a man held one hand up as if he could prevent the imminent disaster. There was even a dog contorted in agony. Saddest of all was a family group, the father sitting up as if to try to protect the small child and woman lying next to him.
Monica noticed that Martin had turned away.
To her astonishment, she saw that he was silently crying. ‘We all think we can protect ourselves from disaster,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And it’s just as futile for us as it was for them.’
Monica found, without thinking, that she had put an arm round him to offer solace. Was this really the grumpy, selfish, unempathetic man Claire had described?
He smiled at her ruefully. ‘I know Claire came here because she couldn’t stand her life at home. I don’t blame her. The thing is, it was only when she left that I realized how much she did for us all, and how little appreciation she got. Not from Evan, our son, he’s a good lad, but from me and our daughter-in-law. That’s why I came. But now I’m here, I get the feeling she wishes I hadn’t.’
