by Maeve Haran
‘Great,’ Monica thanked him. ‘Is that a Buckinghamshire accent?’ she added.
He grinned. ‘Born in Beaconsfield.’
‘I live down the road. I worked at Buckingham University.’ She waited for the laugh. There wasn’t one.
‘Well, this is strange.’ He smiled at her warmly. ‘Two folks from Bucks on the top of Mount Vesuvius.’
‘There’s only one problem.’ Martin pointed out a shade testily. ‘I can’t ride.’
Nick shook his head. ‘You really don’t need to. Whole families do it with little kids. The horses are so used to the route they could do it blindfold. Plus, they couldn’t be calmer.’
Martin only looked half convinced as they were led to the small ranch house. It was also entirely wooden, with a cosy wood-burning stove and colourful decorations, as if it would be happier in the Wild West than on Mount Vesuvius.
‘The customers like it.’
‘Do they stay here?’
‘No, but we have dinners, Valentine parties, that sort of stuff. Are you just about ready to go? Let’s go and saddle up.’
The ponies were black and white or brown with long fair fringes and they looked reassuringly gentle.
‘No helmets?’ asked Martin, shocked.
‘They don’t really go in for that sort of thing around here.’
‘Come on, Martin,’ Monica giggled, ‘relax. It’s an adventure!’
Martin smiled reluctantly. ‘No wonder I didn’t recognize it.’
‘I’ll take you along the trail to the crater path then let you get on with it. I gather you have something special to do.’
‘Yes.’ Monica didn’t add any further explanation.
They headed out of the stables and up the overgrown path.
‘You ride well,’ Nick commented to Monica.
‘I learned as a child. Pony club and all that but I didn’t meet my mother’s rigorous standards.’ It was wonderful how she had finally managed to exorcise her mother while she’d been here and had started to become another person. The Lanzarella effect again.
For just an instant her pony stumbled in the mud then instantly regained its balance. She glanced round at Martin. He was hanging on for dear life. She couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She’d seen a ride on Vesuvius at sunset as something wonderful rather than an endurance test, but, of course, she was a rider. Just as well the last bit was on foot.
After about twenty minutes, the dusk began to fall, pink and soft. Nick called the horses to a halt. ‘Would you like me to wait here or can you find your way back?’
‘We’ll be fine, thanks, Nick.’
‘I’ll just tie them up to the post, then. See you a little later. Just remember, they close the path just before nightfall.’
‘We won’t be long.’
They headed up the trail, noticing that, rather strangely, they were the only walkers.
‘All gone back to their hotels already,’ said Monica.
Martin’s silence implied that he wouldn’t mind joining them.
Ten minutes later they were at the crater’s edge, looking down into the lava pit that had caused so much death and devastation to Pompeii.
‘You feel the power, don’t you?’ Monica shivered.
‘I was just thinking it reminded me of the gravel pits outside Bognor where my brother and I used to play. I’m teasing. I’m teasing.’
Monica took the box out of her rucksack. ‘I’m going to ask you something a bit weird, so promise you won’t laugh.’
‘OK.’
‘Could you sing “Blowing in the Wind” for me?’
Martin started to laugh, then stopped. ‘Of course. Though without a guitar I can’t vouch for its tunefulness.’
He began to sing as Monica stood as close as she could to the edge and began to scatter Brian’s ashes into the crater.
‘Ashes to ashes,’ Monica said softly. ‘Dust to dust. Goodbye, my darling.’
And she found she was crying, a tiny bit of ash streaking her face.
‘Would it be sacrilege to Brian if I just put my arm round you?’ Martin asked. ‘Thank you for letting me be here at this special moment.’
‘Thank you for singing. He loved that song.’
‘He had very good taste, then.’
‘Time we got back,’ she said, ‘or I might accidentally push you into the crater in some weird pagan ceremony.’
They walked back to the horses in silence, taking in the beauty of the evening and the soft translucent mist that was quietly descending on the volcano. On the way back they came across a small portrait of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus, with the volcano in the background.
‘I hope the horses have run away and we can walk,’ Martin murmured.
But the horses were firmly tied up, nibbling quietly.
Martin climbed on and gave his pony what he took to be a gentle kick. The pony, delighted to be liberated at last, started to gallop back down the hillside to the stable with Martin terrified and clinging to its mane, convinced it would trip on a tangled root or lose its footing down a rabbit hole. About halfway down he willed himself to follow the animal’s movement, to relax and lean forward. Miraculously, he began to actually enjoy himself.
Monica was just behind him. By the time they reached the stables Martin was laughing. ‘Thank you, Monica,’ he said softly as they both climbed down, ‘for the adventure and for including me in such a personal moment.’
‘Welcome back!’ Nick was striding towards them through the gloom. ‘How about a glass of something to commemorate the moment and I’ll drive you back to the car park.’
‘What a pity,’ Martin laughed, ‘I was hoping we could ride back in pitch-darkness.’
Inside the cosy warmth of the ranch house the stove blazed and there was a wooden table with an open bottle of wine and three glasses. Monica was grateful that no questions were asked about why she’d wanted to visit the crater at sunset.
‘Tell me,’ Monica sipped her wine, ‘what is the painting of the Virgin Mary about?’
‘It’s a plea to the Mother of God to protect all those who live in the shadow of the volcano.’
Monica thought of her husband and how death had come to him without any warning. She raised her glass towards the fire. ‘I suppose we all live in the shadow of the volcano one way or another.’
Nick offered to guide them back to the car park. ‘You could lose your footing in the dark – though, to be honest, it’s more likely to be a twisted ankle than falling into the crater.’
‘Don’t you find it a bit lonely on your own out here?’ Monica asked.
‘It’s why I took the place. Besides, it’s only for the season. Then it’s back to Beaconsfield and a bit of supply teaching.’
‘That sounds an interesting contrast, doesn’t it, Martin?’
‘Do you manage to make a living?’ Martin asked, ever practical.
‘Just about. I do some wildlife photography. That helps.’
‘Now that would be interesting. What do you get around here?’
‘Porcupine, marten, the occasional wildcat. And this year a pair of golden eagles.’
Monica listened, spellbound, thinking of the different ways people found to live. She was going to have to be more creative about finding work when she went home. She shuddered, suddenly feeling the chill, and decided she didn’t want to think about that. Was it just because he was a man that Nick could carve out this seemingly romantic life? After all, he couldn’t be much younger than she was. Monica glanced across at him. He had penetrating blue eyes and the self-contained air of someone used to his own company. And yet his occasional flashes of humour made her think that he might be a good teacher, guiding the pupils but knowing when to leave them alone.
Beatrice’s cousin was waiting in the car park, with big news. ‘Very worried about you at Le Sirenuse. Worried you are at bottom of crater. Talk of calling police but Beatrice say, no, Cesare will bring them home fine,’ he added proudly.
‘
Damn!’ Monica realized that the drawback of living in each other’s pockets was that there was absolutely no privacy. She had seen tonight’s ritual as concerning no one but herself. She was suddenly conscious of feeling hot and sweaty so she slipped into the car park toilets. Somewhat crazily, she’d brought her shift dress, thinking she might dress up for the scattering. She’d put it on now – might as well look her best to face a wave of disapproval.
When they got back to the villa, every light in the entire place seemed to be blazing, even though it was gone midnight. Beatrice hugged Monica as if she’d survived the Pompeiian earthquake rather than a few twilight hours on Vesuvius.
They walked into the salon to be leapt on by Claire and Sylvie. ‘Are you mad, going up Vesuvius at this time of night? It’s not as if you’re irresponsible kids or anything. You could both be dead! What on earth possessed you?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Monica summoned as much dignity as she could, ‘I was scattering the ashes of my husband Brian into the crater. Ashes to ashes. And Martin very kindly sang me Brian’s favourite song while I scattered.’
‘Not “Blowin’ in the Wind”?’ murmured Claire.
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ Monica refused to feel mocked.
‘Cut it out, Claire,’ Sylvie defended Monica. ‘It’s a touching gesture. Anyone would think you were a wee bit put out.’
Claire turned away in disgust. What an utterly bloody ridiculous suggestion.
‘For goodness’ sake, Monica,’ interrupted a loud, imperious voice from the back of the room. ‘What were you thinking, taking such risks? The crater of Vesuvius in the middle of the night! And how selfish to involve someone else’s husband as well. Brian’s been dead for over a year; couldn’t you find somewhere more appropriate to scatter him?’
Monica swirled round to face her mother, Mariella, who she thought was safely in Great Missenden, hundreds of miles away.
Fifteen
‘Ma! What are you doing here?’ Monica tried to keep the ludicrous disappointment from her voice. At the villa, amongst friends, she had felt a different person.
‘What on earth are you wearing, Monica?’ Mariella’s gimlet gaze swept over the shift dress. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb, if ever I saw it. You’re over sixty, for God’s sake.’
They all watched as Monica’s new-found confidence seemed to deflate in front of them like a flat tyre.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Sylvie pounced to her defence, a lioness in orange and purple silk, ‘I helped her choose that. We all think it looks wonderful.’
Mariella merely raised an eyebrow as her gaze swept over Sylvie’s Bohemian outfit.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Mariella finally addressed Monica’s question, ‘I came with Gwen Charlesworth. Our plane was delayed. We were meant to be at a hotel down the road she particularly loved and now it’s changed so much she can’t bring herself to stay, so she decided to drop in on you.’
They all looked horrified, wondering how they’d fit everyone in.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only for a few days,’ she said cuttingly. ‘I’m not sure we could stand it for longer. Is there any chance of something to eat?’
‘I’ll go and talk to Beatrice,’ Sylvie conceded. ‘How many is it for?’
‘Just us two. I’m sure Monica will have eaten on her mountain.’
Monica nodded, still subdued. ‘The stables owner gave us some food and wine. We’re fine.’
‘You mean you actually rode horses on the crater of Vesuvius,’ Mariella persisted. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘Martin couldn’t, anyway. He loathes horses,’ Claire commented scathingly.
‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ Martin challenged. ‘I even had a gallop.’
Claire shook her head, stunned.
‘You actually let a man who’d never ridden a horse gallop near a lethal crater?’ Mariella made it sound as if it were one step away from first-degree murder.
‘No helmet either,’ Martin added provocatively. He’d taken an instant dislike to this overbearing old biddy.
Mariella’s silence could have transformed the deserts of Arizona into an arctic waste.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Monica tried to protest. ‘We were in absolutely no danger.’
They were distracted temporarily from the drama by the sound of a fast car racing up the driveway. Moments later a glowing Angela appeared in the salon.
‘Everyone still up?’ She sounded surprised.
‘You look like you could dance all night, as the song goes.’ Sylvie smiled.
Angela laughed. ‘Something like that.’
They all turned as Gwen appeared from the kitchen, Beatrice and Immaculata clucking in her train carrying plates of cold meat and cheese.
‘My dear,’ Gwen shook her hand, ‘are you Angela?’
Angela acknowledged that indeed she was.
‘And you’re Gwen. I’ve heard so much about you from Sylvie and Monica.’
‘And no doubt you’re bored already. But, my dear, what has your young man done to my lovely hotel?’
Angela stood, wondering angrily if the others had supplied this ‘young man’ business, while the torrent came inexorably in her direction.
‘It used to be such a nice hotel; my favourite in the whole world. A genuine palazzo. A little run-down but only in the most charming way. It oozed character and friendliness. The owner would come and greet you and give you a glass of his own wine, grown on the terraces just below. The staff couldn’t have been more helpful.’ Angela attempted to stem the flow with a small defence of Hugo, but the flood continued unabated, picking up speed as it went. ‘But they are all gone! And now it’s like going into a hotel you could find anywhere from Singapore to Sydney instead of the most beautiful place on earth! My dear, it’s a crime! A heinous crime! Excuse me for speaking frankly.’
Finally, the tide stopped. Obviously, Gwen wanted hotels to stay as they had been in the nineteenth century, Angela decided, with no bathrooms and a hot and cold British eccentric in every room.
‘Hotels do have to move with the times.’ Angela made the mistake of sounding ever-so-slightly patronizing. ‘People want different things from them now.’
Gwen surveyed this tall, confident, slightly over-made-up woman who clearly thought that since she’d been on TV she was a superior being, and conceived one of her rare dislikes.
‘Is that the case? Obviously, we couldn’t stay there, so my son insisted we come up here. I understand he left a message with Beatrice.’
Beatrice nodded enthusiastically.
‘I’m afraid Beatrice got a little carried away and removed your things from the terrace room and installed me in it.’
Behind them, Sylvie and Claire exchanged a suppressed giggle.
Angela looked on, for once lost for words.
‘And she’s put Mariella in the second-best bedroom, laughingly called the Doom Room because of the painting.’
‘Thank God for that,’ muttered Martin. ‘We can get away from that bloody awful painting.’
‘But where are we going?’ Angela asked, knowing she was playing this whole thing badly. She should have instantly agreed that Gwen have the best room.
‘Stephen suggested you could have our rooms in the hotel. Or, otherwise, Beatrice tells me Sylvie has prepared two more guest rooms in the wing. I’m so sorry, my dear. I’m sure we can sort it out in the morning.’
‘Come on, Ange,’ Sylvie reminded her mischievously, ‘you did offer to swap ages ago!’
‘But there aren’t any beds!’
‘Beatrice’s cousin has just arrived with camp beds in his pickup.’
‘Right,’ Claire announced. ‘I’m off to find my new accommodation.’
‘Me too,’ Martin teased. ‘As long as it isn’t some TV make-over mock-up that falls apart when you touch it.’
‘Martin,’ Sylvie replied in wounded tones.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Angela made herself sound positive. This was Step
hen’s mother, for God’s sake, the owner by proxy. ‘This is virtually your house. What an awful guest I am after how incredibly kind your son’s been.’
‘Just as well,’ Gwen twinkled, ‘Beatrice has already hung up all your clothes in what I’m told is the Sylvie Sutton Seraglio!’
‘Do I get a free eunuch to massage my temples?’ Angela tried to redeem herself for her bad behaviour.
‘I think eunuchs are extra.’ Gwen softened. Maybe Angela wasn’t so bad after all. ‘I bet you could get them on room service at that smart hotel of yours.’
Monica, who’d been silent, suddenly thought of Tony and the accusation over the hen party. She was quite sure that with Hugo owning the hotel, you could order absolutely anything you wanted – probably things a lot more exotic than a eunuch.
She wondered how Tony was. Surely he hadn’t given up on Sylvie completely?
Gwen slept extremely well, as she always did. The next morning, she sat out on the terrace with her iPad planning the day’s activities before anyone else was even up, drinking her usual hot water and lemon. The sound of a splash made her look towards the pool. Whoever it was, they were an excellent swimmer, head in the water, perfect crawl for thirty lengths. Gwen enjoyed counting them. The swimmer then got out of the water, removed her cap and shook out her hair.
It was Monica. It struck her that it was a pity that they’d had to come here instead of the hotel, because Monica, without Mariella’s baleful influence, seemed to be flowering just as bountifully as the lemon blossom that adorned the place. Spring had come for Monica at last and she was damned if she’d let Mariella get out the bug spray to stop her turning into a butterfly.
She waved to Monica, who was walking along the path in a wine-red swimsuit which curved in all the right places. Who would have thought that? At home she always dressed in what looked like beige bin liners, but here her clothes had definitely taken a turn for the better.
‘Monica, my dear, I must tell you I only came with your mother because I thought it might make things easier for you. You mustn’t let her get to you. And, may I say, you look quite wonderful in that swimsuit?’
