The Italian Affair

by Helen Crossfield

  Dan put his arms around Issy as they walked quickly towards the exit and said. “Why did he wear those gloves? That is the one memory that always seems to haunt you and which I never really understood.”

  “Did I never explain?” Issy said slowly.

  “No, I’m not sure you did. It puzzled me and I meant to ask but didn’t want to upset you by poking my nose in too much.” Dan replied.

  “It’s nothing sinister. But I suppose it’s just one of those odd quirky things in life. Mum explained it to me when I got older,” Issy said. “Dad suffered from acute anxiety. Basically the sort that paralyses you when you walk into a room full of other people which, as he was a teacher, made each and every day very stressful for him. He never went to the doctor or sought help and so in the end it killed him. My dad was so kind and good. A brilliant teacher and a loving father and that’s why I have never been really able to accept that if there was a God why someone like that could just be snatched away in the blink of an eyelid. I guess somewhere among these ruins lie the souls of hundreds of people who suffered the same fate.”

  “Yes but that doesn’t explain why he wore Marigold washing up gloves,” Dan said as gently as possible.

  “Because he had psoriasis which was a symptom of anxiety” Issy said matter of factly as she walked out into the sunshine to find her fate.

  Pompeii – 8.30am 5th November 2000

  In the half an hour it had taken them to walk around the market area immediately nearest the archeological site of Pompeii, it had suddenly filled up with tourists and stall holders selling everything from cold drinks and packets of cigarettes to slices of water melon in big plastic coloured buckets.

  Issy’s heart raced as she stared around to see if she could spot Bruno before saying. “Standing here like this suddenly feels like a completely crazy thing to have done. I mean it’s four years since I spoke to him and I knew him for a matter of days. What the HELL am I doing here? He’s probably happily married with a house full of kids.”

  Dan sighed as he looked at Issy. “Don’t be so pessimistic. I’m not going to just give up now we’ve come all this way to find him and certainly not now we’ve got the letter to prove that he is honourable. I’m not going anywhere until we’ve done what we set out to do which is to find him, talk to him and to finally find out – after all the conversations we’ve had about Bruno in London ever since we left here – if you still have any residual feelings for each. That is the agreement we had when we decided to come if I remember rightly,” Dan continued “and to simply have a good holiday if nothing happens is what we will do next. But I have kind of given up on a good holiday already.”

  Issy squeezed Dan’s hand. “Thanks for being so focused Dan and for being here. It means so much especially after everything we’ve been through. What on earth do we do next though? Should we just wander around the stalls again hoping to see him?”

  “Yes, I guess” Dan said “I’m not an expert in these situations but I’ve no other good ideas about how else we’re going to find him.”

  As they fought their way through crowds of multi-cultural coach loads of tourists they ducked and dived trying to avoid appearing in Japanese family photos and politely declining the offer of contraband cigarettes and small plastic lighters.

  “The only other thing is I can’t see any stalls just selling underpants,” Issy said as they weaved in and out of even heavier crowds. “I have to say the more I look around the less likely it seems that he works here anymore – I mean maybe something got lost in translation and it was a euphemism for something else. It’s not like you come to Pompeii and top of your shopping list is a pair of Y-fronts.”

  “Oh, I don’t know Issy,” Dan said laughing. “He may do an interesting line in historic ones although I’m not sure the men and women of Pompeii wore any. I wouldn’t be too hasty in coming to any conclusions yet. Bruno has proved that he is a master of the understatement and intrigue. I’m sure he is here somewhere it’s just a question of finding him. Maybe he serenades his customers and plays Tchaikovsky at the same time as selling pants.”

  “Dan,” Issy laughed. “That’s outrageous but I agree there are still a number of fascinating contradictions about him that I want to find out about.”

  “Well,” Dan replied. “The good news is we still have plenty of time left to look for him and I for one have no intention of giving up so easily. I mean just the drama of it alone is worth us continuing our search.”

  And then as Issy turned her head around to move onto the next stall, there right behind her was Bruno with a bright sheath of sunshine shining directly onto his bronzed face which remained totally unaltered from the image she’d carried around with her since the last time they’d met.

  As Issy stood frozen to the ground she looked disbelievingly into his eyes searching for a sign that he felt the same. “Time had not changed anything for her but what about him?” she thought as she watched his beautiful face respond in slow motion to meeting her again. But she needn’t have worried.

  Bruno’s eyes danced and his smile sang. It was the response she had prayed for. He reached out his arms and folded her into them stroking her long blond curly hair and whispering into her ear. It was the touch of a father, a lover, a friend and a soulmate. After all these years she had finally found the missing piece of her jigsaw.

  “Issy Mead,” Bruno said over and over again. “My Issy Mead, I knew you would come for me it was only a question of time and now finally you are here. What took you so long?”

  PART III – Dolce

  Oxfordshire – 8.30am 5th November 2012

  Issy switched off her computer with a flourish. She’d finally finished what she needed to write.

  Pleased with herself, she made her way into the kitchen. A large Italian macchinetta sat on top of the cooker with coffee and water in it ready to be percolated. On the old oak dining room table sat fresh pastries neatly displayed in a small wicker basket. Tilly and Toby, a pair of British shorthaired cats, lay on their backs with their paws pointing heavenwards warming their full bellies in front of the log burning stove.

  Contentedly, Issy picked up the Sunday newspaper and browsed at the front page waiting patiently by the stove. When the spurts of black coffee had subsided, she poured the boiling milk and the coffee into a large cappuccino cup and went to sit outside on a wrought iron bench by the edge of a crystal clear stream that hurried along down one side of the cottage.

  The air though cold felt invigorating on her face as she re-read the headlines squinting as a lemony sun which had slowly appeared from behind a wispy cloud as she’d sat down. Sheaths of light shone brightly through it illuminating the limes, the greens, the reds and the browns – perfect autumnal hues reflecting back at her from the woodland beyond.

  As Issy started to do the crossword, Rufus ran towards her nuzzling into her crotch looking more pleased than usual to see her with Bruno following on a few steps behind. “Ciao bella,” he said as he kissed his wife lightly on the head before going inside to collect his cappuccino.

  “Come out quickly and enjoy the sunshine with me,” Issy shouted lazily. “Dan rang and said he’d be at the station at about 11am so we’ve only got a few minutes before one of us has to set off again.”

  “Ah yes,” Bruno said with a big smile on his face. “I’m looking forward to seeing him I’ll go and collect him on the Vespa.”

  “Um, if you don’t mind and then I can laze in the garden and play with Rufus, did you enjoy the walk this morning?” Issy asked him changing the subject.

  “Si,” Bruno replied sitting down on the bench and putting his arm around her. “We went along the river as usual but instead of walking through the village I took Rufus up towards the church and sat on the bench at the top of the field under the big oak tree.”

  “I haven’t been up there for ages,” Issy replied linking her arm through his and resting her head on Bruno’s shoulder. “Why did you take that route today? Did you fancy a change?�
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  “A bit of both,” Bruno replied. “The view is so beautiful and clear on a day like this and so I sat overlooking the churchyard, thinking how peaceful it must be to be buried there. I then had this really random thought. When we die we should have the words ‘The Italian Affair” written in Italian on the gravestone you know as our epitaph.”

  “That is extraordinary,” Issy said “especially from a man who never ever thinks about the future or plans for it either.”

  “Well,” Bruno said. “We have a story to tell, and we have no children and I thought…. well I thought it would be nice for us and maybe one day someone would find that gravestone and wonder what it was all about. I like living in the moment but I also like to retain some mystery. It is very important Issy to have some intrigue. It makes life more interesting, don’t you agree?”

  PART IV – Digestivo

  Oxfordshire – 9pm 5th November 2012

  I am finishing this book in Oxford on the 5th November 2012. It’s the place to stop. I’ve said everything I wanted to say. Somehow in writing these pages I’ve finally understood how overcoming my fear of living and life I healed myself and the huge void that appeared when my father died in front of me.

  Bruno and I had no children in the end not through choice but just one of those coincidences and we accepted it a long time ago. But as we prepare for the next stage of our lives I needed to bury the past once and for all and leave a small legacy of our story in case in helps and inspires others to be brave and to make choices that are not based on fear. Isn’t that what parents do? Instill the wisdom they’ve learnt to their children and in finding love I have found the only real wisdom there is.

  There are a few pieces of the story I have not told you yet. The first is that I still visit Balliol and speak to Jeremy. He is often around in the Quad where we first met and in the library. I believe he is much happier where he is now than when he was here and Bruno does not mind in the slightest. In fact often he comes with me. I met Suzannah his wife through Max whom I remained in contact after we’d written the obituary together. She eventually married again and has two beautiful children and I know Jeremy is pleased that she found happiness after he died. We’ve even spoken about the affair and come to understand each other and she has forgiven me by understanding how it all happened and our shared pasts.

  The second is that Bruno and I live in Oxford during the winter and in the summer months we go to Naples and the Costiera Amalfitana and take the boat far out to sea and more often than not Dan comes too. We still visit Ravello and say a pray on the coastal road.

  One more thing I should mention is that when I read this book over again I noticed how much I talk about death. But it is not really a story about death or loss it is a story about life and living. From the pain and the loss I have found love and a different way to live. Some of us have to reach rock bottom before we find enough air and light to breathe.

  I lost my fear in the end – but it could have all turned out so very differently. That’s why I thank Jeremy, Dan and Bruno as in very different ways they saved me from myself.

  Light and love

  Issy Mead

  If you enjoyed The Italian Affair by Helen Crossfield, you might like The Cornish Affair by Laura Lockington, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from The Cornish Affair by Laura Lockington

  Chapter One

  I think I’d better get the explanation of my name over and done with now. It can lead to false impressions. People do tend to jump to the conclusion that I’m Irish. I freely admit that my name has a Gaelic aroma to it, a whiff of windy beaches and stormy seas, but, it isn’t. I am called Finisterre because I was conceived, very unromantically, in my opinion, whilst my parents were listening to the BBC shipping forecast. I also am very fair skinned, prone to freckles in the summer and have unruly curly hair. Chestnut coloured, not auburn, as I insist on saying.

  It would have been cold comfort to both of them had they known that many years later Finisterre had been summarily dismissed and was re-named FitzRoy. I suppose I should just be thankful that I wasn’t christened Doggerbank or Viking.

  Most people call me Fin.

  When I reached an age to discuss sex with my parents, if indeed any of us actually ever do reach that stage, and ask them how they knew this, it was too late. They both died in a very untimely car crash whilst motoring through a thick fog on the M5.

  It was too bad. I had a trunkful of unanswered questions. Like, how exactly did they know when I was conceived? Was it because they made love so seldom? Or was it such a spectacular climax? My mother had admitted that she felt a ‘ping’ deep inside her, but she was prone to terrible exaggeration and it had crossed her mind that it had in fact been a snapped suspender. Oh, and the big question of course, like, how the hell was I meant to carry on without them?

  I inherited my father’s green eyes, determination, and Penmorah House, perched on the top of a cliff at about the furthest west you can get in England without toppling into the sea. A collection of pre-war silk stockings from my mother who along with an almost theatrical inclination to embroider day to day life had an obsession with vintage underwear. My father’s cellar full of claret (undrinkable) and a simply terrifyingly large debt. Oh, yes, and Nelson, of course.

  Luckily, very luckily I had climbed out of the hell which is financial chaos and was beginning to reap the rewards of some hard work. There were very few things that I was talented with – but the marrying of flavours was one of, well, my only if I’m going to be strictly honest, talents.

  I invent soup. I am England’s leading soupologist.

  What on earth do you mean you’ve never heard of it?

  Do you really think that the carton of Thai spinach and lemongrass soup sitting in your fridge just sort of evolved overnight? No. It didn’t. And, I am happy to tell you, there wasn’t a committee of little men in white coats bubbling things up in test tubes in a factory either.

  Of course I didn’t just do soups. What’s your favourite sarnie from the huge chain of shops that we all are meant to buy our knickers from? Well, that was probably one of mine, too. Sauces, pies, pasta dishes, practically anything that you grab from a chill cabinet in your local supermarket is mine.

  And please, I beg you, don’t get me started on junk food. My job or calling if you like, is only tenable here in England or possibly America by the seeming inability of anyone to throw together a simple meal. That and the death of markets such as every tiny European town could, and thank the Lord, still does have. Most towns in England now don’t even have a fishmonger, let alone a delicatessen. Oh, I know, I know, if you live in the heart of Soho or are lucky enough to personally know a fisherman you might get the goods, but otherwise, at any one time of your life, you’ll be eating one of my concoctions.

  It was all down to me.

  Me and the boys, of course.

  I lifted my head slightly from where I’m sitting and I saw one of them puttering up the lane and into the drive in a disgracefully dilapidated 2CV van, you know, the ones that really do look like a squashed sardine tin on wheels, it has a sticker on the back that proclaimed ‘Windsurfers Do It Standing Up’. This particular boy is Jason Patrick Rasheed Rampersaud, known by all locally as Jace the Onion. He’s passing through the steeply banked, damp, lane that soon will be sprouting purple foxgloves and are studded with wild garlic and vetch. He swung the van round on the gravel to the side of the house, and gave a toot to let me know he’s here.

  I pushed open the kitchen door for him letting in a whoosh of salty air and he swaggered in with a crate of his namesake. He’s a breathtakingly beautiful boy with a skin the colour of a good Colombian roast coffee and a gleaming head of shoulder length blackberry coloured hair. I know it’s blackberry, because he enthusiastically pointed the packet out to me in his shopping basket once when I bumped into him in Boots in Truro. “Because you’re worth it,” I’d said to him.

  Today his hair is tied back with a
piece of red nylon that on closer inspection is a coloured pop sock, undoubtedly still warm from one of his many conquests.

  He casually slid the crate of onions onto the table, and leant back, with folded arms.

  “Mornin’ Fin, where’s the little bastard then?”

  I glanced over to Nelson, who is watching morosely from his perch in the corner of the kitchen, his red and green feathers huddled around him like a ruffled fur coat. I’m slightly nervous, because even the name of the dog, can give Nelson the jitters. And no, before you should ask, the dog’s name was in fact Baxter. But Nelson hates him. I thought that it was a fleeting thing, but oh no. I’d had the dog for eighteen months now and they did not get On. It was like trying to live with two rival delinquent football supporters.

  “Jace, please don’t call him that. You know what Nelson’s like,” I said.

  We both glanced over to him, but Nelson shuffled his feet around for a bit and then tucked his head under his wing.

  “Anyway, Nancy’s taken him for a walk.”

  I went over to the crate and poked the onions. They were pearly white, and individually wrapped in straw.

  Jace lolled over to the kettle and switched it on.