Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  On a more positive note, we have some returners arriving this afternoon. Major and Mrs. Chester are the most delightful couple and they have been coming to stay with me, as my guests, ever since last year. They found Casa Mia in an advert I placed in the Sunday Telegraph and have since been among some of our most loyal customers. They stay for a week, the same week each year. The major is a fellow artist and watercolorist so I am very much looking forward to taking him off on some long walks into the hills and spending whole afternoons in his company talking techniques, colors, and brushes. Sadly, his wife doesn't share our passione, but she always seems content to do some light reading (and I really do mean light!) by the swimming pool, whiling away her afternoons under the umbrella.

  Maria seems to be getting along just fine. She has got the breakfast service and turning down of the rooms more or less down to a tee. I will have to watch her cooking, though. If I remember correctly, the major is very fond of his food. Or perhaps it was just my cooking he liked so much! Speaking of which …

  CHAPTER FIVE

  erfetto,” says Mary. She puts down the telephone and turns to face her mother.

  “Well? What did they say?” asks Belinda, her head craning forward like a tortoise's, her blue eyes shining with excitement. “Did they agree? Are they going back for another look? Surely they're going back for another look. They must be. Did you tell them? What did they say?”

  “Um …” Mary runs a hand through her long dark hair as she gathers her thoughts.

  “What?” says Belinda, taking a step forward. “What? Come on, what did they say? Are they closing her down? They must be closing her down. Aren't they? Hurry up, Mary. Tell me.”

  Mary tries to retreat, shuffling away, but her mother advances and practically glues her daughter to the wall. Their faces are so close that Mary can feel the moist heat of her mother's breath against her cheek. She can see the pincushion of blackheads across her nose and the shiny patch of pink skin she missed when troweling on her foundation that morning.

  Ever since her telephone call to the comune last week, reporting Lauren McMahon for breaking building regulations and threatening to paint over the frescos in the chapel attached to the side of the house, Belinda has exuded this heightened demonic air, like a woman on battle footing. Her actions have been swift, her decisions decisive, her mood somewhat manic. Obsessive in her surveillance of the comings and goings at the Casa Padronale, she has still found time for numerous forays to Giovanna's trattoria to share, commiserate, and dissect the most minute renovatory detail with anyone who would listen, namely Howard—who listens to anyone as long as they buy him a drink.

  All this is in dramatic contrast to her behavior the week before. When, having discovered the full magnitude of Lauren's B-and-B plans during that Sunday lunch at Giovanna's, Belinda appeared to be thrown and went into a quiet and contemplative mood. Prone to hand-waving histrionics of Towering Inferno proportions when faced with the most banal inconvenience, her introspection was disturbing. Particularly for her daughter, who recalled that the last time Belinda was so monosyllabic was immediately after she'd encountered her husband's thrusting buttocks and been serenaded by the pleasured panting of her erstwhile next-door neighbor.

  Yet now, pinned against the wall, confronted by her mother's enthusiasm for her cunning plan, Mary is not sure which mood is easier to contend with.

  “Oh, for God sake, tell me what the half-witted little bastards said!” exclaims Belinda, throwing her short hands into the air and shaking her head as she walks away.

  “Mum!” says Mary, peeling herself off the wall. “Calm down.”

  “Oh, shut up, darling. Don't be stupid,” replies Belinda, with a shrug of her padded shoulder. “All's fair in love and war, and this is most definitely war.”

  “Well,” says Mary, sitting on the arm of her father's favorite armchair, “they were quite pleasant. They thanked me for my third follow-up call on the matter of the Santa Caterina frescos and said they had been down to visit the site. They have stopped the conversion of the chapel into a bathroom suite, but as for stopping work on the whole building, they were not sure what grounds they had for such drastic measures.”

  “What grounds?” Belinda spins on the sole of her sunflower flip-flop and stares out of her french windows. “I'll give them ‘what grounds.’ Cultural rape! This is cultural rape. Cultural rape … and pillage of their national heritage. Italian heritage. Our heritage. European heritage.”She turns. “Did you tell them she's American?”

  “Um, yes. I said exactly what you told me to say. That it was ‘cultural expansionism.’ But they said that the frescos were only painted in the seventies by a member of the original family and they are of no real cultural significance.”

  “The thing about cultural significance is that it is all relative,” replies Belinda, her hands now on her hips. “I mean, are there any other frescos in this valley? I think not. Therefore, although they may not be culturally significant when it comes to things like the Sistine Chapel, they are culturally significant to this area. Which, let's face it, can only boast one Etruscan tomb and a designer shoe outlet within a ten-mile radius. Which, when compared to the rest of Tuscany, is pretty fucking piss-poor, don't you think? For Christ sake even the Prada discount store is over an hour away!” Belinda's voice is raised, and the veins on her fat, crepey neck are standing out. “Did you tell them all that?”

  “Um, no, not really,” mutters Mary, unraveling the stitching along the hem of her white T-shirt.

  “I don't suppose your Italian was up to the job, was it?” suggests Belinda. “Honestly, if a job's worth doing …”

  She walks over to her desk and riffles through some papers. She bends down, exhaling like a slow puncture, and pulls out a heavy drawer. It is full of small glass and china animals in bubble wrap and old English newspaper, remnants of her past life in the U.K. Belinda has never quite gotten around to displaying them in her new house, and the longer they stay in the drawer, the less likely they are ever to see the light of day. She puts a large china spaniel with a baby blue collar and pleasingly pink tongue on the flagstone floor, then finds what she is looking for: a large yellow legal pad that still has a shopping list on it from her days in Tilling and regular trips to Asda.

  “Right,” she announces, and stands up straight. With a cursory glance at the list—tinned peach halves and a packet of mince—she rips off the top sheet and throws it into the bin. “I should have done this weeks ago,” she says. “Honestly, I'm such a fool. I'm going to start a petition.”

  “A petition?” Mary looks up from her T-shirt.

  “Yup.” Belinda sorts through the collection of pens in a jar on her desk, and scribbles on the corner of her pad trying to find one that works.

  “What are you petitioning for?”

  “To save the Santa Caterina frescos, of course,” says Belinda, frowning at her daughter's stupidity.

  “Oh,” says Mary. “Are you sure about this?”

  “What do you mean, am I sure about this? All's fair in love and war,” insists Belinda, still scribbling. “And this is war.”

  “So you say.”

  “Well, at least I'm doing something to safeguard our livelihood,” says Belinda, looking up. “If you're keen on a career in telesales, dear, then I suggest you carry on unpicking that grubby little T-shirt of yours. However, if you want to stay here, you could help me.”

  “Well, if you're sure it will do some good.”

  “All we really need is Derek, Barbara, and Howard on board, and we have most of the valley.”She pauses. “We could even ask some of the Italians.” She's talking to herself. “And then, perhaps, we could shame her into stopping.”

  “She doesn't look like a woman who shames easily.”

  “Do I look like a woman who loses easily?” says Belinda, with an efficient click of her Biro.

  “No.”

  “No,” confirms Belinda. “I'm going to call Derek.”

  Edging Mary
to one side, Belinda dials Derek's number with the end of her ballpoint pen and waits. After a seemingly endless litany of monotone rings, someone finally picks up the phone.

  “Finalmente, Derek,” declares Belinda down the receiver in one of her jolliest voices. “It's the Contessa here.”

  “Oh, hello, there, Belinda,” says Barbara, breathing heavily. “I'm afraid it's me. Phew!” Belinda hears her patting her bosom down the telephone. “And I've run all the way from the terrace. I've no idea where Derek's put that wretched cordless phone.”

  “Oh, right.” Belinda clicks her pen. “I do hope I'm not interrupting.”

  “Oh, no,” giggles Belinda. “I was just sunbathing, and Derek's discussing some more work on the barn with Gianfranco.”

  “Oh, right. Franco …” Belinda clicks her pen again. “Well, I was just ringing up about Lauren McMahon.”

  “Ooh. Are you going as well?” enthuses Barbara.

  “Going? Going where?” asks Belinda, standing to attention, gaining swift eye contact with Mary.

  “To Lauren's,” continues Barbara, making a clicking sound with her manicure as she cleans the suntan lotion out from under her nails. “I think it's going to be great. The whole val-ley's coming, it sounds like quite a night.”

  “Oh. Quite a night, you say.”

  “Mmm, yes. Lauren keeps pretending it's an informal drinks thing, just some people from the valley. She says Derek and I shouldn't expect too much …”

  “She does, does she?”

  “Yes, but I have a feeling it's some sort of housewarming thing. What do you think? What did she say to you?”

  “What did Lauren say to me?” says Belinda, brusquely clicking her pen six times in succession. “Gosh!” She laughs. “She says so many things.”

  “I know,” agrees Barbara, still cleaning her manicure. “She's ever so funny, isn't she? She's a bit like you, actually,” she adds distractedly, “you know, funny. Only she's a bit more—”

  “Yes, well, we do chat almost every day,” interjects Belinda.

  “I knew you would,” agrees Barbara.

  “Are you sure I'm not interrupting?” says Belinda, with a wave of irritation: she has not got Barbara's undivided attention.

  “Oh, sorry,” says Barbara. “I was miles away there, just watching Franco—oh, and Derek coming toward the house … Cooee!” she shouts. Belinda winces. “Derek! Derek! Darling! It's the Contessa on the phone! Hurry up! She wants to talk to you about Lauren's do!”

  There is a clatter as Barbara puts down the receiver. Belinda strains to hear, hunching her shoulders as she pushes her ear tighter against the phone, but all she can make out is Barbara giggling and the low, rumbling Italian tones of Franco's voice echoing in the hall.

  “Hello?” Derek's breath blasts down the line. After a momentary scrabble for the receiver, he brings it close to his ear. Belinda moves hers away. “So,” he exhales, “are you coming along tomorrow, then?”

  “Tomorrow?” says Belinda, like she has just sat on something sharp.

  “Yes, Lauren's thing,” he continues. “It should be quite a shindig.”

  “Oh, God, that!” exclaims Belinda. “Well, it depends on how busy we are. You know, high season and all that, Derek. And, as you well know, an upmarket establishment like mine hardly runs itself, now, does it?”

  “No, indeed it does not,” agrees Derek. “But it is a valleywide event,” he continues. “And as the Contessa, it wouldn't be a party if you didn't show your face, now would it?”

  “Do you think so?” Belinda curls a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Oh, I know so,” says Derek. “Now, what were you calling for, dear? I have Franco here, and he needs to get off.”

  “Oh, nothing pressing,” says Belinda. “Just checking that you'd been invited to Lauren's event as well.”

  “Rest assured we have. That's ever so kind of you to worry about us, but I don't think the invitations are very restricted.” He laughs. “I think the whole valley's going. We have no ideas above our station.” He chuckles some more. “I'll see you tomorrow, then?”

  “Absolutely,” says Belinda, her shoulders shooting up to her ears. “Can't wait! Arrivadeary! ”

  “Arrivadeary!”

  Belinda puts down the receiver and remains still, her hand resting on the telephone, her face crumpled in contemplation.

  “She's having a party,” she says quietly. “The americana is having a party.”

  “Oh, don't worry, Mum,” says Mary, walking over and placing a hand on her mother's shoulder, giving it a concerned, padded squeeze. “I'm sure she meant to invite you.”

  “The whole valley's invited,”whispers Belinda, still staring at the telephone. “She's invited the whole valley and not me— us,” she corrects, turning to face Mary. “She has neglected to invite us.”

  Belinda's blue eyes are shining as she starts to pace up and down in her sitting room. Her red, white, and blue flowered skirt swishes as she moves, and her right shoulder pad slowly edges its way down her T-shirt sleeve and falls to the floor on her final turn. “I think we should go anyway,” she announces, looking splendidly pleased with herself.

  “Are you sure?” asks Mary. “I mean …”

  “Well, you said it yourself—she's simply forgotten to invite us.”Belinda is deaf to all contradiction. “It's easily done. I mean, I've done it myself before now and, as a fellow hostess, I understand these things happen. What's the little matter of an invitation between friends?”

  “But we don't have an invitation,” insists Mary. “What if she didn't want to invite us?”

  “Oh, don't be silly, dear,” says Belinda. “She's invited the whole valley—my valley, actually. You can't possibly have a party in my valley without inviting me. That's ridiculous! The poor woman has obviously made a mistake, and as a grown-up I'm prepared to overlook her error and attend her party. It's as simple as that.”

  “But Major Chester's arriving this afternoon. We can't leave him and his wife alone tomorrow—they expect supper every night.”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Mary. Major Chester is practically family; he won't mind if we go out to a party. Anyway, I have a life of my own. I can't possibly entertain all the guests all the time. They call themselves holidaymakers; they can go and make their own holiday without any help from me. And don't think you're staying behind to look after them either. You're coming with me.”

  “Do you really think it's a good idea?” asks Mary, in a tone that verges on pleading.

  “Yes. I do. And no more arguing,” replies Belinda, walking into the kitchen to signify that the discussion is over. “Have you made the major's bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Properly?”

  “Yes, properly.”

  “Have you laid out the clean towels?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Could you give the downstairs a once-over with the broom?”

  While Mary sweeps, her mother stalks the terrace, binoculars around her neck. She walks her property like a territorymarking beast, pausing at various vantage points to take a closer and more studied look at the action on the other side of the hill. She watches the bright yellow construction vehicles churn up and down the driveway as they cover it with layers of gravel. She can also see a fleet of small white vans that dispatch busylooking people into the house. As she watches, one white van gets stuck at the top of the drive and Belinda smiles. The more it strives to get out of the muddy rut, the better she feels.

  “Do you know?” she says loudly. “Do you know, Maria, darling?”

  “Mmm?” replies Mary, sweeping dust and hair off the balcony.

  “I think the area around the pool needs tidying. I wonder if we shouldn't get Franco up here this afternoon?” She turns to face the french windows and the kitchen. “Mmm? What do you think? Maria?”

  “Think about what?” mumbles Mary, leaning on her broom.

  “About inviting Franco up here this afternoon to do some work.”r />
  “Oh, right, Franco,” says Mary. “Um,” she hesitates. “Well, if you think you need to.”

  “Indeed I do. He's so terribly useful.” Belinda tweaks her one remaining pad as she wanders back toward the telephone.

  While her mother's loud, giggly, and inaccurate Italian trills away in the background, Mary sets the table on the terrace for lunch. Back and forth, with a caterer's efficiency, she dextrously lays out hunks of white bread and cheese and plates of sliced tomatoes. Bronzed and toned since her arrival almost a month ago, Mary is physically different from the transparent, exhumedlooking specimen her mother collected from the station. Her numerous trips up and down the stairs, as she changes sheets and turns down beds in the guests' rooms, have made her fit and firm. Carting heavy trays loaded with half-eaten plates of macaroni and cheese has muscled up her arms. But this change has been subtle, gradual, and has happened without Mary noticing. She has remarked on her tan, all gold and even, but as for the rest of her metamorphosis, it has passed her by.

  But, then, a lot of things have passed her by recently. Isolated from people of her own age and treated like a member of the domestic staff, Mary has spent most of the last month in her own world. She sits and watches conversations around her mother's supper table. She speaks only to answer questions posed directly to her and only if they have not already been seen off by her mother, who appears to be more au fait than her daughter on matters of the heart and career. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, light relief comes in the form of Giulia. A Bianchi cousin from the next-door valley, Giulia gossips with Mary in Italian while she cleans. Their banter irritates Belinda, who tends to find Mary other chores while Giulia is around. So, as Belinda sits down for lunch and announces Franco's arrival some time this afternoon, Mary is a little flustered.

  “What time did he say exactly?” she asks, cutting a sliver of cheese.

  “He was using the twenty-four-hour clock, so one can never be sure exactly when that is in English, let alone Italian,” dismisses Belinda with a wave of her hand. She opens her mouth wide and advances it toward her cheese sandwich. “But”—she chomps, jaws grinding, mouth open, food swilling— “some time this afternoon,” she concludes.