Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “An army marches on its stomach,”insists the major, cradling his own. “And I honestly find, these days, I can't move without my PG, Branston, and, more increasingly, a small box of Angel Delight.”

  “Angel Delight?” says Mary, walking into the kitchen. “How, um, interesting.”

  “I just don't think any Johnny Foreigner can make a mousse properly,” he declares.

  “Well, I could make you some tonight,” says Mary. “I couldn't think of anyone else who would want—who I'd rather make it for.”

  n hour later, the four of them are sitting down on the terrace under the sweet-smelling jasmine and honeysuckle to a late supper of chili con carne and strawberry Angel Delight. The major cannot stop talking. Belinda pretends to listen as he fills her and Mary in on all their family news from the past year, from the shiny new conservatory extension to their next-door neighbor's new hip, the death of his anemones, and the possibility of his running in the parish elections. The major debriefs in tremendous detail. Bolt upright in his chair, his forearms just touching the table, his hands tense and poised, he occasionally pauses for breath and to congratulate himself on entertaining the ladies. Meanwhile, his wife looks on quietly, blinking behind her double glazing.

  “So,” says the major, polishing off a glass of rather robust red wine that Belinda had picked up on special offer in the super-market, “what do you intend to do about the American?”

  “I don't know. What do you mean, Major?” asks Belinda, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

  “Well, what do you intend to do about her destruction of the wall paintings?” he says, running his spoon around the edge of his bowl, scooping up the last pink snake of Angel Delight.

  “Oh, right. Well, I've started a petition.”

  “Excellent,”he replies, pointing with his spoon. “How many signatures?”

  “Well, I've only just started,” says Belinda.

  “Good,” says the major. “How many so far?”

  “Um, none—well, one, if I include Mary, who will be signing, won't you, dear?”

  “What? Yes, of course,”says Mary, whose mind is back at the pool and moving slabs of stone with the handsome Franco. “Whatever you want,” she says, running her hand down her hot neck and over her shoulder. “I don't mind.”

  “So, one,” says Belinda optimistically. “Two, including myself, and perhaps you two will sign?”

  “Mrs. Smith!” says the major, looking pompous and put out all at the same time. “It would be an honor and a pleasure. In fact, I consider it my duty to sign! And so does my wife.”

  “Oh, yes,” agrees Pat.

  “Well, there we go, Major,” says Belinda. “Four!”

  “I'm afraid that's not going to win the war, though, is it?” he says.

  “Well, I should imagine not,” says Belinda, with a knowing laugh. “But it's a start.”

  “So, it is a war?” asks the major.

  “Oh,” says Belinda.

  “I thought as much.”The major knowledgeably taps the side of his red nose. “When you've witnessed as many battles and stood on as many front lines as I have, you get a sixth sense for conflict. You can smell the tension in the air. And I knew it as soon as I mentioned the new house. There was tension.”

  “Well, she's opening a rival B-and-B, and when one's livelihood is under attack …” says Belinda, by way of explanation.

  “And, as your regulars, it's our duty to help you in this battle,” rallies the major. “I need to school you in tactics. We need to try and work out what are their weaknesses, what would be the best plan of attack. Find out all there is to know about them, then beat them at their own game. Do you know the property? Have you been behind enemy lines?”

  “Not totally,” admits Belinda.

  “Well, that's no good,” says the major, shaking his head. “That's no good at all. We can't operate without a good recce.”

  “But she's having a party tomorrow,” announces Belinda.

  “Excellent,”he says. He leans back in his chair and gives Mary a gentle goosing as she bends over to pick up his bowl. “Patricia, my darling! It looks like we arrived in the nick of time.”

  His wife smiles and blinks back.

  GiovedìThursday

  Climafa brutto (Not very hot)

  Oh dear, what a shame! I woke up this morning expecting the usual shiny bright sun and cobalt blue sky, dotted with diving swallows, but sadly it seems a few clouds are gathering on the horizon. I say “sadly” because although the valley needs the rain (we've had nothing substantial for weeks), my American neighbor, Lauren, is having a party tonight, and it looks as though the weather may ruin it. Wouldn't that be too, too awful? She's throwing open the doors of her tiny house and inviting the whole valley apparently. How terrible it would be if a downpour were to ruin such an indiscriminate gathering. If only her guest list had been smaller, more intimate, perhaps the climate would not be such an issue. But as it is her exuberance and, some uncharitable people might say, her arrogance have brought the whole evening into jeopardy.

  It sounds silly, I know, but if she had spoken to me, or asked my advice on such things, as a hostess who has been living and entertaining in the valley for some time, I would have advised her to keep it small. Small is always successful. Or, at least, my soirées are. But, I have been so terribly busy with my guests that I would have been unable to spare her housewarming hooley a second thought.

  Our returnees are settling in nicely. I put them in the same room as they had last year, which I think they appreciated! It is these little touches that make an upmarket bed-and-breakfast like mine so successful. I also served some of the major's favorite food, and both he and Mrs. Chester sent the chef (i.e., me!) their compliments!

  That's another thing I must do when I have time. I must invite Lauren up to the house to show her the ropes and teach her a thing or two about service and being a proper italiana hostess. It is, after all, what neighbors do, isn't it? Help each other out? Oh, and invite each other to parties, of course. Truth be known, I am not looking forward to her do tonight. People always say that I am the life and soul of the party, but, oddly, I feel rather shy. I admit I have plenty to say, but often I find it more effectual to say it to a smaller group of people. It isn't in my nature to show off in front of a large crowd. Perhaps it's the artist in me! I'm really so much more at home with a brush in my hand, and a view in front of me, and perhaps some pleasant company by my side. To say I'm looking forward to my watercolor session with the major today is something of an understatement! You see, we artists must stick together at all costs!

  Chapter Six

  o you think it will rain later?” demands Belinda, standing on her terrace in her blue artist's smock, her brown hair scraped back into her red-spotted handkerchief. The response to her question is so muted she turns the corner and stands next to her guests, who are eating their breakfast. With her mouth open and one eye closed, she proceeds to squint down the valley, her arm out, measuring the heights of trees with her paintbrush. “Do you think so, Major?” she asks again, measuring up his wife the other side of the table. “Do you think it will rain?”

  “Well …” says the major, putting down his Andy McNab novel and his piece of toast and marmalade. He looks down the valley. Two sharp arrowheads of snot-soaked hair peek out of his flared nostrils as he contemplates his weather forecast. “Mmm.” He ponders. “Well, I can't smell rain.”

  “What does rain smell like, dear?” asks his wife, her jaw muscles flexing hard as she tries to make short shrift of the slightly stale bread roll that has been in her mouth for the last minute.

  “Metal,” replies the major definitively. “It smells like damp metal.”

  “Oh.” His wife blinks, taking a sip of milky English Break-fast. “I never knew that.”

  “It's all part of my army training,” asserts the major, picking up his toast and taking a man-size bite. “Weather and orienteering are absolutely essential for an officer in the
field.”

  “I knew you'd know, Major, I just knew it,” says Belinda, pulling up a chair. “So we'll be okay for watercoloring this morning. But it'll pour with rain later, won't it?”

  The major raises his buttocks off the chair and scans the horizon. “Quite possibly.”

  “Quite possibly,” repeats Belinda, with a smile. She shifts Pat's plate to one side as she leans her elbows across the table. “You seem to know so much, Major,” she enthuses, “surely you can't put it all down to army training?

  “Most of it is,”says Pat, standing up and pulling her turquoise shorts out of her backside. “I'd rather thought, as the weather is not so special today, that we'd go shopping in Serrana, dear. Isn't that what we discussed earlier?”

  “Shopping?” says Belinda, sounding a bit surprised.

  “Yes.” Pat nods. “Shopping.”

  “Yes, well, that is what we discussed just before breakfast, actually, Belinda,” says the major.

  “Oh,” says Belinda. “There's no reason why you couldn't do both. If Pat is so keen to shop, then perhaps Mary could take her into town. I was going to send her in anyway. Then you and I could do our watercolors while the weather holds. That way”—she shrugs— “everyone is happy. Mary!” she shouts, before anyone can answer, interrupt, or express an opinion other than her own.

  “Yes?” comes a call from the kitchen.

  “Will you take Mrs. Chester into town with you this morning when you go shopping for me?”

  “Oh? Right, yes, of course. If you want me to go shopping, then of course Mrs. Chester may come with me, if she wants to,” Mary replies as she comes out onto the terrace, drying her hands on a tea towel.

  “Of course she does,” says Belinda, standing up and handing to Mary Pat's breakfast plate. “She's desperate for you to point out all the bargains. She's mad keen to get out of all her dull old English clothes, aren't you, Pat? While I make sure that her husband is well looked after and entertained, shan't I, Major?”

  “Well, if you insist,” chuckles the major.

  “Oh, but I do.” Belinda turns on her flip-flop. “How fortunate that I was on hand to help sort things out.”

  It is rare that Belinda doesn't get what she wants, and her watercolor morning with the major has been in the cards ever since the short man and his opossum-eyed wife booked three and a half months ago. Belinda has planned it in her mind's eye right down to the head scarf she's wearing and the conversation she intends to have. And, sadly, there is little or nothing that Pat or, indeed, the major can do about it. So, while Mary tidies away, studiously keeping her backside away from the major's foxed-up forefingers, Pat resigns herself to a morning's shopping without her husband.

  Belinda can barely keep the triumphant trill of victory out of her voice. “Come along, Major,” she says. “If we're to get any light at all we should move now.”

  “I'll be as quick as I can, Belinda,” he replies, trotting off in the direction of his bedroom. “Just let me ablute, and I'll be with you in ten minutes.”

  Within seconds of Pat closing the front door, and Mary turning the car in the drive, Belinda is on the major's terrace, rattling his shutters.

  “Are you ready yet, Major?” she asks, eyeing a large pair of white Y-fronts, drying on the back of a deck chair.

  “I'm coming as quick as I can,” he says, appearing at the french windows. His threads of sandy hair are wet, his face is newborn pink, and he is accompanied by the smell of drains and toothpaste. “Just let me gather my equipment.”

  “Gather away, Major, gather away.” Belinda smiles, with a wave of her hand. “I just don't want you to miss out on anything now that we have this all-too-brief opportunity for Art.”

  “Quite right, Belinda,” says the major, carefully packing his black tin of watercolors into a brown leather satchel. “Lead on!”

  “Wherever the muse takes us!” says Belinda with a spin, and she takes the major off down the valley past the swimming pool to a discreet copse she has had in mind for some time.

  After a convenient stroll down the hillside (Belinda never likes to walk very far for Art), she directs him to a group of wind-battered and somewhat gnarled-looking cypress trees with a perfectly adequate view over the back of the Bianchis' farm: fields of sunflowers just breaking into bloom, paddocks of bright green tobacco plus some crumbling outbuildings that Signor Bianchi neither uses nor has any intention of renovating—they house a couple of long-legged sheep and some fairly rampant goats.

  The major, having spent most of his life painting gift-shop fronts in Chipping Campden, seems delighted and brings out what looks like a small canvas fishing chair from his leather satchel. He stands and stares along the length of his right arm, framing imaginary tableaux with the end of his paintbrush, before finally choosing his spot. Pulling up his knee socks and khaki shorts, he eases himself slowly onto his precariouslooking seat. Belinda plonks her well-padded backside on a stone next to him.

  “Don't you just love the way the sun warms the buildings when it breaks through the cloud?” muses Belinda, her head cocked to one side. “The textures are amazing.”

  “Mmm,” says the major, his nose in his satchel. “I thought I might try to get my sky right first.”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” agrees Belinda, taking her paint box out of a patchwork bag. “I was merely remarking on the beauty of it all.”

  “You are so fortunate to live here,” pronounces the major, “surrounded by so much beauty.”

  “Yes,” says Belinda, taking the lid off her water jar. “Sometimes I find it hard to control my reaction to it.”

  “I can imagine,” says the major, lining up his paper.

  “There are times when I just have to release my inner artist,” says Belinda, untying the top of her smock.

  “Yes,” says the major, shifting in his seat.

  “There are times when it's healthy just to let it all go,” enthuses Belinda, her large bosom heaving as she exhales. “To release.”

  “Yes, right,” agrees the major, selecting a blue for his sky.

  “I knew you'd understand, Major,” she continues, hitching up her skirt to display a rather heavy, veiny white thigh, covered with short, thick, dark hairs, “being an artist.”

  “Yes,” says the major. “But I am, first and foremost, an army officer. The artist in me unfortunately has to come second.”

  “Oh, but a close second, Major. Surely, a close second? A passionate man like you can't keep his desires suppressed all the time. You must let yourself go sometimes.” Belinda's thighs are apart, her loose cleavage seeping over the top of her open smock. “You must have to erupt … Major! Erupt like a—a vicious, violent volcano.”

  “I often think one can't overestimate the value of selfcontrol,” says the major, his eyes firmly on the view.

  “Oh, indeed, Major?” Belinda leans forward on her stone, trying to penetrate his eye line. “I quite like the idea of someone forcing me … forcing me to take control.”

  “Yes … well,” says the major, brusquely rattling all the color out of his brush into the water jar. “Is that the American's house I can see tucked away behind the hill?”

  “What?” asks Belinda.

  “The American, is that the house down there?” asks the major.

  “Um, yes,” dismisses Belinda. “Where were we?”

  “Have you come up with a plan for tonight?” he asks.

  “What? Sorry? No,” says Belinda, with her first strategy for the day already not working out, she is reluctant to launch into another.

  “Oh, well, here's what I would do,” says the major, selecting a nice gray for the clouds. “I would make a detailed journey around the house. If she's in direct competition with you, you need to know exactly what she'll be doing. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Belinda leans on her elbow as she begins halfheartedly to paint the green hill she sees before her. The major carries on talking, regaling her with the various methods and means open to
her. He describes battles he has been involved in and ends up talking for nearly an hour about his experiences in the Falklands and the first Gulf War. By the time his conversation has dried up, so has Belinda's passion for the major, the view, and, indeed, Art. Sadly, she also has the painting to prove it. Two green stripes, a blue and gray panel, and a brown square do not really do justice to the vista. Feeling sour, unsated, and deeply bored, with a numb backside, she announces that she must return to Casa Mia: Mary never has any idea where to put the shopping. The Major says he needs another ten minutes to finish his oeuvre and will join her in a while.

  Back at the villa, Belinda can hear laughter as she approaches.

  “What's so funny?” she demands, climbing the stairs to her terrace and discovering Pat and Mary drinking coffee together.

  “Nothing, really.” Mary smiles.

  “No, come on,” demands Belinda. “Tell me.”

  “Oh, it's just that we ran into that handsome boy who lives in the village,” giggles Pat, “and he couldn't keep his eyes off Mary.”

  “Which boy?”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” says Mary.

  “Don't be silly,” insists Pat. “I may be shortsighted, but I'm certainly not blind, and he couldn't keep his eyes off you. I almost felt like making myself scarce. Honestly, Belinda, I tell you. He carried our bags and opened the car door for us. He kissed the backs of our hands.” She sighs. “I swear he's in love with her—he's in love with you.” She laughs, wagging her finger at Mary.

  “Who?” says Belinda, stamping her right foot and raising her voice a bit too much. “Who? Who's in love with her?” she asks, again, more politely.

  “That handsome boy, Franco—Gianfranco.” Pat grins, her huge eyes blink rapidly with excitement.

  “Oh,”says Belinda, rearranging her artist's smock. She is rigid with annoyance. “The local handyman-peasant—how terribly exciting.”

  No one says anything. Mary looks at her shoes, and Belinda stares down the valley.

  “Ye-e-es,” mumbles Pat into the silence as she stands up. “Well,”she says, looking at the clearing sky, “it's turned out nice again, the weather. No chance of rain for your party later.”