by Sarah Lean
I went home and told Marianne and she said, “Oh my God, Hope! Have we got enough chairs? Are there any left in the woodshed? Where are we going to have it? Outside? It’ll have to be outside. Cutlery! We need more cutlery. I’d better ask Nanu. And napkins! Remind me to get napkins.”
She turned into someone else when she was faced with organising things. A kind of lunatic wildcat, tearing about all hissy and troubled.
“Are they making a cake? Do we need a cake? Should I make it?” Then she grabbed my face and kissed me hard right on the lips, and said, “It’s Harry’s birthday too, yes?” and hurried off to look for chairs while I taught Harry something new.
Marianne being an artist, I knew the party would somehow end up involving paint, the thing she was most comfortable with. When I woke up on the morning of the big day and looked outside my window at the mountain that was always there, I also saw my mother asleep on the porch below, still in her apron, still with her glasses on. I was kind of happy, and I did feel safe with canigou, Harry and mum around me.
I went down to wake her and let Harry out. Harry nuzzled against me and I whispered into his long ear so that he’d know how sure I was that he wouldn’t let me down.
“I trust you, Harry.” He flicked his ears and turned and headed for the meadow. If my plan didn’t work, it wouldn’t be because of Harry.
Mum had put out two long tables in front of the house. Lying across the tabletops were two huge canvasses. She’d painted the most beautiful meadow filled with bright patches of wild flowers, Harry amongst them. They looked like her other paintings, but different too, almost like the movement you could see was the flowers actually growing. When I took the canvases off the tables, I saw she’d painted Harry on the tables too, vines growing around him.
By the time we’d laid the tables and stood back you could hardly see what was underneath, but we knew it was there and what this was all about.
“The vines are blue,” I said.
“That’s because—”
“I know, I know, you have to stop looking at the green to see the blue, or something. Like, without the blue, they wouldn’t be green. I like it. I think I get you. ”
She laughed. “Exactly,” and then insisted I put on a dress and brush my hair.
“You’ve always said I should wear what I feel comfortable in,” I said, looking down at my dusty canvas shoes and old shorts.
“Yes, I know, but today is different.”
“So we have to be different?”
“No, not who you are.” She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “Just who you need to appear to be to the Massimos. We need to impress them today…”
“I like my old shorts. My shorts like me too.”
“Think of it as a game. We’re just disguising the things about us that Peter’s father… well, doesn’t understand. Make him think we think like him, I suppose.”
“But we’re not like him.”
“I know, but we need to communicate the right message.”
“And the message is that we’re not the odd child and mad deranged mother that Peter’s parents probably think we are.”
She laughed. “Something like that.”
I smiled. “I’ll do it for Harry.”
“So will I, because that means it’s for you too.”
It was only ten o’clock and the visitors weren’t coming until noon, but I wiped my shoes, changed, itched in the dress bought by my mother for visiting galleries that I’d never worn (it was actually a bit small now and tight across my chest), breathed deeply and headed down to the meadow.
Mum called, “I nearly forgot! Happy Birthday, Hope! Happy Birthday, Harry!” Outside I smiled. It was actually Peter’s birthday today, ours wasn’t for another five days. Inside I handed everything that was about to happen over to Harry. And hoped.
It only took a couple of minutes for me and Harry to walk to the Massimos, but we smelled the food that was cooking long before we got there as it mingled with the smell of vines and earth and sun-baked ground.
The kitchen door was wide open, food already piled high in baskets and bowls, covered in red and white checked teacloths. Peter was waiting. He knew the plan. He smiled, crossed his fingers.
“I’ve come to help,” I said to Nanu. She came straight over telling me how pretty I looked and I blushed at the same time as Peter.
“No, no,” she said. “I take care of everything.”
“There’s too much for you to bring,” I insisted. “Harry can carry some of the food over.”
She blinked, suddenly noticing Harry in the doorway, two baskets strapped either side of the pads on his back. Peter looked at Nanu, and calmly said, “Good idea, Hope. Saves us a lot of trips.”
“Harry loves to help,” I said, wedging the bread inside Harry’s baskets. “Shall I take the fruit?”
Nanu smiled. “Yes, OK, good donkey,” she said.
I smacked Harry twice gently on the bum.
Nanu fed us olives and bread and oil and I was careful not to let the crumbs fall on my clothes.
A few minutes later, I squeezed my lips tight. Catching Peter’s eye, we grinned and grinned at each other because Harry was standing by the back door again, now with empty baskets. It’s what I had taught Harry to do. There was a little note stuffed in the side of his harness. It was from my mother in her beautiful writing. It said, You did it again! Xxxx
“What else can he take?” I said.
Harry went up and down the lane by himself while Peter and I made sure everything was secure in the baskets. After Harry had made a few trips, Nanu left a pail of water and a carrot for him. She picked a lily from the bunch on her table and pushed it into Harry’s harness. Harry was winning her over.
When nearly all the food had been taken up to our house I noticed Nanu sizing Harry up, almost as if she was thinking she could get a lift to our house too. Nanu was very short, hardly taller than me, but she was very round all the way down, so I quickly said, “I’ll just take the cheeses up and then Harry’s got some things to do for my mother.”
I tapped Harry’s shoulder but first Peter and I went outside where Nonno had been sitting reading a paper.
“We’re going up to Hope’s,” Peter said. “Do you want to walk with us?”
Nonno nodded and came with us. Nonno had suffered from polio when he was a boy. It made the bones in his legs short and curved and, as he’d got older, his hips were stiff because of the way he waddled. We slowed for him.
Harry was following us, but I stopped and went back to him, hooking my arm over his neck so he would walk beside me. Peter moved out the way so that Nonno was on the other side of Harry.
Peter spoke to Nonno in Italian.
“Harry?” Nonno said.
“The donkey, Nonno.”
“Ah, si. Harry.” (I knew si meant yes.)
I was a bit uncomfortable that Nonno had seemed to forget who Harry was, but then I felt Nonno’s arm against mine, Harry holding Nonno’s weight against him, helping him up the track to our house.
Nonno didn’t look back at Harry when he went to greet my mother. But Nonno had been there for us, or maybe for Peter, and I was sure he hadn’t forgotten our journey to the airport. Surely it meant something to him. But he wasn’t going to be the most important person to convince.
My mother invited Nonno to sit in the shade and called me over.
“This arrived.”
Another postcard. A sand-coloured building with huge arches. Crowds of people. Greetings from Mumbai. I turned it over quickly.
Noisy here, not like the mountains. Seems a different world this time. Found a place to stay for a while. How’s my girl?
Frank.
I read into all the details. He’d gone back to the place where he’d found Harry. I’d never thought of it before, that Harry might have interrupted Frank’s travels, that it was still a place that he hadn’t finished exploring and had only left there because he wanted to take Harry away.
; How’s my girl? His girl. Words that joined me to him still.
There was an address at the bottom.
I left the card in the hammock and would write back later, when I could tell him how today had ended.
Soon people from the village arrived for the party. Loads of people, including monsieur albert and the vilaros, and some children I knew from school whose parents worked for the massimos.
Peter’s father and mother came last, like the royal family, everyone fussing around them. Peter’s father wore a suit. I didn’t like that because it looked like he was at a business meeting and that wasn’t exactly the kind of mood I hoped he’d be in. I’d never really had a conversation with him before. He was one of those people that made words get stuck inside me. I didn’t ever think I had anything to say that he would want to hear anyway.
Peter’s mother was the best-dressed person there and she didn’t take off her black sunglasses the whole time.
There were gifts, mostly for Peter, some for me.
More chairs were brought out from inside.
I’d talk to Monsieur Massimo soon.
Peter’s little cousins raced around Harry and I went over and told them, “You have to give Harry some time to get used to you.” They looked up at me, and I liked that a lot, listening as if I had something important to say. Which I did. “He doesn’t know you’re going to be kind to him yet, even though I do.”
They giggled and became more gentle, asking if they could feed him apples and carrots, and I said, “Not too many, but you can brush him if you like.”
While they were doing that, Peter and I stood the two huge canvases up to make a backdrop for a stage. Peter invited all his little cousins to sit down and stood on our stage with me.
“It’s Peter’s birthday,” I said. “Shall we sing happy birthday?”
The children sang and clapped and the adults gathered around.
“Harry knows it’s Peter’s birthday,” I said. I called Harry where he was waiting behind the screens. “Do you have something for Peter, Harry?”
I clapped my hands twice.
Harry appeared and went straight to Peter, one basket stuffed with sweets for the children who ran to him, eager to be part of what was going on. The other basket had my present to Peter. He opened it and blushed when he saw I’d given him the carved olive knot handle, now fixed on top of a walking stick.
The children asked, “What’s that for?”
“It’s for when we’re ninety-nine,” Peter said, with a big smile.
“It’s also Hope’s birthday soon,” he said. “We’re celebrating Hope and Harry’s birthdays today.”
He started to sing with the children and their voices were beautiful, even more so when they sang for Harry.
Peter’s father walked towards us. My hands were sweaty, my throat dry. I’d just wait a minute and then speak to him.
“This is for you,” he said to Peter. He’d bought him a watch.
Peter’s father had a serious voice that made people listen, and when he’d spoken everyone went quiet so I thought I’d wait a minute longer before I asked him about the meadow.
“I also have a surprise for my son.” Everyone was listening as Peter’s father continued.
He turned Peter around, led him to one side of the canvas screens, and the children went running over asking, What is it? What is it?
Peter’s father pointed to the meadow and said to us all, “As you know, we lost the vines under the avalanche a few months ago. But there’s no turning back, the future is important. So I’ve decided to turn this meadow into a vineyard.”
I felt panicky inside and wished he’d stop talking so I could speak to him first, but I never got a chance to say the words, to let them out into the world to try to change his mind. It had already been decided, already been announced to everyone, and I hadn’t thought of that. Without saying anything, I knew Harry and I didn’t stand a chance against all the people who would want the new vineyard.
Then Monsieur Massimo looked down at his son.
“We’re going to name it Peter’s vineyard, and when you are twenty-one, Peter, it will be yours to run as you choose.”
Peter turned to look at me. I could tell he had no idea that his father was going to do this.
I couldn’t listen any more, the words inside me buried under feeling hopeless. I backed away from all of them, from Peter who was mouthing sorry at me, from my mother who had something in her hands she was trying to give to me. From all the people in the village who would earn money and have work, who needed and wanted the new vineyard that meant more than a donkey ever could.
I walked into something, stumbled.
“Hope!” Peter called.
And I wished he hadn’t. Everyone looked as I tripped over Harry.
Harry didn’t look me in the eye and I couldn’t stand for him to see how sorry I looked for myself. Did he know what I’d done to him? Because it was my fault. Frank had left Harry behind for me, so I could keep him safe. It was also Frank’s way of saying, Hold on to this important part of me and take care of it. But I hadn’t.
I couldn’t look Harry in the eye. He didn’t know that I’d be leaving him alone in the empty casot on the mountainside.
Harry had a few weeks left to eat the meadow before the Massimos asked the vilaros to turn over the soil, bang in stakes and wire them up, before planting the new vines in early winter. Harry didn’t know a thing about time, and munched and wandered through the grass and flowers like it would never end. I remembered what that was like, not knowing what was going to change or how big the changes would be, how two things that seemed to fit perfectly together, like Harry and the meadow, would not be able to any more. Maybe I was wrong about these things all along.
I wasn’t angry with Peter about what happened. What can you do when one family is stronger than another?
My mother came up to the roof terrace later that day. She had always given me room to do what I wanted, but this time I felt her on the edge of my space, maybe making sure she didn’t give me too much room, just enough.
“Frank left this for you, for your birthday,” she said, holding out something the size of a tennis ball, wrapped in paper. “Actually he said it was for both you and Harry, but I suppose you had better open it or Harry might eat it.”
She smiled, trying to lift me up.
Inside the wrapper was a globe carved from wood. I nearly dropped it, the two halves coming apart in my hands. I looked closer at the map of the world carved into each half of it. At the two crosses marking the names of the places.
“France and Mumbai,” I said. “Look how far apart these places are. Where I am, where Frank is. Look how far Harry had to come to be here with me and now—”
“Look how far you and Harry have come together,” Mum said, “without having gone anywhere at all.”
What Peter and I felt about Harry was much stronger than our differences, and our summer project became getting Harry used to his new home. Peter said sorry a thousand times, promised when he was twenty-one that he’d give the meadow to me and Harry. We both knew that would be too late, that it wouldn’t ever really happen.
Every day we walked Harry over to the casot to let him graze there and get used to it, and we piled the stone wall back up as best we could. We’d wander off and leave Harry for a little longer each day and then we’d go inside the casot early evening to sit with him for a while. But I brought him home to his shed every night. It was our new habit. Our legs grew strong with walking.
Peter tried extra hard to make me laugh, but laughing was something I had gotten out of the habit of doing. We’d come back home and sit in the hammock and he’d read until I fell asleep.
“Sleep, if you need to,” Mum said. “It’s when all the things inside you can repair.”
Sleep and I were getting to be good friends.
One day, Peter told me his papa wanted to talk to me.
“The grapes will be ready for picking soon and
maybe your donkey could work in the vineyards. He’d be very useful. Peter tells me he likes to work.”
Monsieur Massimo offered me some money to keep Harry in hay over winter.
I said, “All the money Harry ever needed was spent on him one time by Frank. To bring him here.”
“I see,” he said, but I wasn’t sure he did.
“I think it’s a good idea, Hope,” Peter said. “Harry will work hard.”
Monsieur Massimo held out his hand and I shook it. It was a business deal, after all.
September. Peter went back to boarding school in England. Mum hung up the painting of me in her studio. She painted the wall white again first, to make it clean, like we were starting again from somewhere new and bright. She told me my father had wanted the painting, but I said I wasn’t ready to let him have it yet. She said we’d keep it close by for now, to remind ourselves of the things about us we loved, the things we couldn’t always see. Together my mother and I made something more together, kind of more Marianne and Hope Malone.
When I went back to school, Mum bought me a mountain bike.
On my way to school, I’d cycle past Bruno, Harry trotting behind. Bruno didn’t know what to make of my bike. He’d wag his tail and drool and sometimes run after us. He didn’t bark any more though. Harry followed me to school and I let him. He had nowhere else to go while the meadow was being prepared and I didn’t think either of us was ready for him to be on his own all day. I knew it would take a while to help him break the habit of wanting to be with me, so I thought being nearby was better. He’d wait outside the schoolyard, munching at geraniums in pots and the grass in the square nearby after he’d finished the hay that I’d brought for him. Then I’d cycle over to the casot with him after school, and leave him for a while. That was OK for a few days. But then villagers complained that their flowers had been eaten and also that socks had gone missing off their washing lines (which wasn’t good for Harry at all), and then Madame called Mum in to ask us to keep Harry away.
I imagined these circles. Villagers in the middle, the Massimos right at the centre of everything that happened. People like my mother and me were in another outside circle, and then right outside was Harry. We could all pass through each other’s circles, but we’d always end up in the same place.
