by Jo Thomas
Not long afterwards, the hand of friendship turned into the vice-like grip of a woman who’d got her man and wasn’t going to let go. Some might call her smug. I certainly wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of thinking I’d made a completely foolhardy decision. She already thought I’d done that when I finished with Ed.
Looking at my surroundings now, I know that if I think too much about the amount of work needed, it will become too daunting. I have to break it down into bite-sized pieces. But my mind is buzzing. What if I have just taken on too much? What if I can’t do it? I try and push the little demons out of my head.
A clatter downstairs breaks into my thoughts. Oh not the goat again! I turn to run downstairs. This time I really will give it a shove out of the door.
Just then a bleat comes from outside the landing window. I lean out and look down into the courtyard. It’s the goat. He’s still here. I roll my eyes and turn to go downstairs. I must have left the door open. Maybe it doesn’t catch properly. I must add it to the list.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and freeze. My heart jumps into my mouth, which is suddenly as dry as the desert. The front door is shut. I feel myself go cold, very cold indeed. Another clatter from the living room makes me jump, and my heart beats so hard it feels it’s going to burst out of my chest. Because if the goat’s outside, who’s in my house?
‘Aargh!’ I hear myself yell.
‘Aargh!’ yells the stranger emerging from the corridor to the living room. Boxes of papers and other junk hit the floor as the man jumps back in surprise. We both stare at each other. Wide-eyed, he runs his hand across his dark curly hair. He’s tall, clean-shaven, with olive skin. In fact he’s surprisingly attractive. I wonder if he’s going to make a run for it. He looks at me as if I’m going to. When neither of us moves, he looks down at the boxes that have spilled their guts across the floor, blocking his path, and then back at me. He obviously wasn’t expecting to find anyone here. The place does look as if it’s been abandoned for some time. Perfect for someone on the rob. But maybe he’s new to this. He doesn’t look dressed for the job, that’s for sure. I’d have thought trainers, gloves and sunglasses would have been better. Instead he’s wearing a cream linen suit, with chestnut-brown shiny pointed shoes. He’s not going to run very far or fast in those. In fact, he doesn’t make any attempt to run at all.
‘Che cazzo . . . chi diavolo sei?’ he says, still obviously startled, and although I can’t exactly understand him, I get the gist of what he’s saying.
‘Who am I?’ My hand flies to my chest. All the Italian words I spent months at evening class learning seem to have left me along with my regular heartbeat. I may not have been fluent but I could hold a sensible conversation back then.
‘You scared me!’ I say crossly, still unable to form the sentence in Italian. And then I suddenly realise. He must be the goat’s owner! ‘Is that your goat?’
‘Scusi?’ He frowns at me like I’m the village idiot.
‘You really need to tie it up. Legarlo?’ I attempt, doing a rope-around-the-neck action and pulling at it, which may look like a noose action I realise. His frown deepens. He probably thinks I’m threatening to kill myself. I drop my hands to my sides and sigh.
‘Ah, Inglese, si?’
‘Si.’ I nod expansively, pleased that he’s understood me. ‘Tie it up! The goat!’ I point towards the door, feeling like an amateur-dramatic pantomime dame and cross with myself that all those hours in the car with my really expensive Learn Italian refresher course have been wasted. I have no idea what the word for goat is. I really need to get online as soon as possible; at least then I’ll be able to access my dictionary.
To my surprise, he tosses his head back slightly and laughs. I’m not sure if he’s laughing at my lack of Italian or the fact that I’ve found his goat.
All my fear leaves me and is replaced by annoyance. I’m fed up of being laughed at. I march crossly over and open the door wide for him to leave.
‘Legarlo!’ I repeat, pointing at the goat and make the choking action again. He laughs again. Maybe he thinks I’m asking him to kill the goat.
‘Not . . .’ I draw a finger across my throat and make a noise in my cheek like a lisping raspberry. ‘Just . . .’ I make a tying action with my hands, like I’m teaching a child to tie a bow. He’s still shaking his head with what looks like disbelief and now he folds his arms.
‘Capra? The goat?’ he asks in English, clearly but with an Italian accent so it sounds like something much more exotic.
‘Si, the capra.’ I nod and smile. We’re understanding each other, which is good. But what I don’t understand is what this man is doing in my house. I make a mental note for my list: 122. Bolts for front door.
The thought of the list suddenly makes me feel absolutely exhausted, and all the doubts come flooding in at once. Am I really going to stay out here, in rural Italy, where strange men just wander into the house? I don’t even know if I could phone the police if I wanted to. And it’s not just that. Am I going to be able to tackle all the work this house needs and deserves? Can I do it justice on my small amount of savings and what I earn? Am I really mad? I can’t even deal with a goat on my own.
‘The goat, he lives here,’ says the Italian flatly, breaking into my thoughts. For a moment I’m speechless.
‘He what? Cosa? Scusi?’ I ask, and he repeats himself exactly the same as before.
‘The goat, he lives here.’
I thought that’s what he said.
‘But not any more,’ I say firmly, not bothering with my pigeon Italian when this man clearly speaks perfectly good English and I just want this sorted out and him gone. I hold the door open a little further. The sun is attempting to push through and is reflecting in the puddles outside.
The man frowns again and looks down. The boxes are still scattered at his feet. I look down at them too. There’s not much there worth stealing, to be honest, just junk he seems to be helping himself to.
‘Scusi,’ he says politely but with a puzzled look back at me. For a moment I wonder if he’s apologising for the mess or his bungled burglary, but then he says, looking straight at me, making my heart start to pound again, ‘What exactly are you doing here?’
I’m a bit thrown and find myself answering as though I’m being interviewed for the position of new owner. Bizarre, considering I should be asking him the same question. Maybe it’s tiredness, or the shock.
‘I’m . . . well, I’m an online greeting card designer actually,’ I start to explain. ‘I design cards for birthdays, Christmas, retirement, moving house,’ I emphasise. ‘And I’ll be, um . . .’ I clear my throat, as if saying it for the first time makes it all seem real. ‘I’ll be doing some holiday lets,’ I finish, feeling like a complete fraud.
He smiles again and refolds his arms, which just irritates me even more. Why isn’t he leaving? I’ve been polite, I haven’t called the police. What more does he want? My CV? And actually, that’s my junk he’s helping himself to. This place may have been neglected and abandoned, but as of a week ago, it’s mine.
I raise my eyebrows, hold the door back and make a gently sweeping gesture with my hand towards the goat. I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with this person – he’s obviously local, although he doesn’t look dressed for rescuing a goat or burgling a house – but really I think his interest has gone far enough.
‘That’s very good,’ he smiles, ‘but what are you doing in my house?’
There’s an awkward moment as I try and work out if this man is seriously deranged or just annoying.
‘Um . . .’ I smile and then say slowly and clearly, ‘Actually, you’re in my house.’ I smile again kindly, but there’s an incoming wave of doubt in my voice.
He frowns, his thick brows coming together and his eyes narrowing. He puts his finger to the corner of his mouth and his linen
jacket rises up, puckering around the armpits and elbows. His hand is soft and smooth, with neat nails. Definitely not someone used to working outside. He gives a hollow laugh.
‘I think you are mistaken,’ he says, still frowning. ‘You’re not from round here, no?’ He looks at me, tilting his head and raising one eyebrow, suddenly making my firm stand disappear like quicksand beneath my feet.
I shake my head. He couldn’t be right, could he?
‘This is my family’s home,’ he says evenly. ‘It’s not for sale.’ He bends down and starts putting papers and small ornaments back into the boxes, then glances up at me. ‘I think you must be in the wrong house.’ He stands again, juggling the boxes in his arms, distributing the contents evenly. My mouth’s gone dry and I feel like someone’s poured cold custard all over me.
‘The wrong house?’ I try and say through a mouth full of cotton wool and a heart beating so loudly it’s drowning out my own words.
‘It’s an easy mistake to make. These roads are confusing if you don’t know the area.’ He nods briefly towards the potholed lane that I took from town this morning. He’s right, if a little haughty: they do all look the same, and the signposting is so unclear. But I thought I’d followed the landmarks to the letter.
‘And the weather is terrible. It’s understandable,’ though he looks like he doesn’t find it understandable at all, making me feel like a foolish child. Here he is, dressed as if he’s come from the office – of course he isn’t a burglar! I feel a total idiot. He’ll have a story to tell his wife and family this evening, laughing at the foolish English lady. I feel like crying. I want to curl up and die of exhaustion and an extreme case of stupidity. I could never have afforded this. Who was I kidding? And the work here – I puff air out through my lips – really, way too much for one person. This needs an army of trained professionals. It’s a money pit. Money I don’t have.
‘Here, let me help you with your things. I’ll just dump these in the car. If you’ve got the name of the place you’re looking for, I can give you directions, but I can’t think it’s near here. I don’t know any houses for sale close by,’ he says, obviously keen to send me on my way so he can get on with whatever he’s doing. I bet he has a large family, and probably a good job. He looks like the sort of person who has made all the right steps in life. Not like me. I seem to keep missing the steps and falling through the gaps in between. I mean, how many people move into someone else’s house and tell the owner to hang his goat?
My eyes itch and redden and I swallow hard. He turns and carries the boxes across the cobbles, instinctively dodging the potholes, and over to the smart red car blocking mine in. The goat has gone back to trotting up and down.
The goat lives here, I repeat in my head. Of course he does! The goat lives here. I don’t! Idiot me!
I turn to the plastic table in the big dining room and gather up my notebook and satchel, realising I am actually relieved. I mean, this place is beautiful, but there is so much of it. I don’t know what I thought I’d got for my money, but it couldn’t be this. There must be a much smaller version nearby. They all look alike online. I mean, I know I’m looking for a masseria, but that just means a fortified farmhouse. There must be loads of those around here.
As I sling my bag over my shoulder, the envelope I was holding earlier slips off the table and on to the floor. I stop, bend and pick it up. I stare at the smeared name on the front: Masseria Bellanuovo, it says. Although admittedly it’s a bit harder to read now after its drenching, that’s definitely the envelope I arrived with . . . the one with the key in it! The key that fitted the door.
Stupid doesn’t come close to how I’d describe myself right now. I grip the envelope, scoop up the key and go to the door, where I try it again, just to make sure. Like Cinderella’s foot in the glass slipper, it fits. Now I’m furious. Who does this con artist think he is? Breaking in, trying to convince me I’m in the wrong house and stealing my junk!
I watch him walking back from his car. He pats the goat’s hindquarters and practically skips towards the front door. This time I’m standing in the doorway, arms folded.
‘Masseria Bellanuovo?’ I ask, pulling myself up to my full height of five foot three and a half inches.
‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘This is Masseria Bellanuovo. My family’s home.’
‘In that case, sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Ruthie Collins, from London, England. And you are?’
‘Marco, Marco Bellanuovo.’ He accepts my extended hand and shakes it with a slightly unnerved look about him now.
‘Well, Mr Bellanuovo, I think you’ll find this is my house. Masseria Bellanuovo. I bought it,’ and I swing the key in front of him in a rather childish but effectively dramatic manner.
He looks at it and then explodes.
‘Che cazzo?’ he roars, and I take a step back. I’m beginning to understand what that means.
‘It can’t be! This house is not for sale. It belongs to my family, my grandfather.’
He stares at the key, and I show him the envelope too. The colour drains from his face and he seems genuinely shocked. He holds out a hand and uses the door frame to support himself.
‘Look, how about a sit-down,’ I say, thinking I could have done this without the dramatic effects, and stand aside to let him back in. ‘I’ll find some water.’
‘No, really. Thank you.’ He holds up his hand. ‘I need to find out what’s going on.’ He’s thinking, and my brain too is whirring faster than my thoughts can keep up with.
‘Please, could you tell me, who did you do your business with? Who sold this to you?’
‘Giovanni Bellanuovo,’ I say, a lot less triumphantly. Judging by the dark look on his face, he obviously had no idea.
‘My grandfather,’ he says quietly, and turns away.
I don’t think I’ll bother asking for the junk back. It’s probably his by rights.
‘Merda!’ he says very suddenly, and slaps his hand on his thigh. He holds his head as he walks away.
‘Look,’ I say, hoping my thoughts will organise themselves quickly. The sun is coming out and I can sense it on my face, and it feels good. I follow him and touch his elbow. ‘I . . . I didn’t know that I was buying a family home. Why don’t you go and see your grandfather? Get him to explain.’ My voice is getting higher and higher, as are my shoulders in a Mediterranean shrug.
He looks at me and then says, ‘It’ll be a job. He died a week ago.’
My hand flies over my mouth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say with automatic sympathy.
‘The funeral is tomorrow. That’s why I’m here, why we’re all here. The family.’
I can’t think of anything sensible to say, so I say nothing. The only thing I know for sure is that I really do own a large house that needs lots of work, and I’ve already upset the locals.
‘You’d better come with me,’ he instructs, like a teacher marching a naughty pupil to the headmaster’s office.
‘Where to?’ I frown.
‘Mama’s. The family are all there. My cousin on my mother’s side, she is married to a lawyer. He’ll know what to do.’ He turns and marches towards his car, and I find myself following with quick little footsteps, having locked the front door, hoping I can settle this once and for all.
‘What about the goat?’ I say to his back as he points his key fob at the car and it bleeps into life.
‘I told you. The goat lives here. Now get in,’ he says, flinging open the car door and starting the engine with a roar. Without question, I do as I’m told.
Arriving outside a big white villa with red and white canopy awnings, I feel like I’ve just been on a monster fairground ride. A bit like the time I took Ed to Alton Towers, only he refused to go on any rides, and I ended up feeling like I’d been shaken upside down and put back with bits in the wrong p
laces.
We took off in Marco’s car at full speed, rattling down the drive and through the gates, and then into the next-door drive, stopping with a body-bracing screech behind the many other cars abandoned at various angles on the gravel. My heart races and I clutch the dashboard so hard I wonder if my fingers are actually embedded in it. Marco gets out and slams the door. As I peel my fingers from the dashboard, I hope that his family – my new neighbours – are more welcoming and understanding than he is.
He turns to check I’m following, locks the car and then takes the marble steps two at a time to the stone-built veranda with three arches across it. There is a swing seat there, and a lemon tree in a pot. Suddenly a cacophony of barking stops me in my tracks and a gang of dogs comes tearing round the corner towards us. Marco stops and says something to a small cream and white mutt by way of greeting before turning back to me abruptly, beckoning with his head. I pull my cardigan around me and follow. It’s early evening now, and I really need to sort this out before it gets too late. Part of me is reluctant to follow him, to be summoned like this, but another part knows I’m going to have to meet the neighbours at some point. I just wish it could’ve been under better circumstances.
I skirt the now quiet dogs and join Marco as he reaches for the front door. He instructs the little cream dog to stay, and it sits obediently, staring at him as he pushes the door open. A wall of noise and heat hits me as we enter. There are people all around: a couple sitting at a table, one holding a baby while another fusses over it; others talking in a group, sipping drinks and nibbling on small breadstick-type biscuits.
‘Ah, Marco!’ I hear a woman’s voice, and then an older one, and suddenly there are lots of different voices. I can’t really understand them, but I can sort of understand their hand gestures. The first woman, who I presume is Marco’s mamma, is waving her hands and pointing to an older woman wearing black and gently sniffing into a tissue. I think she’s asking where he’s been and telling him that Nonna needs him.
