by Jo Thomas
It wasn’t long afterwards that I met Ed. He liked my cooking too. Life with Ed was great to begin with. I slipped happily into his world. We were good at different things. I was more practical; he was more . . . well, good at figures. My brother used to say that I’d only got anywhere in life because of Ed and his good job. He thought I should get a proper job. Going to art college and designing cards was just a hobby in his book. Even though it was me who used to rewire the plugs on his music system and make signs for his home-made sweets and doughnuts market stall.
Grandad used to understand me, though, when I went round to cook for him and do the occasional little DIY job. He gave me my first drill. Said it was more use to me than him and showed me how to put up shelves.
As the next car leaves, more heads turn to me. I’m not used to being in the limelight at the best of times and this attention is very unwanted. I’m cringing inside. It’s hot now, really hot, and my head feels quite light, as if this is all unreal. Beside me the electricity box is buzzing. This is the longest couple of minutes of my life. Well, apart from the ones when I finally decided to buy this house. And I’m beginning to think Ed was right: I am irresponsible and rash.
The final car stops and Marco gets in. He pulls his wraparound glasses down from his forehead. While the rest of the Bellanuovo family have turned their heads, their grief and their frustration to me, Marco looks straight ahead.
I stand there until the final car has disappeared down the lane, swaying this way and that over the potholes. Further down the road, an elderly couple stop as the cortège passes, paying their respects, and then look at me before getting in their little three-wheeled Ape truck to follow. I turn quickly, pushing open the listing gate by lifting it back on to the hinge and letting it drop again once it’s closed. Then I run back to the house, keen to shut the front door on the outside world.
Bare bulbs are buzzing away brightly and lighting up the high stone ceiling with its crossover star shapes. I run round and turn a few lights off, adrenalin pumping, then start unpacking the bags and boxes in the dining room, furiously and in no particular order, just feeling the need to make my mark on the place. I pull out books and CDs. The only thing missing is my vintage record collection and my record player. Those records were part of me, who I was. Each of them meant something to me. But Ed insisted on keeping them. It was the only thing we really disagreed about. I gave in in the end. But now I’ve had time to think about it, I should have been firmer.
I pull out my painting box and the canvases that were covered in dust when I brought them out of the attic. I stop manically unpacking stuff and look at them. I was half tempted just to throw them out before I left, but I’m glad now I didn’t. They are pictures I did back in college, when I first met my best friend Beth. We both met our partners while at college. She hooked up with another art student, Theo, and I got together with Ed. She moved to Cornwall to be a full-time painter when we left; I moved into a run-down flat in London, agreed to pay half a huge mortgage and had to start doing design work to meet my bills before I eventually moved on to the greeting cards.
Beth and I are still in touch, but less and less often these days. I’m not even sure she knows I’ve moved. I look from the canvases through the dining room doors. It really would be amazing to paint this place, I surprise myself by thinking. It’s been ages since I’ve actually painted anything for fun. Maybe I will again. But first I have jobs to do. I must get in touch with Brandon, my boss. He’s the one I design the cards for. He’ll be wondering if I’ve disappeared from the human race . . . and frankly, it feels a bit like that.
It’s Monday, market day. I’ll go into town, pick up some groceries, a kettle now that I have electricity, some WD40 and maybe some goat food. It’s probably not high on the Bellanuovos’ list of priorities at the moment, and it might actually build a few bridges if I take care of the goat for a few days, just until the dust settles. Wonder what its name is?
But first I need to find an internet café. That way I can start organising internet for the house and start working again. I can at least pretend this is home.
There are sheep all across the road and I have to slow and stop. A young man with very dark olive skin is herding them from one side of the road to the other whilst looking down at his mobile phone, and I wonder if he’s got reception. He looks up at me, and I realise it’s the young man I saw last night at the Bellanuovos’, outside on the patio. He looks at me as if hopeful I might be someone he knows, but when he realises I’m not, he goes back to looking at his phone, slowly guiding the sheep across the road. He’s in no hurry.
I, on the other hand, am desperate to get news from home. Some small crumbs from Morag or Elinor, who is a whizz on Facebook, or a message from Beth might help the gnawing homesickness in the pit of my stomach. Even one of my mum’s texts asking if I’ve come to my senses would do. But not one from Ed. I really don’t want to find any more emails from Ed asking about my plans. I don’t have any plans! Well, no bigger than getting the internet sorted and buying a kettle, anyway.
I watch as the last of the sheep trots off the road into pastures new. They have long tails and bigger ears than the sheep back home. Not that I’m used to seeing sheep in Tooting. And then I get to wondering when I would have last seen a sheep up close and personal.
The sun is hot and bright and I make a mental note to buy sunglasses at the market. I pull down the visor. The young man with the sheep looks up from his phone as I start to move again. I wave in thanks. He frowns and peers in at my window as if he should know me. I raise a hand again and then put my foot down and shoot off.
I manage to get to the end of the lane with no other real problems. It’s a couple of miles of slim road and thankfully I don’t meet any cars coming the other way. And when I get to the crossroads, I understand why. Everyone’s already here. There are cars parked up on the verges and in any spare bit of kerb space. There are three-wheeled Ape vans, Vespa-type scooters and Fiats everywhere. In front of me is a playground, with pine trees throwing shade down on the children playing on the swings, being pushed by their mums. Old men are sitting under the trees playing cards. There are also men playing bocce, which is like the boules we used to play on the beach in Cornwall when I visited Beth and Theo.
Beyond the bocce and the playground is the market. There are sun-faded red-and-white-covered stalls and women with baskets moving in between them. Many are dressed in black, and I wonder if they will be going to the funeral. Piles of green offcuts litter the ground around the stalls and crates of vegetables. There are drop-sided stalls selling cheese and salami and flowers. The baker’s shop, Forno Sophia, has blackout blinds across the window: closed for the day by the looks of it. There are cars crossing every which way. In front of me, the road starts to climb the hill towards the old town. There are blocks of flats either side of this square, a new addition to the town. Across from the playground is the school, a single-storey grey building with just a few tissue-paper butterflies in the windows.
I edge out, not knowing which road to take to find a parking space.
Parp! Parp! I jump as a car pulls out in front of me when I was sure it was my right of way. My heart starts beating faster and I know I can’t wimp out. I have to do this. I follow another car and hope they know where they’re going. The roads all look the same and the junctions just tie me up in knots. The only way I know where I am is because I’ve now driven past the ironmonger’s three times. I decide that, like a maze, if I keep turning left I’ll eventually get there . . . or is it right? I know I’ve passed this little square with the clock tower and the cantina, where you buy wine, three times. I turn left down a street with square flat-roofed buildings and past a bar with a green and white floral awning and signs for ice cream. For an area with beautiful buildings like the trulli and the church I can see at the top of the town, it’s surprising that these houses are so depressing. Not that different from
any other town really.
I want to just park up and then walk around the market and up to the plaza and the church. It seems to be straight up the hill from here. I’m stuck at lights. All the other cars are taking a short cut through the car park to avoid them. I decide to go Italian and do the same. But heaven knows which way I’m supposed to go now. I stick with the keep-turning-left theory and narrowly miss another car coming from my right, but they don’t seem to notice. Then I see it, a parking space. I turn left again.
‘Shit!’
I think I’ve just gone down a one-way street. I turn to look and see if I can reverse. But the traffic has stopped. I’ll have to keep going. I put my foot down, but suddenly I’m faced with what looks to be a brass band playing soulful jazz music, like something from New Orleans. They’re coming straight towards me. I look round to reverse again.
Parp! A car pulls out of the parking space in front of me and is coming towards me. I try to move to one side to let it pass, but there isn’t enough room, not with that parking barrier there.
Parp! The driver waves his arms at me and is clearly using some really colourful language. The band are getting closer and I can hear the brass and the bass reverberating through the footwell of my car.
I try to reverse again, and two women, arm in arm, step out behind me. I slam on the brakes and they too gesticulate at me, shaking their heads. I wipe away the wetness on my top lip. My heart’s now banging to the beat of the jazz. Why on earth would a band be coming through town on a busy day like today? That’s when they come fully into view, all of them in dark suits and glasses . . . followed by a big silver Mercedes. It’s the funeral procession, the Bellanuovos’ funeral procession, and I’m blocking the road!
The band is now in front of me. They stop, as do the cars behind them. The band keeps playing and I can hardly hear myself think. In fact I may just get out of the car and walk away. Someone climbs out of one of the funeral cars and is walking towards me. It’s Marco. He’s come to see what the holdup is. There is absolutely no way I’m going to let him see me. There is only one thing for it. Now I have to finally drive like an Italian. I shove the gearstick into first, spin the steering wheel, mount the kerb and skim past the other car. I hear the scratch of metal down the side of my car from the parking barrier. The other driver screeches off with more gesticulating hands and the band moves past.
As soon as they’ve gone, I drive on, without the same fear as before, because it really couldn’t get any worse than that. I abandon my car outside the ironmonger’s, right in front of a group of old men gathered on the pavement, in flat caps and rain jackets despite the heat. They’re all looking at me and talking in a low, fast way. Their language might be different, but there’s no denying the universal signs. They’re talking about me, nodding towards me and shaking their heads, having obviously spotted the English number plate. One of them throws his brown cigarette butt to the ground and stands on it, then the three of them head off in the direction of the church, giving me a stiff nod as they pass.
I turn and look up at the church. The bells are ringing and I think I’ll do my shopping first before walking that way. I’m sure I’m the last person the Bellanuovos want to see right now.
I walk up the steps of the ironmonger’s. Ferramenta is written in seventies-style red lettering over the heavy glass doors. There are big silver vats outside, hosepipes like sleeping snakes, watering cans, rolls of table coverings, and rakes with funny-looking heads. Inside, it’s an Aladdin’s cave. It’s surprisingly cool, too. That may have something to do with the pile of free-standing fans for sale, with one or two blowing out cool air on to the customers. There is a man in overalls standing at the counter, and a shorter, fatter man behind it, dressed in a checked shirt that barely fits over his bulging belly.
The man in overalls holds up a hand in a wave and smiles. He’s about my age, with bleached blond hair. He’s also incredibly good-looking, in a laid-back surfer kind of way. To say he looks out of place compared to the other men standing outside is an understatement. His overalls are tied low around his waist by the sleeves, and his tanned forearms and hands are covered in dark grease or oil streaks.
‘Buongiorno,’ says bulging belly man behind the counter.
‘Buongiorno,’ I reply, slightly nervously. I nod to the man in overalls, too. He beams and nods back. I start to look around. The shop is full to bursting. There is an aisle for every kitchen accessory you could want: sausage-making machines, pasta machines, corking machines, scales, griddles for the open fire, chestnut pans. There’s a pet aisle and one for post boxes. There are tools, drills and work benches and then another section that I have no idea about, with more of the funny-shaped rakes and cones. I can’t imagine what they’re used for.
‘Cosa stai cercando? What are you looking for?’ the man behind the counter asks. I’m obviously not hiding my Englishness very well, despite trying to drive like a local.
‘Um, WD40? Spray, tsh, tsh,’ I mime and feel ridiculous as soon as I’ve done it. Nearly a year of Italian and I come up with ‘tsh, tsh’, I think crossly. The other man laughs and the shopkeeper shrugs. ‘For shutters. The bolts are stiff.’ I keep burbling while he crouches down looking through his shelves of stock.
‘For where? Which house? You’re on holiday, si?’ he asks from behind the shelves.
I swallow. Here goes. This is where I have to start telling people.
‘Masseria Bellanuovo. And no, not holiday. I’ve bought it. Ho comprato.’
The shopkeeper stands up slowly from behind the shelves and the man in overalls suddenly drops his lazy smile and his eyebrows shoot up.
‘Ah, you’re the one they’re all talking about.’
I nod and try to smile.
‘Si, si . . . I’m the one.’ I roll my eyes and try to pretend I don’t care.
‘So you’re going to rent out the masseria?’
‘No,’ I say slowly. Why does everyone think I’m going to do it up and rent it out? Because that’s what normal people would do! I hear my mum’s voice saying. She’s already suggested it. ‘I’m not renting out Masseria Bellanuovo.’ I take a deep breath and wait for the laughter. ‘I’m going to live in it.’
The two men look at each other and raise their eyebrows even higher.
‘With your family?’ asks the big-bellied bloke.
‘On my own,’ I say firmly and turn to look at the shelves of gloves and boots. I decide to treat myself to a pair of really thick gloves to tackle my thorny problems back at the masseria – well, the brambles anyway.
‘I’m Ryan,’ says the man in overalls as he holds out a hand, smiling warmly. This time it’s the turn of my eyebrows to shoot up.
‘Australian?’ I sound surprised and quietly delighted at the same time. Someone who understands me!
‘That’s right. And no, I’m not on holiday either. I work here.’ He smiles again, and it’s a very welcoming smile. I feel an unexpected rush of relief that I’m here talking to someone who might just know how I’m feeling. I’m ridiculously pleased to meet him. I smile back at him and he looks down at his overalls.
‘Sorry about the mess. Tractor broke down.’ We shake hands lightly and I get a little tingle of pleasure as we touch hands. ‘I heard you’d moved in. Well, I heard someone had moved in. They didn’t say it was a good-looking girl.’ I find myself blushing at his bold comments. Anywhere else, in another time and another place, I’d’ve told him to sod off. But right now, he’s made my day.
‘Looks like word’s got around. Oh, not about the good-looking girl.’ I blush again, ridiculously. ‘I mean about me moving in.’
‘News travels fast around here. That and the cars. Apart from that, for a country that is so keen to get everywhere quickly, everything else moves very slow.’
I can’t help but laugh at his dreadful generalisations, but it feels li
ke some sort of release. In fact, it feels really good and I keep smiling.
‘Look, if you need any help, give me a call.’ He hands me his card. ‘I can call in sometime if you like. I can turn my hand to most things. I do mostly olives, but I’m a pretty good builder too. It’s a nice place, eh? A lot of work for one person, though. Maybe I could show you around, take you for dinner one night.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. I mean the help, not the dinner.’ I laugh, embarrassed this time, and take the card.
‘Well, the offer’s there,’ he says cheekily and then turns to say something to the shopkeeper. A word I don’t know.
‘Ah,’ says the keeper and disappears under the counter again.
Turning to go, Ryan slaps the counter in a friendly way and says, ‘Ciao,’ then raises a hand to me and heads for the door.
‘Ciao,’ calls the shopkeeper, appearing from under the counter with a can of spray that looks just like WD40, and a wide, toothless smile.
‘Ciao,’ I say. Ryan turns back at the door, and smiles a wicked smile, then winks, which makes me laugh again. I feel better than I have for days, and I turn the card over in my hand, wondering if dinner with someone warm and friendly who speaks the same language as me would really be such a bad idea. In fact, it sounds like a very nice idea indeed.
The market is just how I expected it to be. Busy with chatter, bustling with sales and people taking the time to stop and talk to their neighbours and friends in small groups. I walk through the stall-lined streets. There’s a queue of customers outside what looks to be just another shop doorway, and it turns out to be a flour mill. On the streets there are tables of cheap gold jewellery; brightly coloured scarves next door to a stall of dark nylon trousers. The flower and plant stalls make me want to take up gardening, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I watch a woman picking up plants, inspecting them and settling on the one she thinks is best. The smell is wonderful, and there are even lemon trees with lemons like big gold cricket balls dripping from their branches. There are settees and second-hand furniture, which I should definitely come back for, and of course there are the food stalls.
