The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  Ed and I came to Puglia not long before we finally agreed to split up. Just after his dog, Dudley the pug, died. I loved the markets then. Ed didn’t. I think it was then we started to realise we were totally incompatible in the long term. Without Dudley (named after Dudley Moore in Arthur, Ed’s favourite film) to walk and fuss over, we had nothing in common any more. I had hoped the Italian trip would bring us closer together, but it just left us wanting different things and even further apart.

  I wanted to smell, touch and buy everything in sight. Ed couldn’t see the point when we could just eat at the hotel. We ended up going to Torre Canne for the rest of the day, and lay on sunbeds miles apart, in our own little Kindle worlds, both wishing we were somewhere else. So today, I’m determined to shop local. If this is my new home, I need to start trying to fit in.

  The sun is now really hot, and I quickly buy some large gold-trimmed sunglasses and don’t feel in the least bit daft. Everyone is wearing them. I’m determined to prove to Ed that he’s wrong. This wasn’t just a moment of madness. This is what I dreamed life would be like, and I throw myself into the food stalls. Red, orange, green and white, the colours are fantastic. The perfume from the fennel fills the air. The oranges are like footballs and the tomatoes like little pumpkins.

  I stop at one vegetable stall and the dark-skinned stallholder in flat cap and holey jumper opens up a bag. I look at the other woman picking up the vegetables, smelling them and squeezing them. I’m determined to be just like them. But what I notice is that more and more of the buyers are staring at me. I don’t want to be the outsider; I want to fit in, and I start to try in my best Italian to ask about the food I’m buying. There’s a certain amount of miscommunication, I think is the best way to describe it. In my efforts to fit in, I just nod and point a lot. The other women talk amongst themselves and I can hear their shared humour.

  I end up with kilos of tomatoes, onions, cauliflower and green beans, fennel, broccoli and chillies, a huge lump of cheese, which cost me an arm and a leg, and enough focaccia to feed a family of ten. I can’t work out if it was my Italian or my gullible face, but I strongly suspect it was the latter. I’ve handed over huge amounts of money and am now being stared at even more as I struggle away from the food stalls, blue carrier bags bashing at my calves. I feel like I’m doing the walk of shame back through the market: the Englishwoman who had no idea what she was buying.

  I head for the shade of the older streets up the hill, away from the groups of gossiping stallholders and their customers. The coolness is welcome, and it’s quieter here too. To the left and right are narrow cobbled streets with washing hanging from windows and square street lights strung across from building to building. Steep steps lead up to archways over front doors and there are red geraniums in window boxes. As I reach the top, it opens on to a square and a church with huge stone steps leading up to it. The view from here is amazing. You can see right across the valley and the neighbouring small hilltop towns, forming a blanket of green olive trees with trulli scattered across it like little clusters of white mushrooms.

  The church bells start to ring out and suddenly the big wooden double doors at the top of the stone steps swing open. I stand and watch from a distance, intrigued, as the priest, in purple robes trimmed with gold, steps out, followed by two altar boys also in robes, heads dipped. Not being a churchgoer, I’m fascinated by the pomp and ceremony of it all.

  I’m suddenly taken aback to see Marco Bellanuovo stepping out behind them, his grandmother on his arm, small, bent and visibly weeping. Of course, the funeral, I’d almost forgotten. And now the very last person I want to see is there, in his black suit, pulling down his sunglasses. I can’t let him see me. I step back into the shadows but don’t move away just yet. I’ll watch from a distance for a minute.

  Marco stands to one side of the doorway. He’s joined by his mother and other members of his family that I met last night. From the shadows, I’m fascinated as another woman, about the same age as Anna-Maria, steps out and purposefully stands on the other side of the doorway. Anna-Maria lifts her chin and turns her head away from the woman, who mirrors the action. Hands clasped in front of their bodies, holding clutch bags, they look like bookends, both ignoring the other’s presence.

  The other woman is joined and surrounded by what looks to be her family. They group together around her as Marco’s family groups around Anna-Maria, shuffling and standing shoulder to shoulder, chins lifted on both sides. Neither of the two women looks at each other. Their faces are set. The two families talk low and conspiratorially amongst themselves, but neither side speaks to the other across the dividing line that is the coffin as it’s brought out. I’m wondering if this is the Aunt Sophia of Forno Sophia that Filippo told me about.

  As the coffin passes by, the two women slowly turn to look at each other and then simultaneously lift their chins and flick their heads away again. Despite the heat of the day, the frostiness is almost palpable as they dismiss each other with disdain. The coffin is carried to the waiting hearse at the foot of the steps and loaded in. Then, snappily, the two women motion to their supporters, who fall into line, throwing looks over their shoulders and down their noses at the family on the other side of the steps. The formalities here done with, the two groups move away from each other as quickly as possible, making for their cars in opposite directions. I’m wondering if they’re now going to the mausoleum – the huge stone burial building on the way into town.

  Marco is still supporting Nonna. She holds his arm with one hand; the other clutches a big white hankie as they take the steps slowly, and I can’t help but feel guilty that I have added to this old lady’s grief. It’s time to go before I’m seen, and I turn and slip away, back towards the market, where hopefully the audience I entertained earlier with my vegetable-buying will have dispersed.

  I walk back in the direction of my car. I’m feeling hot. And I still have to go to the supermarket on the way back to the masseria to pick up all the essentials I didn’t get at the market. But as I’m heading back through the square blocks of flats, I spot the café, the one with the butterfly awning. There are people outside, on their laptops, drinking coffee. It’s busy here. They have Wi-Fi! Suddenly I’m desperate for any contact with home.

  The smell of coffee is just wonderful, drawing me closer. My whole body suddenly craves caffeine. I guide my bags in, knocking some of the chairs, drawing attention to myself, although I could be starting to get a bit paranoid. I head straight for the covered terrace outside. Beyond the awning, large square parasols create a huge area of shade. A man gets up and leaves. I don’t hesitate, and sit down at the table he’s vacated. It’s a table for four, but I really need a coffee now.

  I put some of my shopping next to me and some on the floor, letting go of the handles and having to herd the bags up again as they fall this way and that like startled cats.

  Eventually they’re still. I rub my hands together where the bags have left their marks and pull my laptop from my satchel. Just as I do, a waitress comes and stands next to me with a small round tray and a cloth. I order a coffee and a glass of water, and a panini. I look at the other tables: a mix of Italian families out shopping and tourists in shorts and brightly coloured T-shirts, baseball caps and sun block. I live here! I think, as the tourists ooh and aah at the green valley of olive trees beyond the blocks of flats. This is how it was meant to work out.

  I smile as I open up my laptop. It feels like I’m welcoming back an old friend as it flicks into life. It feels like I can touch home.

  The first message to greet me is from eBay: How would you rate your recent transaction? I dismiss it with a quick click, not wanting to think about it.

  I go to my inbox, and my heart and spirits lift to see lots of new emails and Facebook messages from friends back home wanting to know how I’m doing. They’re mostly from Morag and Elinor, worrying that they haven’t heard anything. But the
re’s one from our Italian teacher, and one from ‘Jammy Jane’, as we used to call her, looking for a holiday invite. Maybe I’ll post some pictures of what I’m up to on Facebook later, so the rest of my evening class can see. Though I don’t know if I’d want absolutely everyone to see. When I think about it, a lot of my friends on Facebook are really Ed’s friends; apart from my evening class mates, and Beth, of course. But as Ed and I grew to be a couple, it was usually his friends that we spent time with. They became my friends too, sort of. And when we split, I guess he got custody of them.

  Morag and Elinor have been fantastic. They’ve been there for me all the way. Especially as the move happened so quickly. Only the two of them and my boss Brandon are aware of it so far. There are several messages from Brandon, and they seem to be getting more and more irate, wanting Christmas designs from me and demanding to know why I haven’t been in touch. I’ve started to type a reply when I spot a message from Beth. I feel terrible that I haven’t even told her about the move. I’ve been meaning to email her but somehow I never really believed it was happening myself, until now. I mean, she knows about me and Ed splitting up and the flat sale, but I just haven’t been in touch since the night everything changed. I haven’t told her what I’ve actually gone and done.

  I usually try and visit Beth and Theo twice a year, but what with me working all hours to still pay my half of the mortgage, even though we were selling, I just haven’t had time recently. Ed made it clear that we might be in a relationship but I still had to pay my half of everything, to the penny. Some months I ended up robbing Peter to pay Paul, with the help of a few credit cards. They were the first things I had to sort out when we finally completed on the flat.

  I can see there’s an email from Ed too, probably asking if I’ve come to my senses yet, and when will I be coming home. I open it quickly, saving my email from Beth to savour and enjoy afterwards. He says he’s been to see my mother and they both agree that I’ve acted rashly and the best thing for me to do is to rent the place out and come home! Grrrr! How dare he go talking to my mum about me? Then he asks for forwarding details in case in needs to contact me. Why would he need to contact me? We’re not together any more! I hit the button, closing his email with more force than necessary out of frustration. Ed needs to move on and stop contacting me. He’s with Annabel now. But I can’t tell him that now. I want to read my email from Beth. She was always saying I was living in Ed’s shadow and that I should strike out and do something on my own; well now I have and I can’t wait to tell her. I open her email.

  Hi hon, where are you? Been trying to phone but I just keep getting a strange ringtone. Are you at your mum’s? Been thinking about you. Something’s come up I think you might be interested in. In fact, I know you will be. There’s a new art gallery setting up down here. Theo’s been helping them source artists, etc., and they’re looking for a manager. Thought it could be right up your street, especially what with you looking for a fresh start right now. Money’s okayish but there’s a flat with the job and I reckon you’d be able to see the sea from your bedroom. Let me know if you’re interested. Who knows, coming down here might even start you painting again! The sea air does funny things to people. Wouldn’t it be fab! Love as always Beth (and Theo and Lulu the Labrador)

  Oh God! It sounds so perfect I could weep . . . and I nearly do. Why didn’t I just hang on? I put my head in my hands. My rising spirits plummet. I could’ve been living near friends, in a flat that I might actually have been able to afford furniture for, and back in the art world instead of trying to work out how to do up a house that I don’t even feel I belong in. A great dollop of self-pity falls on me from on high.

  ‘Scusi.’ I jump and look up. ‘C’e qualcuno seduto qui?’ says the smart-looking woman about my age, in wonderfully clear Italian that I understand every word of.

  ‘Per favore.’ I hold out a hand to show that the other seats aren’t taken and start gathering up my bags.

  ‘Ah, English?’ she says in a clear Welsh accent. I’m taken aback and try and think of something to say quickly so as not to appear rude.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, stuffing the tomatoes under my chair with my foot and grabbing the bag of cheese and trying to hide it on my lap.

  ‘Ah, tourist cheese!’ She points to it and I get the impression she’s laughing at me too. I feel affronted and frankly fed up of being made fun of.

  ‘Actually I live here,’ I say a bit too haughtily.

  ‘It was the same when I first arrived.’ She takes in the rest of my shopping. ‘Took a while for me to realise it wasn’t my bad Italian that was to blame.’

  She sits down and orders a coffee and a salad and pushes her sunglasses on top of her head.

  ‘Been here long?’ she asks, crossing long legs in white jeans.

  I sigh and relax a bit, pleased to have someone to talk to.

  ‘About forty-eight hours,’ I say, and then look at the cheese and laugh too.

  ‘Lou Antonelli.’ She puts out a hand. ‘From Porthcawl but now Puglia.’

  ‘Ruthie Collins, Tooting but now Puglia.’ We shake hands and smile at each other.

  ‘Did you meet someone out here then?’ Lou asks as her coffee arrives and she thanks the young waitress with a smile. ‘Do you want another?’

  I nod. ‘That would be great. But I’m not sure the waitress understands me.’

  Lou waves a dismissive hand and gestures to the girl. ‘Probably understands more than she lets on.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘S’okay, I’m in with the boss. It’s my husband’s café.’

  ‘Oh,’ is all I can think of saying.

  ‘We live here.’ Lou helps me out and points to the flats above. ‘What about you? You move here with family?’

  ‘Actually, I moved here on my own,’ I say, wondering if she’s going to think I’m as daft as everyone else seems to think.

  She picks up her coffee, sips and nods. ‘Cool,’ she says, putting down the cup. ‘Why not? If you’re going to move anywhere, might as well make it somewhere fab.’ She nods at the view beyond the town.

  ‘Exactly!’ I find myself smiling as the waitress puts the cup down in front of me and I quickly take a sip. A salad of tomatoes, mozzarella and basil with dark green olive oil drizzled over it arrives for Lou, with a basket of crusty bread. I have to be careful not to unload my worries on this woman. I don’t want her to think I’m some loner who’s latched on to her for being British too.

  ‘So, you met someone and moved out here?’ I ask, feeling that I can. She puts her fork into the tomatoes and takes a mouthful, nodding and smiling as she chews.

  ‘Holiday romance,’ she finally replies.

  ‘No? Really?’ I’m agog. ‘That’s really . . . brave,’ I say lamely. ‘And what? You moved over here?’

  ‘Well, we met in London. I was on a hen weekend. He was the barman in TGI Fridays. Then his father fell ill and he had to come and take over the business and I’d gone and got pregnant and I thought, why not? Where would I rather be? Sometimes in life you just have to take a chance.’

  It’s true, but it looks like I took the wrong chance. My chance is waiting for me in Cornwall!

  ‘You? Any kids?’ she asks. I hoped she wouldn’t, but people always do.

  I shake my head. ‘No, no kids.’ I try not to dwell on it. It’s probably the thing that makes me saddest about splitting from Ed, knowing I won’t have a family of my own. I add more brightly, ‘But I have a house to pour my time and money into now.’

  She laughs, and I do too, grateful for her understanding. I like this woman.

  ‘So, where are you living?’ She tucks into the mozzarella and breaks a slice of bread. ‘In town?’

  I take a big mouthful of my panini, wishing I’d been more adventurous and ordered the salad. When I’ve chewed and swallowed, I say, ‘Masseria Bellanuovo. It’s just on the road ou
t of town.’

  She nods, her eyes wide. ‘Yes, I know it. I work near there, at the school. Wow! That’s a lot to take on.’ She frowns. ‘And what with the family, too. I bet they’re none too happy.’

  My happy, brave bubble is burst and I put down the panini and wipe my hands.

  ‘You could say that,’ I say carefully. After all, I’m not really sure who this woman is, as much as I like her.

  ‘How did you come to live there?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Despite telling myself I’m not going to spill my guts, I find myself about to launch into the whole story.

  ‘Oh.’ She holds up a hand, looking at her watch. ‘Look, I have to go. Got to catch the post office before it shuts. A care package for my dad.’ She gestures to a bag with a brown paper parcel in it. ‘Olive oil and honey. He loves it. And I have to pick my son up from his grandparents.’ She stands. ‘Looks like we’ll have to do this another time, over a glass of rosato. What d’you say?’

  I nod. ‘I’d like that.’ I take a big breath, as if sucking back in the thoughts I was about to spill. She looks at her watch again.

  ‘How are you getting on with the language?’

  I hold up a hand and wave it this way and that and grimace. She laughs.

  ‘Ah, local dialect. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.’

  We both laugh. I wish I could be as sure as she is.

  ‘So, let’s meet up some time. Actually,’ she turns back and lowers her voice, ‘this is really cheeky, but I’d love to see inside the house some time, the masseria. People say it’s gorgeous, but no one’s been in there for years.’