by Jo Thomas
‘Of course, take your call. I’ll be fine,’ I say breezily.
‘Um . . . Giac,’ I say, ‘posso?’ I hope he’ll understand I’m asking to look at his painting. He tears his gaze from his mum, who is walking across the yard, one hand to her ear, the phone pushed against the other side of her head.
‘Sì, certamente,’ he says clearly, and sits back for me to see his painting.
‘Bueno,’ I say, not embarrassed to try out my Italian on him, and he smiles. I point to the trees he’s painting opposite and tell him to put in more . . . more detail, I’m trying to say, and use my hands rolling over each other to explain.
‘Di piu?’ he replies.
‘Si!’ I answer, clapping my hands with delight.
Surprisingly nearly half an hour goes by and I’m loving being in amongst the children and their art. When the lunch bell sounds, the children start to pack up and then stop and look at me.
‘Si, si!’ I reply, and then ‘Grazie, mille grazie.’ They thank me politely and pick up their drawing boards. Lou is walking towards me switching off her phone and looking a little happier.
She touches the heads of the last few children as they push their chairs straight and go inside.
‘Time for some lunch?’ she asks.
‘Why not?’ I say, feeling really lifted.
‘’Fraid I’m on lunch duty, but the food’s good.’
She’s right. We have verdure grigliate to start – griddled vegetables, in olive oil. Red and yellow peppers, courgettes, and aubergine with deep charred lines across its white flesh, plated up in a soft mound, ready for the children to help themselves. There’s garlic in there as well, and fresh dill. It glistens with the olive oil and vinegar it’s been marinated in. Then from deep metal trays we have baked orecchiette pasta in tomato sauce layered with stringy, melting mozzarella cheese and topped with grated parmesan. To finish there’s fresh fruit – bowls of orange slices and strawberries – and a small slice of simple lemon sponge cake. I watch the children enjoying their food and chatting, topping each other’s glasses up from the jugs of water on the table. ‘This is amazing,’ I tell Lou.
She nods and smiles, looking a little brighter.
‘All the pasta is organic and the olive oil has to be extra virgin in schools. It’s a rule.’
‘Really?’ I can’t believe it. ‘It’s a long way from the white-bread sandwich and packet of crisps I used to take to school,’ and we both laugh.
‘So, what’s under the shirt? Is it Nonna’s picture?’ she asks, wiping her hands.
‘Yes, I went round to give it to Marco but he was out, with Rosa. I suspect Anna-Maria thinks I have designs on her son.’
‘Oh heaven forbid . . . You wouldn’t want to stand in the way of Anna-Maria and her future daughter-in-law!’ She laughs and I feel a strange shiver, as if someone’s walked over my grave.
‘Can I?’ She nods to the painting.
‘Of course,’ and I hand it to her, shirt and all. She unwraps the painting and holds it up. I wait with trepidation.
‘It’s brilliant!’ she says. ‘Wow! The masseria looks amazing! She’ll love it.’ She’s still staring at it.
‘Look, children,’ and before I can stop her, she turns it to show the children, who all nod and clap and point and exclaim.
‘I’ve just had a thought.’ Lou suddenly puts her hand on my arm, as if she’s discovered the meaning of life.
‘What?’ I laugh.
‘You could do a painting here.’ She throws out a hand to the big hall.
‘Well, I could, yes,’
‘Not just a painting . . . a mural, on the wall outside. A painting of the masseria, or the town, or the olive trees, whatever you fancied. You could do it while the children have art. It would be like a painting and history lesson combined for these kids. Before long there’ll be none of the Bellanuovo estate left. Families split up, go to live in towns where the work is. This town was built around that estate. It was the oldest and the best for miles.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I suddenly feel very daunted by such a big task.
‘Look, there’s a festa in the town at the end of October, just before the olive harvest. We could unveil it then.’
‘Around Nonna’s birthday, I think.’ I remember Marco saying.
‘Then she’ll love it, and she’ll have this as a keepsake. You did like being here this morning, didn’t you? Please say you’ll do it. It would be so good for the children to have a real artist working here. And so good for them to remember the town’s recent history. A legacy if you like. This town was built on olive oil; it would be a shame if the children were to forget.’
‘I did love this morning.’ I smile tentatively. ‘But it’s been so long since I’ve done any real painting, and I really don’t think I could do people or faces.’
‘Then you’ll do it!’ Lou claps her hands together.
Have I just agreed to something else I’m not going to be able to pull off? Let’s hope I can come up with something that will make everybody happy. Just something simple, symbolic. A large olive tree, for example. But even that makes me nervous. Get this wrong and my mistake will be on show for all to see for a very long time.
‘What if it’s terrible?’ I worry.
‘Then we’ll paint over it with large buckets of white paint,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll check with the head teacher, but I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’
I walk back to the masseria up the familiar long lane and nod to Luigi and his wife as I did on the way there. Once again they stand and stare at the mad inglese.
I decide to have one more attempt at dropping off the picture to Marco and march purposefully up the shiny steps to Anna-Maria’s house. This time there’s no shouting. And the dogs are less enthusiastic than before. As I wait, I glance over to the masseria and notice that the sheep have gone.
Anna-Maria opens the door. The disappointment on her face is obvious and her smile falls.
‘Ciao,’ I say with an effort. ‘Is Marco here, per favore?’
‘Non,’ she says shortly and shakes her head. His car’s there and she notices me looking at it. I get the distinct impression Anna-Maria is deliberately making this hard for me. ‘He’s out.’
I nod. I’m not going to argue and I won’t leave the painting. As I turn, I come face to face with Marco, who is walking up the steps towards me, smiling.
‘Buongiorno,’ he nods.
‘I’ve come to pay what I owe you.’ I look at him meaningfully, feeling Anna-Maria and Nonna’s eyes on my back. Nonna points, asking Anna-Maria what I’m carrying. Anna-Maria shrugs and peers and I know that any moment she’s going to ask me what it is.
‘Perhaps we could walk to the trullo,’ says Marco, standing back and gesturing.
I don’t really want to have a conversation with him, but I can’t give him the picture in front of the two women so I do as he suggests.
At the trullo I can see it has really come on. I have no idea how he’s done this and worked on my trullo at the same time.
‘Thank you for bringing the picture. I wasn’t sure if I was still entitled to it after . . . well, the sheep.’
‘It’s what we agreed,’ I say tightly, unable to stop myself taking in the beautiful room and archways again.
‘Thank you. And I can assure you, I too am as good as my word. The land will be yours if you make it to the olive harvest.’
I nod. ‘Well, I have it all planned.’ I let out a big breath, as if convincing myself.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s good. What plans?’
‘Plans for the oil. Customers, y’know,’ I say more confidently than I feel. ‘In fact, I’ve just been confirming a new client.’ I wave my laptop and wish I could stop talking. It’s nerves making me witter on. I’
m certainly not going to let Marco in on my worries about the lack of interest in rent-a-tree.
‘Good,’ he says again, and it’s like we’re doing a dance, each of us trying to avoid saying anything that might give away our plans to the other. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ he offers, pointing at a small whirring fridge.
‘No thank you. I’d better let you get on. I don’t want your mother to think I’m keeping you from Rosa.’ I blurt it out without even thinking and wish I hadn’t. What is it with my runaway mouth? I blush. ‘I mean, not that I’m . . . I’m not . . .’
‘Rosa? No, I’ve seen Rosa already today. I have been to provisionally book my olives into the press. The later the better. Right now I have to spend some time with my book.’
‘The one you’re writing?’ I notice a small table and chair at a window set deep into the wall overlooking the masseria. ‘What’s it about? The book?’
He smiles. ‘What else? Olives.’
I can’t help but smile too.
‘Just like you teach at the college?’
‘Yes, tasting, growing, the history.’
‘And now you’re writing a book about it? How you grow the olives here?’
He shakes his head. ‘Sadly I haven’t spent as much time with my olive trees as I should’ve done. But I have some time now and being back here has made me want to get my hands dirty again.’
‘I bet Rosa’s pleased to have you back.’ There I go again. Why am I so interested in this man’s love life? Just leave the picture and go! I tell myself.
‘Rosa and I were at school together. We go a long way back. She has a very good nose.’
I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts, but I look a bit confused.
‘For oil tasting,’ he finishes, and I get the impression he’s teasing me.
‘Here, your painting.’ I hold it out to him, paint-splattered shirt and all. ‘I hope your nonna likes it.’
‘Grazie,’ he says and takes off the shirt. ‘I saw you at the school today,’ he adds as he turns the painting towards him.
‘Yes, I’m going to be helping out there with the children’s art lessons.’ I’m keen to show him I’m making my own friends and life in the area.
‘Bene, bene,’ he smiles. ‘So look, about the harvest, the olives. If you need any help . . .’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say quickly.
‘The painting is fabulous, thank you,’ he says. ‘I still have a bit to finish up on the trullo roof. I’ll get it done, though,’ he insists.
‘No rush,’ I say, backing out of the door, desperate to get back to the masseria before I ask any more stupid questions about him and Rosa, like when the wedding is, or how many children they’re hoping to have.
‘Who did you say you had helping you out, Ruthie?’
‘A friend. It’s all sorted.’
‘You need to make sure they understand what they’re doing . . .’
‘Yup, got it,’ I say. I am fine. I do have help and that’s all he needs to know. I’ll show him I can do this. I just wish I felt as confident as I sound.
Marco is still looking at the picture and smiling, clearly delighted with it. He puts it on the table by his laptop, then steps back and stares.
‘Thank you, Ruthie,’ he says and it looks as if things are finally going to be a bit more civilised between us.
‘Thank you for moving the sheep,’ I return.
‘Ah, no problem. They are grazing on my brother’s land on the other side of the masseria now.’
I turn to go and notice a van pulling up at the masseria.
‘You have a guest.’ Marco juts his chin.
‘Oh, he’s not a guest,’ I say as Ryan gets out of the van and shakes his curly hair. ‘He’s my olive contractor.’ As I look back at Marco, I notice that his face has turned to thunder.
‘Ciao! I mean, hey! Sorry, force of habit,’ Ryan calls as I walk up the drive. Daphne immediately leaves her grazing and gallops over to him, sniffing him and snorting.
‘Heeey!’ he says, trying to dodge her enquiring nose, prodding this way and that. He holds two bottles of yellow liquid in the air out of her way and snakes his hips this way and that. He’s wearing a washed-out T-shirt and combat shorts. His blond curls shake as he does his goat-swerving dance.
‘Just tickle her between the ears,’ I call, trying to hide the laugh that’s bubbling in my throat. Ryan tentatively scratches Daphne between the ears. She stops prodding him and raises her nose with pleasure.
‘Urgh!’ Ryan sidesteps Daphne and makes a run for it to the front door. ‘Hey,’ he says again, composing himself and kissing me on each cheek. His shaggy curls bounce around his face. I think it’s his hair that makes him attractive. It seems to match his personality, bubbly and happy. But despite being pleased to see him, I’m feeling a bit on the back foot, and I’m not sure if it’s Ryan’s friendly greeting that’s made me flustered or the fact that Marco seemed so cross about him helping me out. Well, if I’m going to win this bet, I’m going to need help. I’m not foolish enough to think I know anything about olive trees. Tiling and power tools are one thing; the great outdoors is a mystery to me, so Marco will just have to put up with it, because it really isn’t any of his business who I ask to help with my olives.
‘Come in,’ I gesture and Ryan follows me quickly inside as Daphne approaches.
‘Shut the d—’ I start, but he already has. It’s dark inside and cool. The doors are open at the back of the dining room. ‘Go through, I’ll bring us some coffee.’
‘Ah, not for me, thanks. I’m good with water. Here . . .’ he holds out the two bottles of yellow olive oil to me. ‘From Bellanouvo olives,’ he says.
‘Thank you. That’s really kind,’ I smile as I take the bottles and put them down in the kitchen.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks around. He’s avoiding Daphne and it makes me smile again.
‘I’m glad you agreed to this. I mean, after I didn’t use you to do the trullo roof. Thanks for coming over. I’m really grateful,’ I say, passing him a glass of water.
‘Really?’ His eyes brighten and a cheeky smile spreads across his face.
‘I mean, I’m grateful you could help with the olives.’ This time I laugh. He’s funny and it feels really good to laugh.
‘Right, let’s go and look at the trees,’ I say, sipping my own water. I step outside. The sun is bright, but I pull a light cardigan around me. There’s a feeling in the air, like everything is about to change.
‘Down here.’ We walk across the brushed concrete and past the overgrown vegetable plot. ‘My job for later.’ I point at the pile of weeds and choking brambles.
He guffaws. ‘Look like that’s your job for the next month!’
My heart dips. I was really fired up about getting stuck in, but he’s right, it’s going to be a massive job.
‘I don’t quite know where to start,’ I say, half to myself.
‘’Fraid it’s not my area of expertise. I’m just an olive man. And I live in the town. If I want good food, I go to a restaurant. All this self-sufficiency stuff isn’t for me!’ He shakes his blond curls again; blond curls that are much more mousy at the roots than their very yellowy tips would suggest.
‘Yes,’ I sigh with a hint of regret, ‘I used to live in the town.’
‘Really? What, round here? Martina Franca? Ceglie?’
‘No. London,’ I say flatly, still staring at the overgrown plot that’s supposed to provide me with delicious, nutritious food now my income is down to zilch.
‘Now that is a town!’ Ryan nods, impressed. ‘Love London. Lived there for a while. Might start looking at doing some business over there,’ he adds. I feel a sudden, completely unexpected pang of homesickness, and tears prick my eyes.
‘Really?’ I pull my sunglasses down from my head.
‘Yeah. I have contacts in America, which is where I do most of my business, but I’m thinking London would be great to tap into.’
I suddenly have an image of Ryan and me meeting up in London, going for a drink in town, a walk in Hyde Park. The twist of homesickness in my stomach tightens even more. I try and distract myself and walk briskly towards the first of the trees, high-stepping over the long grass.
‘What do you . . .’ I’m about to ask him what business he would be doing in London when I see Luigi jump down from Marco’s side of the wall, remarkably sprightly for someone so rotund, and walk right across the back of the house.
‘Buongiorno.’ He raises a hand and nods as he passes behind us, making his way towards the sheep in the field on the other side of my wall. He’s wearing green working trousers, a shirt, a green jumper with elbow patches and a flat cap.
‘Buongiorno,’ Ryan replies loudly and waves a hand back. I, on the other hand, just stand with my mouth waggling up and down as he passes the back of my barn and courtyard, then puts a hand on the far wall and nimbly jumps over it.
Ryan turns back and starts inspecting the trees. I’m still staring at Luigi as he makes his way across the field. The sheep have begun to make their way over to him, baaing loudly.
‘Did you see that?’ I finally manage to say, outraged.
‘See what?’ Ryan asks, turning back to me.
‘That! Luigi! He just walked straight across my land, without a by-your-leave! He can’t do that!’
Ryan laughs and puts his hands on his hips. ‘Yes he can.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Italy’s right to roam. You can walk almost anywhere, if there are no fences or walls.’ He shrugs. ‘He can walk pretty much all over here,’ he adds, looking at the tumbledown walls.
‘You . . . you . . . mean . . . Just say for example I didn’t own my driveway, I’d still be able to use it?’
