by Jo Thomas
‘Can’t see why not.’ He shrugs again. ‘As long as there’s no fencing to keep you out.’ He turns back to study the trees more closely.
‘Bloody Marco!’ I say, and grind my teeth together. I’ve been trying not to use the drive in case I’m accused of trespassing, and now I find out I’m perfectly entitled to. Why couldn’t Marco have told me that?
‘Wassat?’ Ryan says, clearly thinking about something else.
‘Nothing.’ I shake off my frustration and smile. ‘Come on, let me show you the rest of the trees.’
Just at that moment, Daphne comes dashing up to join us.
‘Whoa!’ Ryan skips around me to stand on my other side, resting his hands on my shoulders.
‘She’s fine, honest.’ I rub her head and she falls into step beside me. ‘See?’ I turn and smile at Ryan, who, I notice, still has his arm around my shoulder. Am I imagining it, or does he leave his hand there just a little longer than necessary? I look at the hand as he slowly slides it away, and realise I quite enjoyed it being there. I already feel I can count him as someone who’s there for me if I need him, and that makes me feel a whole lot better. Lou was right, we would make a good pair. This is me moving on. I feel the little shimmy of excitement again.
‘They go down to the wall at the end there.’ I make an effort to return to the subject of the olive trees, and point to the crumbling wall in the distance.
‘I look after the land on the other side of that pile of stones. One of Marco’s cousins owns it. He lives away. Up north. Like the rest of the family.’
‘How come they don’t get one of the family to look after it? There’s lots of them here,’ I say, remembering the night before the funeral.
‘Well, from what I gather,’ Ryan lowers his voice, ‘Marco’s away and—’
‘Buongiorno.’ The voice behind us makes me jump. Ryan and I turn together to see Marco taking the same path as Luigi before him. He stops and raises a hand.
‘Buongiorno,’ Ryan replies again. I, on the other hand, find myself just scowling.
‘Everything okay?’ asks Marco.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I reply crisply, infuriated by his cheek. ‘Just sorting out my olives,’ I add, childishly emphasising the ‘my’.
‘Do you need any help?’ he offers, and I frown again.
‘No thank you,’ I say, politely but firmly. ‘Ryan is telling me everything I need to know.’
Marco raises a hand and walks slowly across my field towards Luigi. I turn my back, hoping that if I ignore him he’ll go away.
‘So, tell me what I need to do, Ryan.’ Marco’s family history will have to wait until another day.
‘Not much really. Looks like these olives are the only thing round here that’s been well cared for.’ He tucks his hands into his pockets, which drags at his shorts, revealing the elastic round the top of his boxers. He turns and looks back at the house. I follow his gaze and see Marco with Luigi looking in our direction, pointing to the trees. I stiffen, and I’m not sure if it’s because of Ryan’s comment about the house or Marco’s interest in my olives.
‘Do we need to rotovate this or anything?’ I wave a hand at the long grass.
‘No,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll bring some weedkiller.’
‘Is that okay to use?’ I say, surprised.
‘Yeah, no problem, as long as we hang an empty bottle from the tree to let people know we’ve put it down. You get some types who don’t want us using it, but it’s the way forward. These guys have to move with the times. You should see the olive groves in Australia. It’s a real up-and-coming market. Straight lines so you can just drive the tractor along and shake and strip the trees. None of this hand-picking, taking forever.’
‘Is that what you’ll do here?’
‘Yeah, I’ll bring in the tractor down there.’ He points to the side of the house. ‘Then we’ll grip the trees and shake the branches for all they’re worth, and bingo! We’ll be done in half the time it would take hand-pickers. We’ll get a slot at the press booked nice and early. Get it over and done with before it becomes too busy.’
‘Great.’ I smile. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Ryan looks around again.
‘Couldn’t live out here on my own,’ he says, giving a fake shiver, his hands still deep in his pockets and his combats now halfway down his hips.
‘Oh, I’m not on my own,’ I say, thinking about the stream of people who seem to know my business. ‘It never stops around here.’ Lou drops in on her lunch breaks, and then of course there’s Marco, who seems to pop up every few minutes, supposedly finishing the roof. And the electrician and Luigi and Anna-Maria and Nonna; not to mention Daphne and mamma cat and her tribe.
‘So you don’t think I need to do much at all?’ I say, bringing the conversation back to the olives and finding myself wondering if Marco has gone or if he’s still watching with his critical eye. Ryan shakes his head.
‘They were well pruned after last year’s harvest. That’s the hardest part, the pruning. Everyone’s got a different way of doing it. But mostly they work in three-year cycles. Cut back hard the first year and don’t get much oil, not as hard the second year, and then lightly prune the third year for a good crop. Lots of farms have their olives in three sections so you have a good crop every year.’
‘And mine?’
‘You look like you’re in for a good crop this year.’
‘And you’ll come in and organise the picking?’
‘Yeah, leave all that to me. I’ll harvest them and then bring back the oil to you. We’ll book the slot at the press for a few weeks’ time. We’ll try and get it done by the beginning of November at the latest.’
‘We’re going to book now? Will it be too early?’
‘Might as well. This town will talk of nothing else from now until the end of November, maybe even the beginning of December, but we’ll get yours out the way. Don’t worry. The oil will be fine, especially if you’re selling it abroad. Most of my clients don’t know the difference between good oil and . . . well, just oil. It all tastes the same to them. You can get harvested early and put your house back on the market.’
‘Great!’
‘And then we can talk about meeting up in London.’ He smiles widely and I feel myself smiling back.
We turn to walk back to the house and Ryan swaps sides to avoid Daphne again, brushing past me and bumping into me like a playful puppy, and I can’t help but laugh again, especially because I can feel Marco’s eyes on us.
‘Oh, here.’ I dash inside to the kitchen and come back to find Ryan in the dining room. ‘Thanks for the oil. Have some piccalilli,’ I say, handing him one of my jars. I still have mountains of the stuff.
‘Cool. What’s piccalilli?’ he asks, looking puzzled at the yellow and green mixture in the jar, holding it up to inspect it.
‘It’s an English thing,’ I say, and he looks impressed. He undoes the lid, sniffs it and grimaces.
‘Interesting . . .’ he says. He’s obviously trying to be kind.
By the time Ryan leaves by the front door, Marco is on the roof of my trullo, painting the topknot. Ryan disappears in a cloud of dust, stopping only to open and shut the gates and then driving off down the lane with a friendly toot.
‘So your friend Ryan is teaching you about olives,’ Marco says finally from his position up high.
‘Yes.’ I cross my arms. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘He’s taught you what you need to do?’
‘Yes,’ I say even more firmly.
‘So you know you must get the grass cut. Keeping the grass down is the most important thing at this time of year for the olive trees.’
‘Actually, he said he’d deal with that. Everything’s looking fine. I don’t have to do anything. He’s gone to book the slot at the press.’
‘What? Merda! You must keep the grass down. It’s important! How else will you lay the nets when the harvest comes?’ He shakes his head and waves an angry paintbrush in the direction of the grove. ‘I presume he told you about the nets. Picking by hand is a skill. He’ll need to lay nets.’
‘Oh, he’s not picking by hand. He’s using a machine,’ I say. Marco goes a furious shade of deep red and I turn and go back into the house.
If I wanted to prove to Marco I can do things my own way, I think I just did. His irate expression flashes back into my mind and I decide to hide out in the veg patch. Those prickles have got to be easier to handle than Marco in this mood. Judging by the look on his face, I don’t think he’ll speak to me for days. Which is exactly what I wanted . . . isn’t it? So why then am I suddenly feeling like I’ve found a penny and lost a pound?
‘Good God! What have you done to your hands?’ Lou says as she swings into the seat opposite me, kissing me on both cheeks before she sits down. We’re meeting in Mia’s pizzeria. It’s market day, but it’s quiet. The sun is hiding behind the clouds. There are shoppers at the stalls, locals. But no one is buying brightly coloured scarves or sunglasses today. There are still plenty of bra stalls and tablecloths, but apart from that it’s mostly food. Up the road, outside Franco Pugliese’s bar, a group of short, fat, mahogany-skinned men in jumpers and flat caps – Luigi’s friends – are standing and talking. Luigi waved a greeting to me as I passed. I can’t understand a word he says, but I nodded and smiled. There are still men on the bocce pitch, and playing cards at the tables in the pine-covered playground.
I push my little laptop to one side. It’s the only place I can get Wi-Fi in the town now. If only Antonio’s bar had been able to stay open.
‘Ah, started to get to grips with the veg plot,’ I offer up by way of explanation, looking at the scratches. In fact I ache like mad and I’ve hardly made an impression on it. But needs must. If I can get through the bramble hedge that’s grown up round it, who knows what might be in there.
Lou looks tired and stressed.
‘How’s your Antonio? Found any work yet?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, nothing. He seems so depressed.’
‘You’re not thinking of moving away, are you, going back to the UK?’
She shrugs. ‘Maybe. I mean, Antonio could go and work with my dad, labouring. It’s just a little building firm, but Dad wants to start taking things easier, look towards retirement. And he’d get to see more of Giac if we were there.’
‘But you love it here.’
‘I know, but I love my dad too. He’s on his own. It’s hard. He’s hardly seen Giac. And like I say, he wants to start taking things a bit easier.’
In a way, I’m grateful my mum has Colin. I mean, I may not have relished sharing the flat with him, or like the way Mum runs round after him, making him tea and cooking and washing for him without a word of thanks. And I really didn’t like using the tiny bathroom after him in the mornings. But at least she’s not on her own. She’s happy. They have their own life and I’m not part of it. Now I need to work out where I belong. I get that wave of homesickness again. The only problem is, I have no idea where I’m homesick for.
Mia, the pizzeria owner, a beautiful-looking woman in her fifties, with long dark hair, big gold earrings and a figure-hugging polo shirt tucked into her jeans, comes over with olives, mozzarella balls and little tomatoes and tells us to take our time. We both thank her.
‘Any news about the rent-a-tree website?’ Lou asks when she’s gone.
‘Well I’ve set up the Facebook page. I took loads of photos and put them on there and explained how it works. I’ve pushed the idea that people can pay for a tree as a gift. The gift that keeps on giving. You rent it for a year, and come the harvest I send out the olive oil from that tree to the recipient.’ I put one of the tomatoes in my mouth and it cracks and explodes with flavour. Why does food never taste like this back home? I vow to make a conscious effort to buy better food when I get back, not always the value stuff. In fact, I may even put my name down for that allotment. When I know where I’m going to be.
‘And how many bottles will they get?’
‘I think three half-litre ones. Ryan says that should be about right.’
Lou raises her eyebrows and smiles knowingly. I say nothing, but blush.
‘And what’s the take-up been like?’
‘Nothing so far,’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’ve set it up, invited people to like the page, advertised on Gumtree, but so far, nothing. Apart from my friend Beth, of course.’
‘I could buy one!’ Lou suddenly says brightly.
‘Don’t be daft. You live here!’ I laugh.
‘I could buy it for my dad,’ she argues.
‘You can give him your own oil. You still have the trees at your trullo.’
And we both smile, hiding our own sadness. Lou wants to stay but will have to leave; I want to leave but have to stay.
‘Show me your Facebook page, I want to see it,’ she says, pointing to the computer. ‘Perhaps I could share it with my friends.’
I reach for the computer and sign into Facebook, sighing. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t get this off the ground. I look at the screen and then refresh it, just in case it’s a mistake. Then I take a moment to absorb what I’m seeing.
‘Ruthie? Everything okay?’
I stare again and blink.
‘There are orders, lots of orders!’ I say.
‘Let’s see!’ Lou pulls the screen round to her.
‘But how?’ I search the page frantically to try and work out what’s going on.
‘Look there. Whoever that is has liked and shared your page and it seems to have gone from there. Who’s that?’
I look at the name on the screen.
‘It’s Ed. I sent him the link just to try and make him jealous. I was feeling really fed up.’
‘Well, whatever the reason, it’s done the trick. That’s fantastic! Looks like all his City mates want a taste of Puglia.’ Lou waves at Mia and orders two pizzas. ‘Oh, and I have some more good news. The headmistress has given the thumbs-up to the living history project. She’d love you to come and paint the mural.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’ And, I realise, I am. All I have to do is work out what on earth I’m going to paint!
After lunch, when Lou has gone back to work, I reply to all the orders, check my PayPal account and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Thank you, Ed! Looks like all his corporate mates have come up trumps for me after all.
I walk back to the masseria via the ironmonger’s and treat myself to a new pair of secateurs and some heavy-duty gloves, ready to carry on with the veg plot. Back home, I go to the big barn to find a bucket and rake I know I’ve seen. There’s still a lot of stuff that needs sorting in here, including a huge plastic barrel the size of a deep paddling pool that may have been used to transport an olive tree. If only the old olive press wasn’t here, it would be a great space. It could even become a function room or an art gallery. But, I remind myself, I can’t think too far ahead. I just have to get the place looking as good as it can by the end of the harvest and then find myself a flatshare back in London once I’ve sold.
I find a pair of old wellingtons and put them on. They make me flap like a penguin when I walk, but better than my falling-apart deck shoes. Pulling on my new thick gloves and my market sunglasses, I feel like Buzz Lightyear, ready for anything. As I make my way to the side of the house and the vegetable garden, I swear I can hear gentle laughter in the rustling of the trees.
I spend the next few days cutting and sawing at the brambles round the area. I work until my hands hurt and my back aches. By the end of the week, it’s looking good. Finally I can see what’s there, and there is plenty. I
buy bamboo canes from the ironmonger’s and stake the tomatoes, and in the evening I use the hosepipe and water everything. I feel like the plants are coming back to life. But I’m not. I’m exhausted. I ache all over. I’ve never felt so in need of a bath. I pile the brambles and leaves and rubbish from the veg plot together with my rake. It’s like trying to herd jelly uphill, as the brambles flick out and snake around, refusing to be tamed. Eventually I manage it. I run my thick gloves, which no longer look bright green and new, across my forehead. I just want a bath and a glass of wine. And if I was really going all out for a luxurious evening, a good book too. Then I have an idea. A mad idea!
Downing tools, I run back to the barn and drag out the big plastic barrel. I roll it like a giant cheese round the back of the house on to the patio, then I run the hosepipe from the outside tap into the barrel and turn it on. An al fresco bath! The sun is beginning to set, deep red, like a fiery ball in the sky. I pour a large glass of rosata and grab some shower gel and shampoo from upstairs. Then with a quick look around to check I’m alone, I strip down to my underwear, step up on to one of the wooden crates I use as stools, and climb over the edge and into the water. It’s warm! Actually warm from where the hosepipe has sat in the sun all day. I sit down, then stretch back and close my eyes. Bliss! The water level rises, and as it does, I slip off my underwear and toss it on to the ground, enjoying the water around every bit of my body, waving my legs to and fro in a star shape.
Suddenly I hear footsteps. Oh good God! The last thing I need is for Marco to see me naked in a barrel. I sink as low as I can in the water, covering my chest with my arms.
‘Buonanotte,’ calls Luigi as he walks past, back to Marco’s field, with a smile on his face. Oh God! Now he thinks the mad Englishwoman is madder than ever. ‘Buonanotte, Luigi,’ I say, giggling into the foam and giving thanks that at least it wasn’t Marco.
The barrel is nearly full and I’m going to have to get out to turn the tap off. Water starts to tumble over the top, cascading down like a waterfall, but it’s such a nice feeling – like a jacuzzi – that I lie back, letting it slosh around, covering my ears. This is heaven! I dip under the water, running my hands through my hair to rinse off the shampoo, then come back up through the bubbles, eyes shut, feeling the freshness of the air.
