by Jo Thomas
Anna-Maria gives him a warning look, and he shrugs and smiles.
Marco’s sister is cooking. She turns and kisses me on both cheeks, not warmly but as naturally as if she were breathing, eating or sleeping. She stirs the steaming pot at the same time and calls to her husband, who is watching football on television, to turn it down. Not so different from our house when I was growing up. The place is stifling hot, with radiators pumping out heat, and I take off my jacket and stuff it through the handles of my bag.
Anna-Maria looks at the piccalilli I’ve given her suspiciously, then she puts it on the side in the kitchen and opens some wine.
For a moment I’m not sure what to do with myself. Marco is nowhere to be seen and I shuffle uncomfortably. His sister shouts to someone to offer me an aperitivo. I remember from last time and ask for a piccolo one. Filippo chats away, asking me what phone I’ve got and about some of the London football clubs.
‘He’s only asking so he can go and lay bets on them later,’ Anna-Maria tells me as she brings in plates of vegetables in oil, mozzarella balls, deep-fried potato croquettes, tiny tomatoes and a pot of strong-smelling ricotta, tempura-batter-fried courgettes, roasted peppers and salami.
‘Hey!’ Filippo quips back.
‘It is a fool’s game, Filippo.’ Marco is behind me. I can smell him, sense him and hear him. Suddenly there is a whoosh of butterflies flying through my belly. Like a murmuration of starlings, they swoop and dive and I have no idea why this man has this effect on me. Is it nerves?
‘Buonasera, Ruthie. Please sit.’ He gestures to the table. Anna-Maria berates him for being late and asks where he has been. He kisses her fondly and placates her.
Rosa and her family join us for dinner. During the meal, the talk is of whether the olive groves should be rotavated or not. Is it good for the trees or should they be left alone? I listen and Filippo translates for me.
‘Sometimes a little intervention makes them happier and so more productive,’ Marco says. I wonder if he’s talking about me and we smile at each other. Anna-Maria sees the smile and scowls. Marco pulls a face with the corner of his mouth, like we’ve been caught eating sweets in church, and I smile some more. These muscles at least are coming back to life.
They all agree that weedkiller is bad for the land, but Rosa argues that olive farming has changed: the youngsters no longer want to spend their days climbing ladders to reach hard-to-get olives from older trees. People live away from the groves and therefore don’t have the time. It has all changed. People are buying oil for quantity not quality. Spain makes it in huge amounts but Puglia makes the best, they all loudly agree. It is people buying up land and not understanding it, Rosa says, and I wonder if it’s a dig. But we must move with the times, she adds. Marco hotly disagrees, saying that the traditional methods are still the best. He asks about her watering system and then they move on to pruning methods and everyone disagrees all over again. The image of the painting in my head comes rushing back in, all of them at the table discussing life, family and food.
All the way through the meal Rosa seems distracted, glancing out of the windows at the back of the house just like she did on the first night I met her, as if looking for something, or maybe someone. But Marco is right here, and has been all night. She even takes some air on the back patio in between courses, arriving back at the table flushed and flustered. I wonder if she’s a secret smoker.
By the end of the meal I’m tired and ready to go. Rosa and her family stand up to leave. Nonna has fallen asleep in her chair, glass of limoncello in her hand. Anna-Maria bids the visitors goodbye and prepares to take Nonna up to bed. She gives me a stern look as I thank her and say good night.
‘Marco will see you to your door,’ she says, and Filippo translates. I get the impression she means he’s to go no further.
I unlock the front door and Marco leans past me to push it open. He holds the door for me to go in first. I dip my head so as not to look at him as I brush past. But I can feel his breath and smell his lemony aftershave.
Inside the house I turn to say good night and thank him for the meal and his hard work, but he is already at the woodburner, opening the door, putting on an extra log. Obviously not a man who listens to his mother, then.
‘Don’t forget to put a log on before you go to bed and turn it down low. A slow burn will be much better than a roaring fire now.’ I wonder if he’s talking about the fire or matters of the heart. Marco seems to have advice on lots of things. He stands in the glow of the fire, his face lit up. He’s a very attractive man when he’s not being cross, I think. I need to get a grip on myself. He is spoken for – well, if Anna-Maria has her way he will be; and he is also the man who wants to take my house from me. He should be the very last person I consider attractive. And then of course there’s Ryan. Ryan who makes me laugh and who wants to help me get my olives in so I can go home, to London.
‘For a good night’s sleep you take a spoonful of olive oil,’ Marco is instructing. He wants me to sleep to be fit for work. But I’m not going to drink olive oil.
I don’t want to turn on the big lights. It’s late and I’ll be going to bed in a moment, so I go to the table and light the big storm candle there.
‘Where is your oil?’ he asks.
‘What?’ I follow him as he heads to the kitchen.
‘It coats the larynx and stops you snoring,’ he calls back over his shoulder.
‘I don’t think I snore.’ I frown, following him up the two steps to the kitchen.
‘It has many beneficial properties, olive oil. One spoonful before bed can help fight all sorts of troubles,’ he says, turning to look at me.
‘Here.’ I lunge for a bottle of oil that I’ve already opened, hoping he’ll just say what he wants to say and then leave. I have to be up early.
He picks up a spoon from the work surface and turns back to me. The woodburner is throwing up big dancing flames, as red as my cheeks. His blue eyes light up like sky-blue topaz in the firelight. My breathing quickens. My nerve endings seem to be standing to attention, jittery, like my overstimulated senses. Maybe it’s the limoncello, because I didn’t have the coffee for just this reason.
He takes the oil from me. I’m standing in front of him. He’s big and broad, and my eyes just about reach his chest. He looks down and I look up. My chest is rising and falling like waves washing in and out. He holds the spoon to the tilted bottle without taking his eyes off me. The butterflies in my stomach are dancing like the flames in the fire.
He stops when the spoon is full. I have no idea how. Instinct, I suppose. Then he lifts it to my lips. It glistens in the candlelight.
‘You first.’ I push the spoon towards him. He cocks his head and gives me a disappointed look. He doesn’t look at it, just smiles broadly, opens his mouth so I can see his white teeth, his pink tongue curled in laughter, and tips the spoonful into his mouth. He closes his lips around it and drags the spoon out slowly, making sure every last bit is gone. His lips are glistening, wet with oil.
Suddenly his eyes darken and he pulls back. His mouth turns down at the corners, his nose wrinkles in disgust.
‘What the hell?’
I step back, reeling from his reaction. What is his problem now? I grip the back of a chair.
‘Merda!’ He glares at the bottle. ‘Where on earth did you get this shit? It’s nothing more than lamp oil!’
‘Lamp oil?’ I say, confused. ‘No, it’s Bellanuovo oil.’
‘This is not Bellanuovo oil! I know Bellanuovo oil and this . . . I wouldn’t use it to fry chips in! Where did you get it?’ He looks at me like I’ve stolen sweets from his younger brother.
‘I . . . I . . .’ What do I say? If I tell him Ryan gave it to me, everything he already thinks will be confirmed and life will be ten times harder when Ryan comes to harvest the olives. I still need Ryan. I can
’t have Marco scaring him off.
‘It was here. I thought it was Bellanuovo oil,’ I say and hope he believes me. For a moment he says nothing, his eyes flashing, and I wonder if he’s going to realise I’m lying to him. My heart starts thundering again.
‘My grandfather’s oil?’ He shakes his head and looks like I’ve kicked his dog. An expression of pain tears across his face. Then he throws the spoon with a clatter on to the table.
‘You cannot be an olive farmer if you do not know the difference between a good oil and a bad one!’ he finally announces and slams the bottle down too.
‘I’m not going to be an olive farmer, though, am I?’ I glare back. ‘I’m going home!’
‘You still have to make it to harvest first. There is many a trip along the way and much to learn!’ And with that he storms out.
I bolt the door firmly behind him, turn off all the lights and head straight up to bed as the fire in the stove flickers and fades. As I lie there holding my pillow to my hot, angry cheeks, I try my best to push Marco Bellanuovo out of my mind, but his image is as stubborn as he is.
When I come downstairs the following morning, the fire has gone out. I crouch shivering in front of the woodburner, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and try to get it going again with scrunched-up paper and the sticks that Marco left in the basket. Once again I try to forget his dark, angry face last night.
At least I start work on the mural at the school today. I give up on the fire and go and get dressed. Layers, lots of layers. That way as the day warms up I can take some off, then put them on again when it’s colder.
I wrap a thick scarf around my neck and hear Marco’s voice in my head telling me to eat to keep my strength up. I certainly don’t want another episode of him having to drag me out of bed. In fact the further I am away from Marco right now, I think, the better.
I drive to the edge of town down our long, twisty lane, bouncing off the little potholes and brushing the grassy verges, and park in the school car park, just down from Sophia’s forno. There’s a breeze rustling through the trees and white clouds tumble across the sky like excited fluffy puppies. I turn to look at the school and the big wall that is to be my canvas.
Children are arriving, smartly dressed with manners to match, all kissing their mothers goodbye and greeting their friends and teachers eagerly.
‘Hey!’ Lou spots me and waves enthusiastically. She kisses me on both cheeks.
‘How’s things?’ I ask, wanting to know how she and Antonio are doing.
‘So, so,’ she says, bobbing her head to either side. Then she quickly changes the subject. ‘Have you booked your slot? When are you going to start picking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Sorry, force of habit.’ She waves a hand. ‘It’s all anyone talks about at this time of year. The olives. Have you booked your slot?’
‘No. Ryan’s doing it. Soon, I think.’ It occurs to me that I haven’t seen Ryan for a while. Perhaps that dinner won’t happen after all. But I have been otherwise engaged. ‘Ryan thinks I should get them done quickly,’ I say, and then add something I didn’t even realise I was thinking, ‘but I’m beginning to think I should wait until they’re really ready.’
‘I thought you just wanted to get them harvested and go.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ I find myself trying to let my brain catch up with my mouth, ‘the coratina is a late-harvesting olive. I want the oil to be the best it can be.’
‘That’s what everyone wants round here. You’re starting to talk like a local.’
‘Am I?’ I’m suddenly flustered. ‘I just want to show Ed’s friends that . . . well, I did the best I could.’
‘Well, then wait. Wait for as long as you can.’
‘How will I know when’s the right time?’
‘Well I know someone who will know.’ She raises an eyebrow at me.
‘There’s no way I’m asking him!’
Lou laughs. ‘You’d better let Ryan know your plans too. Come on, come in and have coffee and then we can get you started.’
She leads the way from the gates, following the blue footprints painted on the grey concrete, to the front door of the school. The glass panels on either side are covered in balloon shapes and rainbows cut out of colourful paper. There is the sound of happy chatter and laughter from both sides of the entrance hall. Lou leads me through into the staff room, where I’m greeted by the headmistress, a woman in a smart red skirt, thick gold-rimmed glasses and red lipstick. She shakes my hand warmly and welcomes me, telling me how much they’re looking forward to seeing my artwork on the wall; how it will brighten the school and the town.
I hope so. I’m holding a folder with the sketch I’ve made of the big olive tree. There are photographs in there too, the ones Lou scanned for me, as well as a sketch of the painting that keeps coming back to me when I lie in bed at night. Part of me feels I need to keep things simple, to think of this as a big greetings card design and do something that will please everybody. On the other hand, if I can get the painting I have in my head right, it could be perfect. But it’s risky, and might do more harm than good. So for once, I’m going to listen to my head, and try and lock away the picture in my heart.
After hot, strong coffee from the machine, Lou introduces me to her class. They stare, smiling and expectant, from their small chairs, giving me their full attention. Lou speaks clearly and slowly and I can understand every word she says. She tells them how I’m here as part of a living history project, an art project that will tell the history of the town and of all the families who have lived here. It is a town built on its olive oil, like a good meal, she says: olive oil is the foundation of any meal, and the olives are the foundations of the town we live in.
As she sets the class to work, Lou tells me how the children living in the high-rise blocks around the foot of the old town spend more and more time on Xboxes and mobile phones and are losing touch with the land.
‘I want my boy to be part of the land too, otherwise he could be living anywhere. It’s about their identity, who they are.’
Outside, as the day begins to warm up, I peel off my scarf and fleece and stare at the big concrete wall. I get the same feeling I had when I saw the masseria for the first time . . . where on earth to start?
But start I must. Like every journey, I remind myself, it starts with the first step, and I slide on my painting overall, pick up my brush and choose one of the many tins of paint at my feet. I open it up, stir it and then begin the simple, straightforward olive tree design.
At break time the children clatter round to see my progress, which is disappointingly slow by the looks on their faces. At lunchtime, another fantastic three-course meal, comprising tomato salad, risotto and cheesecake, the children’s enthusiasm and chatter is infectious, and I am smiling from ear to ear. The beauty of children is that they’re living for today. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for the last few months, instead of plotting out the future like I did with Ed, with pensions and ten-year plans? This is why I did this, to live for today.
I stand and look at the olive tree. I take a deep breath, pick up my biggest brush and paint over it. Then I start again, going with my gut instinct, the picture I have in my heart. What is there to lose? I’ll be gone soon anyway. If I don’t try and paint the picture I really want to do now, I don’t think I ever will. I’ve spent years creating simple designs for Brandon, hoping to please lots of people. But I can’t carry on being scared of what others might think. I have to do what’s right for me.
By afternoon break, there are marks and blobs all over the wall. This time not as many children have come round to see. By the end of the day, the novelty of my presence has worn off and they meet their parents happily chattering about their friends and what they learnt in class.
Lou helps me to hang large sheets over the wall to protect
it overnight.
‘So have you thought about asking Marco about the best time to pick the olives?’ She takes up the conversation where we left off this morning.
‘I don’t think so. He’s not speaking to me,’ I tell her as I stand on one of the children’s chairs to drape the sheets.
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, it was all to do with some olive oil. I thought it was Bellanuovo oil. He stormed off. Like I say, all over some oil.’
‘Out here, it’s always to do with land, or oil.’ Lou nods and waves as she spots her husband walking towards the school to meet her and her son. ‘But trust me, you should say something. These things have a habit of growing and growing until there’s no way back. It’s best to sort it out quickly.’
After more sweeping round the olive trees that evening and weeding in the veg patch, I feed Daphne and the hens, Kirsty and Phil. I’ve taken poetic licence with Phil, pretending it’s short for Philomena. But then everyone round here thinks I’m mad naming chickens. Nothing new there, then. They don’t look like chickens from back home. In fact Kirsty looks more like a small dinosaur and Phil is very round and golden. Daphne is doing a great job guarding them and the veg plot at night; in fact just guarding in general.
I decide Lou’s right, I need to sort things out with Marco. I’m going to ask him to come and eat with me, thank him for everything he did when I was unwell, and ask him about the olives. It’s me offering the olive branch this time.
I shower quickly in cold water, using a kettle of warm water for the important parts, and dress in a simple soft grey woollen jumper, faded three-quarter-length jeans I got in the market and a short cardigan. I blow-dry my curly hair and look in the mirror I’ve put up in my bedroom. Waves of hair are beginning to curl around my face. I’ve always kept it short and practical until now, but I like this new softness.
My face is really quite brown now, with the freckles that I’ve always hated spreading across my nose and cheeks and up the side of my face, touching the corner of my eyebrow. I put my hand to them. I don’t know why I hated them so much; looking at them now, I quite like them.
