The Olive Branch

by Jo Thomas

  ‘No, black,’ says Marco seriously and then breaks into a smile. ‘But I know she will be delighted with her picture, and with the mural.’

  My knees actually start to shake.

  ‘About the mural,’ I begin. ‘It’s not quite the same as the little picture I did for Nonna.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be just as good. Now go and get ready,’ Marco instructs, and turns back to the pathway that has been worn into the ground between his trullo and the masseria.

  ‘Marco, I’m sure I shut the hens away last night,’ I call after him. ‘Can you remember?’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he replies.

  I’m relieved. So I forgot, with all the kissing and the excitement. I’m overthinking things.

  ‘I did, though.’ He smiles at me. ‘Why do you ask?’

  My mind starts racing again. I’m like a ship being battered on the rocks and out to sea again. What on earth is going on? Is he telling the truth? Did he shut away the chickens, or did he in fact let them out? Is this all some kind of elaborate game to get me to leave? Am I a fool for falling for him? Did our kiss mean anything to him? I have no idea.

  I run inside and get changed with shaking hands and my head whirling.

  ‘Ruthie, you seem . . . different this morning. Have I upset you?’ he asks as we fly into town, brushing hedgerows and hitting potholes. I hold my breath as we pass other cars.

  ‘No, no, just a lot on my mind, that’s all.’ I try and change the subject. ‘So, will all the family be here today?’ I ask, twisting a tissue round my fingers.

  He nods, and my heart sinks.

  ‘My cousins are back from up north.’

  The tissue in my hands rips apart as we pass Sophia’s forno, closed up for the day. My stomach tightens further. As much as I would like to ask him about his cousins, I can’t speak.

  People are milling around everywhere. There is a smattering of tourists, probably second-home owners, or people looking for a late break. You can spot them by their long shorts, whereas the locals are in padded anoraks, winter coats and scarves. Despite the fact that the sun is still putting in an appearance, to the townspeople it is obviously winter. There are no men in the park playing bocce and cards today. The children’s swings are abandoned.

  Marco swerves into a small space between two cars, barely a space at all really. He mounts the kerb and cuts the engine. I think we’ve parked. We’re right opposite the school. The nerves come in waves, each one making me queasy. What if they hate it? It’ll be whitewashed over, like my time here, and I’ll return to real life like none of this ever happened. I feel all the colour drain from my face.

  We get out of the car. There are flags flying from the top of the school building. Lou is there with her husband. They have covered upturned barrels with red and white checked tablecloths, and there is a large bucket full of bottles of Prosecco. A table is laid with upturned glasses and another with bowls of olives, small round savoury biscuits and nuts. Lou sees me and waves. I go to wave back but I can’t. I’m now paralysed with fear.

  ‘It’s no good, I can’t do it. You don’t need me here,’ I say to no one in particular and turn to walk away from the school, back towards the lane and the masseria. Marco catches my arm and wheels me round.

  ‘We’ll do it together,’ he says, leading me back towards the school.

  ‘But you don’t understand what I’ve done.’ Panic is rising in my voice.

  He cocks his head and looks puzzled.

  ‘You have done a painting, for the community.’

  And now I’m terrified that Marco will hate me. I should’ve gone with the simple olive tree design; that’s what everyone is expecting. What I’ve done instead is so personal. I need to explain. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Look, I don’t know why your family fell out. I just think it’s sad,’ I say quickly.

  ‘My family?’ Marco looks confused.

  ‘You have such knowledge. You could be running the estate again if you could just get the family to come together.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What has my family got to do with your mural?’

  ‘Your mamma wants you to be an olive oil estate again. You want the masseria to stay in the family. What you need is for your family to remember what it was like to be whole.’ The words are pouring out of my mouth and I wish they weren’t. I wish I wasn’t falling for this man. I wish I knew that he felt the same, and that he didn’t want the house at any cost. I wish he would realise that his life should be back on the land, not in a laboratory somewhere.

  ‘It will never happen,’ he says lightly. ‘There is too much history.’ He shakes his head and my chest tightens.

  ‘History,’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes, like the project you have worked on. History.’

  Franco Pugliese chinks his glass of Prosecco to get everyone’s attention. He smiles, and I cringe and want to run.

  ‘The thing is, Marco,’ I say quietly, but I don’t get to finish. Rosa is standing with Anna-Maria and Nonna. Anna-Maria gives me daggers. To my left is Sophia with her family. She doesn’t smile either. They’re all here for Nonna’s birthday. Nonna is sitting in a chair by the mural, and I wonder if she’s going to have a heart attack when she sees it.

  Franco is giving the painting a huge build-up. My toes curl, my cheeks burn and I want the ground to open up and swallow me. There’s no going back now . . .

  And then the sheets are pulled down. All around me there are little gasps. No one speaks. I look to my left and right. Both families seem as stunned as each other.

  In the middle of the painting is the old olive tree. Around it I have painted the family, the two families, as one: in the olive grove, at a table, smiling, sharing a harvest supper together, just like in the photographs. There are tall sticks leaning against the tree, wooden ladders and nets. The adults are together at the table, children up the trees, dogs and helpers.

  No one speaks. Instead they whisper. Some turn away. I can’t read their faces at all. I’m sure they hate it. I know I shouldn’t have done it. I take a few steps back whilst the people around me stare at the painting. I want to fade away and disappear.

  ‘How were your chickens this morning?’ says Anna-Maria quietly in my ear as I move backwards. I turn, stunned. ‘It would be terrible to think of anything happening to them, or that lovely vegetable garden you have worked so hard at. The wild boar is very persistent.’ She smiles the smile of a victor, and I’m dumbfounded. ‘Like I say, that house will make a wonderful home for Rosa and Marco . . . once you are gone. I have friends who can help make that happen.’ She nods towards Franco. ‘We wouldn’t want your olive harvest going up in smoke again, would we?’

  ‘So it was you! You were trying to warn me off. Well don’t bother!’ I say loudly. ‘I wouldn’t want to be a part of your family if it was the last one on earth.’

  Heads turn to look at me. I’ve made some mistakes in my time, but this is the biggest yet, and suddenly my mouth is rushing ahead, not bothering to wait for my brain to catch up. I’m embarrassed, hurt and feeling more of an outsider than ever before. I have absolutely nothing left to lose. Marco can have the masseria. After this, there is no way I can stay until the harvest. ‘You’re all so busy trying to keep newcomers out, you don’t realise what you’ve lost along the way. You used to be a big oil producer, a name. But there will never be a Bellanuovo name again until you can remember the past as it used to be, before you stopped speaking to each other.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath, and I realise that Sophia is listening too. ‘Look, this is your family’s business, not mine,’ I say to the two women. ‘I just drew what I saw in the photos; I don’t want to cause any upset. None of you seem to realise how lucky you are to have a family.’

  I think about my mum and Lance. We’re
not much of a family, but we are a family all the same, and I need to remember that too, I realise. They should be part of my future.

  ‘The Bellanuovo name isn’t about the house, it’s about the family. You don’t need the masseria to get the name back; you just need to work together. But you’re all too stubborn to see it.’ I look from Sophia to Anna-Maria, both standing with their arms folded across their chests, like they were that day on the church steps. Nothing has changed and nothing will change.

  Anna-Maria guffaws and turns away, and Sophia mirrors her.

  ‘Well if you’ll excuse me,’ I say, ‘I have to pack.’

  I spin on my heel to march off, and as I do, I hear Nonna say in Italian, ‘Reminds me of someone else I knew when she was a young bride.’ She looks up at Anna-Maria, whose face is like stone.

  Filippo leans in to me and begins to translate. ‘She says it—’

  ‘I know.’ I turn a watery smile on lovely Filippo. ‘I understood.’

  His face lights up. ‘You understood!’

  Finally, just as I’m about to leave, I’ve started to pick up the local dialect. It doesn’t matter what Nonna said; all that matters is that I could understand it. But now it’s time for me to go. I turn away.

  ‘It’s a shame you’re leaving us now,’ Filippo says, stopping me in my tracks. I can’t look at Marco.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I reply.

  ‘Let her go,’ I hear Anna-Maria say sharply.

  I walk out of the schoolyard, tears streaming down my face, feeling more alone than I have ever felt before. Not only am I the foolish Englishwoman who thought she could buy the big house and do it up on her own. I have now alienated the people who did talk to me.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps behind me. Instinctively I know it’s Marco.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to come after me. I’ll be gone soon. The mural will be painted over and there’ll be no trace that I was ever here.’

  He steps in front of me, walking backwards, and stops me in my tracks. More than anything I want him to take me in his arms and kiss me like he did under the olive tree. But I know that can’t happen now. We are from different worlds. He wouldn’t fit into mine back in London and I certainly don’t fit into his.

  ‘What you have done, no one else has dared to do,’ he says, wide-eyed.

  I groan.

  ‘Come, walk with me,’ he instructs.

  ‘You should get back. You’ll be missed,’ I point out. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘I may have a mamma I adore, but I am not a child, Ruthie. I know my own mind.’

  I don’t think his mother would agree. She will certainly never accept me.

  He turns me away from the school and we walk up through the streets where the festa was last night, past the area where the market will be tomorrow, past the flour mill, which is closed today, and the empty flower stalls. Past Lou and Antonio’s closed-up bar and the place where I stopped the funeral procession getting to the church. Past the restaurant where I had fish and chips with Ryan and up into the old town. At the top of the hill, we stop and gaze out over the patchwork quilt of olive trees below.

  ‘You are right. This family is nothing in parts. Our problem is not about the house; it’s about being divided.’ We lean against the barrier overlooking the valley. ‘My father and uncle stopped speaking. It was my father’s fault. The Bellanuovo oil was becoming well known. Things were going well, but he got greedy and wanted to make lots of money. He started producing fake oil and selling it overseas, to the Americans and the British. They didn’t realise what they were buying. It was labelled as Italian and extra virgin, and that was all they needed to hear. But it was . . . merda!’ and we both manage a little smile. ‘After that, well, my uncle never spoke to my father again and the land was divided up. It’s worthless.’

  ‘And the debts?’

  ‘Gambling. My grandfather, he tried to keep things going as best he could, but he couldn’t manage. He had a passion for football. West Ham! He ran up debts and couldn’t pay them. If you die with a debt on your house, the debt gets passed on to the family or the new owners. He didn’t want to leave us any more grief.’

  ‘But it hasn’t worked,’ I say bluntly.

  ‘No, it hasn’t. Maybe today that will change.’ He sounds hopeful.

  We turn and start to wind our way back to the school.

  ‘Marco, the oil you tasted in the masseria. It wasn’t your father’s, or your grandfather’s. It was given to me. I was told it was Bellanuovo oil, but . . .’

  He silences me by kissing me again, and my whole body wants to just give in to him, but I know I have to be strong for both our sakes. It takes all my willpower to pull away. He looks at me.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave, Ruthie. You have come to mean a lot to me,’ he says, but I don’t want to hear it. I know he means it now, but I don’t want to get in any deeper than I am already. It will hurt too much when I have to leave.

  ‘I must get back to the masseria. I don’t want anyone to see me. I’ve done enough damage for one day. They’ll cover it up and paint over it on Monday. Could you run me home? Or I could walk if you need to stay.’

  ‘Ruthie, wait! Look!’ He points towards the school.

  ‘Really, I don’t want to!’ I insist.

  ‘Just look!’ He spins me round. I can hear the noise, the chatter, and then – I’m not imagining it – laughter. Are they laughing at me? Or could it be . . . I look at the people in the schoolyard. They are studying the mural, picking out faces, talking excitedly, laughing not at me, but with me.

  ‘Marco!’ It’s Marco’s cousin, beckoning him over. ‘There is a scene of you and me when we used to play in the olive grove. Remember when Nonno would shout for us and we would hide inside the roots of the tree at the back?’ And I understand every word his cousin says.

  A wide smile spreads across Marco’s face. He takes my hand and pulls me towards the painting.

  ‘Do you remember how I got this scar?’ he asks his cousin, pointing to his chin. ‘You pushed me out of a tree!’ They both laugh.

  ‘That’s my dog!’ Marco’s sister says. ‘She used to eat the sweepings.’

  ‘And look, the old press!’

  ‘When it was a still a cold press.’ Someone else joins in.

  ‘There’s my papa!’ says one of the cousins.

  ‘And mine,’ says Filippo, and suddenly everything goes a little quiet, like no one’s mentioned him for a very long time.

  Marco puts his arm around his brother, and then his cousin does the same.

  ‘It was just human nature. He thought he was doing the right thing for his family. But he made a mistake. He loved this place,’ Marco tells Filippo, and it seems Filippo needs to hear about his father.

  ‘That’s where we all grew up,’ says another cousin, looking at the painting.

  I turn to look for Nonna. She’s crying, clutching a big hankie, just like the day I first met her. She beckons me over, and I bend down. I’m expecting her to tell me all the terrible things she wants to happen to me.

  ‘Fantastico!’ she announces loudly, nearly deafening me, and kisses me wetly on the cheek. Everyone cheers and claps enthusiastically.

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ I turn to see Sophia smiling at me, her eyes bright and shiny. ‘Thank you.’

  I’m stunned, tears smarting at my eyes. I manage to say quietly, ‘Prego.’

  Then Marco hands Nonna the painting I did for her, and she hugs and kisses me all over again and flaps her white hankie around her face, and everyone claps and cheers some more.

  More fireworks are sent up into the schoolyard with huge bangs and flashes by Lou’s husband, Antonio. Marco stands beside me, and his fingers reach out to touch mine, sending fireworks of my own throughout my body. How can I leave now?r />
  That evening, all the family return to Anna-Maria’s, and Marco insists I come too, despite it being a family affair. Sophia makes the dough and pizzas are cooked on the forno by Marco’s trullo. A fire pit is lit and seats and tables are gathered beside it. The air is full of the smell of woodsmoke, warm and comforting. Little bats fly between the trees overhead. Lanterns are lit and the fire gives off a wonderful heat. When it gets colder, the older members of the family move inside and I go to leave.

  ‘Wait, Ruthie,’ Marco calls after me as I try to make a quiet exit into the darkness and over the wall. It has been years since this family has been together. I don’t want to intrude. Besides, Anna-Maria is still giving me daggers.

  ‘Wait. Let me walk you back,’ Marco says. He smells of the fire pit, hot and smoky. His cheeks are red and rosy from the heat, the night air and the Primitivo.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I smile, and the butterflies dance in my stomach as he wraps his arms around me.

  ‘Marco!’ There is a familiar shout from behind us, making my whole body lurch. I turn. It’s Anna-Maria. I sigh. I don’t want to argue with her now. But she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Marco. And standing beside her is Sophia and her son – the one from the photo. He is the image of Marco. They could be brothers. They’re all smiling.

  ‘Marco,’ she calls again, and the three of them walk towards him. I dip back into the shadows of the olive tree, but Sophia turns to speak to me.

  ‘Ruthie,’ she says, and I’m surprised she even knows my name. ‘I want to thank you again for what you did today.’

  I blush. ‘I just painted what I saw,’ I say, my throat dry from the smoke of the fire. ‘The family as it was.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sophia says, ‘for reminding us.’ Then she turns to Marco. ‘We have been talking, as a family.’ She points to her son and to Anna-Maria. ‘Ruthie was right. This family needs to work together again. It’s been too long. We have let the past come between us and we must not let it ruin our future.’