by Iris Danbury
“Nothing much! I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.” Erica perched on Rosamund’s bed.
“So you had to come and keep me awake! How selfish can you get?”
"I do think Brent is an attractive man,” Erica murmured, hugging her knees and staring into space.
“Then if I were you, I wouldn’t let him see it!” snapped Rosamund. “He’s not the kind that responds to the easy victory.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s obvious. He’s not all that young, he isn’t exactly a callow youth.”
“Well, he isn’t old either. How old would you say?”
Rosamund thought for a moment. “Twenty-six, twenty-eight, something like that. He wouldn’t be on an important job if he were young and unqualified.”
“I’m not very interested in his job—only in him,” admitted Erica with an impudent grin.
Rosamund flung off the bedclothes with an irritable gesture. “Erica, you’ll have to grow up soon. You’ll never find real happiness or satisfaction in life if you fall over yourself every time you meet a new and attractive man. First it was various boy-friends, then Hugo—you were utterly devoted to him for about three weeks. Then when you met Niccolo—”
“Oh, yes, I know,” interrupted Erica. “You can spare me the list. And I still think Niccolo is a marvellous companion, but—”
“But Brent is different, I suppose?”
“Don’t sneer like that! Rosamund, my pet, you’ll end up as a vinegary old maid. Don’t you feel anything when you’re with a man who at least notices that you’re a woman?”
Rosamund laughed. “Well, I don’t exactly go all tingly just because a man escorts me to the nearest bus-stop.”
“You’ve never loved!” Erica shook her head sadly. “And perhaps you never will.”
“I’m prepared to wait for the great love of my life. Now, please, Erica, will you go away and let me get some sleep.”
“ ‘To sleep, perchance to dream!’ ” Erica murmured as she drifted out of the room.
Rosamund was now wide awake and sleep was elusive. Should she perhaps have warned Erica more strongly about taking Brent too seriously? Judging by his behaviour tonight, he seemed to bestow his attentions on any girl who happened to be handy. Erica, Adriana—and probably a multitude of others—it was all the same to him. Yet she had not received that impression on the occasion when she first met him in the “shack” as he called it. Then he had seemed boorish and hectoring and not at all anxious to be amiable.
Rosamund smiled in the darkness. Perhaps he found Erica and Adriana more charming than herself. She thumped her pillow and yawned. Well, that suited her as long as he did not become too awkward, but since he was at the Villa Delfino usually only at week-ends, she could probably endure his indifference, even hostility.
Next morning she breakfasted on her balcony, then went down to the small study placed at Stephen’s disposal.
He was already there and looked up as she came in. “Rosamund, I wonder if you’d go to Taormina this morning. I’ve had a letter from the property agent, who tells me that the owner of Delfino will agree to the new wiring only if absolutely no damage is done to the walls and so on.”
“Surely the electricians will make good any damage?”
“M’m, yes, but I think we have to stress the point very much indeed. I don’t want to be saddled with a shattering amount of lire for compensation to her. The fact is, so Brent Stanton tells me, that the villa is not too well built, some of the walls are rather crumbly, he thinks, and large holes will appear in the plaster unless the men are ultra-careful.”
“So what am I to do and how am I to go?” she queried.
“Niccolo will take you in his car—”
“Will he mind? He seems to be running a taxi service for us.”
“Yes, I know, but soon I shall hire a car and be independent. You must go to the electricians and show them this letter.”
“I doubt if that will frighten them. In any case, we haven’t received the estimate yet,” she pointed out.
“Quite, but that’s all the more reason for making sure that they include the necessary work in the estimate. Otherwise they’ll say they had no instructions to make good any damage.”
“All right. Anything else you want me to do while I’m in Taormina?”
“Yes. See if you can buy a really good map of Sicily. I don’t want a tourist road map, but one that shows the proper contours. Signor Mandelli has several, but they’re all rather tattered and as we shall be using a map a great deal, I’d rather have one of my own.”
“And Niccolo? I can’t expect him to wait for me. I’ll take a taxi back here.”
Stephen nodded. “Have lunch in Taormina if you feel inclined. No need to hurry back.”
As she returned to her room for a jacket, her handbag and enough money for purchases, she reflected with appreciation what a good employer Stephen was. There was little of the conventional “absent-minded professor” about him. If he sent you on an errand he was aware of the practical aspects such as hunger and time to satisfy it.
Niccolo greeted her amiably when she joined him in his car.
“Apologies for giving you this trouble,” she said.
“As though it could be a burden?” His dark eyes shone mischievously. “A Mandelli always welcomes attractive company.”
“Spoken like a Mandelli!” she retorted, laughing.
At first she did not notice that he was driving down the road towards the shore instead of up to the main road to Taormina. Then he pulled up outside the gates of the Villa Delfino, alighted and walked up the short drive. A few moments later he returned accompanied by Brent who was carrying a small battered suitcase as well as a briefcase, and a jacket over one arm.
“Buon giorno,” he greeted Rosamund as he settled himself and his luggage in the back of the car.
She murmured vaguely in reply. She supposed he was returning to his work place, wherever that was, but did he always rely on Niccolo to drive him?
“We have to take Brent to Taormina to pick up his own car,” Niccolo explained as he reversed and drove up towards the main road.
“I left it there, on Saturday night,” continued Brent, “somewhat against my better judgement, but when I was offered a lift back to Torretta by the charming daughter of your professor, I couldn’t refuse.”
“Erica is often quite free with other people’s cars,” she said mildly, then realised that however smooth her tone of voice, the words might be counted a criticism of Erica. She lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey, except to tell Niccolo not to wait for her.
“I don’t know how long I shall be pottering about on my various errands.”
Brent alighted close to the spot where he said he had parked his own car. “It’s still there!” he muttered.
She thanked Niccolo for driving her. “I now have to wrestle with these electrician people and make sure they are going to do the job properly.”
Brent had walked a couple of steps away, but now he turned sharply. “Electricians? The wiring?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you’ll allow me, I’ll come with you. Are you sure you can manage to tussle with them in Italian?”
“I expect I could,” she boasted, knowing that the task would be beyond her, yet she resented the way Brent was butting in. She would have preferred Niccolo to be her companion if she needed an interpreter, but he was on the far side of the car and had probably not heard Brent’s offer.
Brent gave her a challenging, sustained gaze. Then he half smiled. “Just let me put this gear into my car and I’ll take you to the firm’s office. If you’ll endure my company, I promise not to talk of anything but the relevant business in hand.”
“Sorry if I sounded ungracious,” she said.
“You’re not in the least sorry,” he retorted amiably. “You enjoy putting me in my place. ”
“Since I don’t know what your particular place is, I can’t be guilty.
”
He slammed his car door shut after depositing the suitcase and other articles inside. “Let’s go!”
At the electricians’, Brent was soon in an altercation with a clerk, then with someone with more authority.
He turned towards Rosamund. “They say that they will prepare the estimates and will take note of any damage to structure, but they can’t do the job for more than a month.”
“A month!” echoed Rosamund in dismay. “But by that time it will be April and surely we shouldn’t need extra heating then.”
He spoke again in rapid Italian to the two men and finally piloted Rosamund out of the office.
“I’ve told them not to go ahead with the estimates until they receive confirmation from Professor Holford.”
“But surely that will delay the matter even more.”
“I’ve a better idea. All you really need at Delfino is heating in the bedrooms and one of the living rooms, and then only at nights. I think I could manage to fix that up with a friend of mine. He could supply several modern oil stoves and arrange for delivery of oil. As you say, soon it will be spring and unless you’re all delicate hothouse plants, you won’t need extra heating.”
Rosamund was dubious. “I don’t know if Stephen will agree. He hates oil contraptions. But I do see your point about this being so near the end of the winter.”
“If the professor really wants to install extra points for next winter, if he’s here then, he’d have time for the work to be done in the summer months.”
She agreed. “Well, thank you, Mr. Stanton, for helping me. I won’t take up any more of your time. No doubt you want to get back to your work as soon as possible.”
“Well, no. It might be an idea if I took you along to my oil-stove supplier and you could see what he has to offer. Then you can tell your employer more about the scheme.” Brent conducted her up one of the steep flights of steps leading out of the Corso, through several narrow passages and into a small yard, where two young men were working on a motor-cycle. One of them looked up at Brent’s approach, greeted him in a rush of Italian, then glanced admiringly at Rosamund.
Brent introduced the young man to her and in a few moments she was shown a catalogue of different patterns of oil-stoves.
“I’ll make a note of the numbers of those that look the most suitable,” she suggested. “Can he get them quickly?”
“In two or three days at the most,” returned Brent. “He has to go to Messina for them, as naturally he can’t keep much stock here.”
“And the oil supply?”
“He’ll bring that, too, in a drum of suitable size, and Tomaso will attend to the filling for you.”
When she and Brent left the workshop, she mentioned that she must now buy a good map of the island.
“I might just as well ask your advice about the best shop to go to.”
She felt rather than saw that he darted her a sharp glance.
“In other words, you’re convinced that I shall insist on giving you that advice whether asked or not?”
She laughed and when she turned to look at him she saw that his eyes were crinkled in amusement.
“It’s not my usual role to play the meddlesome Mattie,” he assured her. “This time the circumstances have forced me into it. When you’ve bought the map, it will be lunch time. Do you care to join me?”
“Thank you.”
As she had foreseen, she was glad of his assistance in the matter of the map, for he insisted on her being shown a dozen different kinds.
The restaurant to which he took her was behind a shop full of luscious pastries and confectionery.
“They make special Sicilian dishes here,” he told her. “You may have met them already, but if not, care to experiment?”
“I’m always ready to try the food of the country. I don’t demand roast beef or eggs and bacon.”
He glanced at her over the top of his menu. “How you slap me down! I think I shall stay away from my cottage in future and come only when I’m sure you won’t be there.”
“You’ll probably come whenever it suits you,” she replied, “regardless of whether I’m about. In any case, I shall be living in the villa and I shan’t disturb you.”
She realised that in his more restrained English way he was trying to flirt with her just as any Italian young man might use more open tactics.
“What does the professor’s daughter Erica do? Any kind of work, or does she sit around looking decorative?”
Rosamund laughed. He had deliberately introduced the mention of Erica to remind her that she would not be the only girl living in the Villa Delfino.
“For the time being she has her freedom from any kind of task, but she regards this long stay in Sicily as a holiday before she makes up her mind what sort of career she wants to follow.”
Rosamund said nothing about Stephen’s original desire to separate his daughter for a while from her circle of friends at home.
He was ordering the meal and when the waiter had hurried away, Brent said mock-apologetically, “I hope you’ll approve of my choice of dishes.”
“Why not? At least I’ll try to pay you the compliment of eating them. Have you been in Sicily a long time?”
“Not here. I’ve been on Etna nearly two years, but before then I spent some time on Vesuvius.”
She smiled. “So of course you’re fluent in Italian. But why do you choose to live on volcanoes? Is it your preferred way of life?”
“Didn’t your professor tell you? I’m a vulcanologist, if you understand the word—”
“Perfectly. You’re a student of Vulcan, the blacksmith, who lived on Mount Etna and forged thunderbolts.”
He regarded her with derision. “I work with facts, not mythology,” he rebuked her, “but I don’t wish to blind you with my professional knowledge.”
“No,” she said with a spurious meekness.
When the soup was served she said, “Tell me about your work. Stephen told me that you might prove helpful to him.”
“I see. So you want to pick my brains so that you could pose as knowledgeable?”
His dark grey eyes held amusement, but he began to tell her of his geological training and subsequent decision to specialise in the study of volcanoes.
“Is it ever going to be possible to forecast eruptions?” she asked.
“We hope to be able to do so in the future. If we can study the earth’s movements in greater detail and compare them with centres in different parts of the world, then we might get some clue.”
During the rest of the meal, the swordfish cutlets for which she had developed a liking, the sweet made of stuffed and baked dried figs, he expanded on his subject, and now Rosamund saw him in a different light. He had dropped the fencing attitude and was treating her as an intelligent listener.
He lived most of the time in a small town, Belpasso, from which he could drive along a mountain road up to the start of the funicular.
“There’s an observatory at the top and I put in a day or two occasionally. Most of the time I’m grubbing about on the volcano sides, boring for samples of rock. Haven’t you been up Etna yet?”
“No. Stephen has been very busy settling our accommodation and fixing the details about the Villa Delfino, but now we shall be able to relax sometimes and I hope to take tours all round the island and visit no end of places.”
“Try to go up Etna when the weather seems likely to be clear. The higher levels are often in the clouds and then you can’t see anything of the rest of the island for mist.”
Even when they had completely finished lunch, he seemed in no hurry to leave. At last she made the first move.
“I must go or Stephen will think I’ve fallen down a cliff.”
“Tell him you wasted your time with me,” he suggested. He found her a taxi and waved her off before walking down to his car.
On the comparatively short ride to Torretta Rosamund wondered exactly what she would tell not only Stephen, but Erica. Was it wise t
o disclose that she had spent all the morning and lunched with Brent? Yet she could hardly keep it secret when there was the question of oil-stoves to be decided.
Later in the afternoon she spread out the leaflets for Stephen’s inspection, having given him a brief account of the electricians’ inability to complete their work very soon and Brent’s subsequent suggestion.
“Might not be a bad idea,” observed Stephen, “as long as I’m not expected to mess about with oil and stuff.”
“Tomaso will attend to them, I’m sure.”
At dinner there was a general discussion about the heating and Signor Mandelli agreed that oil would be the best solution.
“It is not your property and you do not want to spend money on repairing for someone else.”
“What’s the owner like?” asked Rosamund.
“She is old and fat,” snapped Seppi.
“She brings her friends in the summer and they are very noisy,” commented Niccolo.
“But never young friends,” grumbled Seppi. “They are all as old as she is, old men, old women. So we are all very glad that you are to stay the summer with us and we shall not be at the trouble—” He turned towards Rosamund. “Is it right? At the trouble?”
“You could say ‘troubled’,” she corrected him gently.
“If I’d known you were going down to Taormina this morning,” began Erica, “I’d have come with you. I didn’t know until I was told that you’d gone with Niccolo.”
“Sorry,” replied Rosamund. “I went off in rather a hurry.”
“We had to take the Englishman Stanton as well,” put in Niccolo casually.
“Signor Stanton?” Adriana’s face showed interest.
“Brent?” queried Erica.
Rosamund was aware that two pairs of eyes were swiftly focussed on her face.
“Why was that?” asked Erica.
“His car was left there on Saturday,” explained Niccolo. Erica’s fair-skinned face flamed, but she bent her head towards her plate and controlled herself.
Rosamund hoped that someone would speedily change the subject, but Adriana observed, “He is quite pleasant, that young man. I have not seen him until yesterday.”
