Italy showed her another way of doing things. She was wise enough to know that it could never be her way to life, but to witness it was to learn more about herself, and to know it was there had a calming effect on her. An aspect of it about which she had had reservations – the warmly flirtatious attentions of the men she found that she liked. Men, she knew. She’d always understood that with no claim whatever to beauty she nevertheless had a certain sexual power and in Italy she experienced something unusual the charming admiration of men who recognised her quirky sex appeal as a quality to be acknowledged for its own sake. Their looks, their comments, their gentle advances she took as they were intended, as a compliment. Sitting on a rickety chair outside Paresi’s premier café-bar, the Paradiso, with her blowsy early-morning face and hair, wearing her glasses and reading her novel, with a double espresso and a sticky bun, she was made to feel alluring and desirable. There was no tension in the feeling, she was relaxed, soothed by the men’s sophistication. The proprietor of the Paradiso took to bringing her little presents – a chocolate, a flower, a postcard – and leaving them alongside the coffee, and men at other tables would chuckle or smile, as if they knew she was someone who needed to be cherished.
All of this was as unlike her past experience as it was possible to be. These men liked women, and they liked her intuitively – without knowing her – for what she was. Their lack of awkwardness or boastfulness charmed her and did not tally with the stories she had heard of outrageous and persistent pestering. She did not doubt that unwelcome bottom-pinching took place in the high summer ‘hunting season’ in big cities and resorts, but the attention she received was perceptive, kindly and restrained. And the Italian women, she observed, bloomed securely in its warmth and light. There was one ravishing girl who dropped in to the Paradiso on her way to work in the morning – a long, tall, undulating lily of a girl with golden skin and nut-brown hair. This girl received all the admiration she undoubtedly deserved, and received it with queenly calm, but Stella felt in no way diminished by the other’s beauty and youth. Here was a liking for women that was like an embrace, and which included each for her own sake.
She had e-mailed selected friends, giving the address of the Villa Paresi and indicating that it would be open house for five weeks – she kept the first week free for herself. She suggested that they give her some idea of their intended arrival and departure dates to avoid any likelihood of a logjam, otherwise she made it clear that she was providing the accommodation and that was all – everyone could treat the place as their own. Those whom she contacted were George and the family, Roger and Fran; Derek and his wife; and Bill and Helen Rowlandson, Jamie’s parents.
George and Brian were the first to arrive, somewhat careworn having hacked door to door in the people-carrier. By far the grumpiest, but also the quickest to recover, was Brian who within an hour of arrival was heard to declare (as he floated on a lilo in the pool with a bottle of Grolsch resting on his midriff) that he intended to stay for ever and never go back – a remark which Stella sincerely hoped was a joke. The children also unwound under the influence of sun, water and a freezer full of gelati, and settled into a kind of not-unpleasant boredom, the older two getting up at lunchtime, sun worshipping to music in the heat of the afternoon (mad dogs and teenagers as Brian put it) and larking in the pool till one a.m. Under this dispensation Zoe became a sort of small honorary adult. They were also, Stella considered, rather sweet when taken out, with Zoe and Kirsty overwhelmed by the attentions of waiters, which Zoe accepted with aplomb and Kirsty with a delighted, scowling embarrassment. Mark, at the age when such things discomfited him without his really knowing why, resorted to taunts of the ‘Ooh-hoo, Kirsty’s got a boyfriend!’ variety, while Brian rolled his eyes, pretending despair yet inwardly bursting with paternal pride, and declared that he supposed he’d got years of this to come and it boded nothing but ill.
George was preoccupied. One morning when Brian had taken the children to Siena for a ‘spot of culture and a fat lunch’ as he put it, she confided in Stella. They were lying on loungers beneath an olive tree a hundred yards from the house, but where they might have been a hundred miles from anywhere. The hill beneath them seemed to give off the warmth of centuries of good living. The tiny insect drone of some lone vehicle on the road only enhanced their sense of seclusion. On the grass between the loungers was a cold bag containing iced coffee, peaches, a bottle of water and another of wine, and a tube of factor 15. Both of them had books; neither was reading.
‘I’m up the duff,’ said George.
Stella absorbed the blow. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Brian’s going to go ballistic.’
‘Ah.’
‘Zoe was bad enough – I don’t mean Zoe herself, I mean the idea of Zoe when it first happened—’
‘I understand.’
‘—but this is going to look like deliberate sabotage.’
Stella, glad she was wearing dark glasses, opened the cold bag. ‘Want an early one?’
‘Oh, go on.’
She poured two glasses of white wine and handed one to George; closed the bag; asked: ‘Forget Brian for a moment, how do you feel about it?’
‘Queasy. I mean literally. There’s a limit to how much longer I can go on pretending I’m spitting out toothpaste in the early morning.’
‘Apart from that?’
‘God, I don’t know, it’s all part of the great river of life, I suppose. I’m philosophical. I knew when I married the Army that I was never going to do anything much with my life—’
‘George!’
‘Well, it’s true, and don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets, I like my life. In an ideal world I wouldn’t have wanted this, but once the baby’s born I’ll be right as rain. Dog-tired, run ragged and looking like hell, but otherwise . . .’
‘You make it sound pretty resistible.’
George pulled an agonised face. ‘I just want Brian not to be too furious. It’s bad enough getting used to the idea myself and chucking up on a regular basis, without him sulking as well.’
‘Two things.’ Stella glanced at her sister. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Firstly, don’t wait a second. Tell him while you’re here, as soon as possible.’
‘Good grief, do you know what you’re saying?’
‘It’s a big house, I don’t have to listen. Better yet I can take the kids out for the day and show them a good time.’
‘Right.’ George sighed. ‘And second?’
‘When you tell him, at least try and sound pleased. Don’t start with the assumption that it’s the end of life as we know it.’
‘No ...’
‘Hmm?’
‘I know you’re right.’
‘Yeah, yeah – I know that tone of voice.’
‘No,’ protested George, ‘I do know it. It’s just that when two people know each other as well as Brian and me it’s awfully difficult to behave out of character. I mean, he’ll know that I’m not exactly over the moon, and he’ll also know that I know how he’s going to feel. And I know that—’
‘George.’
‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’
‘I won’t presume to say I understand but I do see what you’re getting at.’
‘Do you?’
‘I think so.’ Stella felt for the wine bottle and dealt another splash into each glass.
‘Cheers.’
‘How did it happen anyway? Silly question.’
George lifted a shoulder. ‘One got through. Nothing but the pill’s foolproof and I’ve not been on that for yonks. I suppose I imagined the old juices were beginning to dry up . . . But no, I’m still at the mercy of it all.’
‘You know you’re alive, though.’
‘In nine months’ time at three in the morning it’ll be the night of the living dead, I tell you. God, sometimes I envy you.’
Stella had almost subconsciously anticipated this turn in the conversation and prepared herself fo
r it but not, she found, quite well enough. She didn’t have to ask why, she knew George would tell her anyway.
‘You’ve got real independence, Stella. You’re in charge of your life. I’m not saying we could swap lives, each to her own, but I do sometimes wish I had the freedom-to-choose gene.’
‘I’m no different,’ Stella reminded her. ‘It wasn’t so long ago you were telling me not to let myself be pushed around by a man.’
‘God!’ George slapped a hand to her brow. ‘How could I have been so fucking condescending? Me of all people?’
‘You weren’t being condescending, it was sound sisterly advice. I only mention it to show that I am not the in-control ice maiden of your fantasies.’
‘So, anyway, how is the chap?’
‘Search me. I haven’t seen him in months.’
‘Choice or circumstance?’
Stella hoped that her hesitation was too slight to be noticed. ‘Choice.’
‘There you are, you see. Anyway, you’re okay about it.’
‘Not delirious. Resigned. Cool, I think your children would say. Cool about it.’
‘Cool? Oh!’ George rolled her head from side to side in torment. ‘Cool is what I long to be!’
Two days later Stella pointedly organised a trip to Fiesole, with a picnic. She even included Zoe, as a sort of lightning conductor to absorb any possible friction between herself and the other two. In fact the day was one of almost unparalleled sweetness and light, and one which she subsequently recognised as being a key point in her rehabilitation. This, she saw, was what she was cut out for and was good at – what was more it actually served a useful function in other people’s lives. She was ideally suited to the role of appropriate – or even when required inappropriate – adult without portfolio. Mark and Kirsty were coming into the age zone at which she and Jamie had first started to enjoy one another’s company. She was never anything but completely loyal to her sister and discreet about her own life, but still the children were beginning to see not just that she was different – which they had always known – but why she was. They were themselves on the edge, balancing on that sharp and uncomfortable cusp of teenagehood while at the same time assembling their view of others. There would be a spell, not quite yet, when her star would be in the ascendancy, when they would see her as the fount of all worldly wisdom, and that presented the most difficult line to tread – to retain their trust and affection while ensuring that their parents’ position remained unshaken.
Kirsty, with more than her share of a girl’s natural precocity, was ahead of the game. Mark was in turmoil, sometimes ill at ease, sometimes overdoing it, never quite getting it right. It came as no surprise to Stella that before lunch, when having walked up a steep hill to a vantage point below the church she declared herself ready to sit and drink a glass of wine in peace, it was Mark who took Zoe to explore and Kirsty who lay next to her with her sleek midriff exposed to the sun.
‘Stella – may I have some wine?’
‘Yes, if you like. But it’ll make you thirsty.’
‘I don’t care.’
Stella poured her a glass.
‘Thanks.’ She reared up on her elbow and took a sip. ‘I’ll have a Coke as well.’
‘Sure.’
‘Don’t you like the sun?’
‘I do, but it doesn’t like me.’
‘You mean, you don’t go brown?’
‘No. And I don’t want to be burnt, so I stay cool and pale.’
‘Mum doesn’t tan either, but Dad goes an amazing colour. He looks quite sexy on holiday.’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘Do you think?’ Kirsty squinted at her as if she’d walked into a trap. ‘Honestly?’
‘Of course. Your dad’s a good-looking man.’
This was going a bit far and Kirsty snorted with laughter. ‘Do you fancy him?’
Stella weighed this one up. ‘I could do. He’s fanciable. But he’s your dad, and your mum’s husband. So I don’t.’
‘He fancies you.’
‘He flirts with me, that’s not the same thing.’
‘He goes on about you. He calls you the sultry temptress.’
‘That’s a joke,’ Stella pointed out, but Kirsty was on a roll.
‘He does, he goes, “Is the sultry temptress going to be there, do I need more aftershave?” ’
‘And what does your mother say?’
‘Mum says, “Dream on, big boy.” ’ Kirsty sniggered. ‘She does. She doesn’t mind, she thinks it’s funny.’
‘She’s dead right.’
Stella laughed and Kirsty, gratified at the success of this sally, joined in and knocked over her wine.
‘Want some more?’
‘No, thanks.’
They were silent for a moment. They could hear the soft: wooden ‘clop’ of goat bells in the middle distance, and Zoe’s small voice, its higher frequency carrying to them on the still air, though they couldn’t make out what she was saying.
‘Mark’s being such a good brother,’ remarked Stella.
‘He is with Zoe, she’s a pushover.’
‘Don’t knock it, it leaves you and me with our hands free.’
Kirsty rolled on to her stomach and lay with her cheek on her arms, facing away from Stella.
‘Do you think my parents sleep together?’
‘Yes.’ It was one of those speak-first-think-later moments. ‘I do.’ ‘Lots of married people don’t.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve read it. In novels. In magazines. They get sick of each other.’
‘Probably some do. Having never tried marriage, I wouldn’t know. But it doesn’t strike me as true of your parents.’
‘Why not?’ This, Stella sensed, was not a trick or a trap, but a genuine enquiry.
‘Because your father wouldn’t flirt with me if he wasn’t happy. And your mum wouldn’t call him big boy if she wasn’t.’
There was a silence.
‘How does that grab you?’ asked Stella.
‘Okay.’
‘Kirsty.’
‘Yup.’
‘Do us a favour and go and find the others. It’s time we ate and Zoe must be cooking out there.’
‘Do I have to ...’
‘No.’
‘Oh, okay.’
Kirsty scrambled up. Her cheek, forearms and chest bore a pink lattice-pattern of grass stalks. Watching her trudge off, slapping the debris off her shorts and crop-top, Stella experienced a sudden pang of love for her niece, and a passionate empathy with her confused feelings now and for all the more confused ones that would follow – all the love and hate and hurt and emotional horsetrading that went on in the name of grown-up relationships.
After lunch they dozed and fired grassheads at one another and eventually collected up their stuff and found a cool dark bar in which to eat ice lollies. Three men were sitting at the back watching soccer on the television. Zoe went to join them and the youngest of them – a godlike being with slick, black hair and a grubby singlet – took her on to his knee and sat there with his arm round her, pointing out the star players with his half-smoked cigarette.
‘Is she all right?’ asked Mark.
Stella glanced. ‘She looks all right to me.’
Kirsty smirked. ‘He’s cute.’
‘Oooh!’
Stella said to Mark, ‘Go and watch if you’d like to.’
‘No, thanks. I wouldn’t half like a swim, though.’
‘You’re right. Home time.’
She paid the bill at the counter and retrieved Zoe from her admirers. They could hardly bear to let her go, pinching her cheeks, patting her legs, and ruffling her hair. When she primly flattened her hair and her sundress they laughed, enchanted. The young man who had held her on his knee asked: ‘Your daughter?’
Stella shook her head. ‘My niece. La mia niece.’
‘Aah!’ More smiles and laughter. The young man nodded towards Kirsty. ‘E questa signorina?�
�
‘Also my niece.’
He spread his hands in a gesture that conveyed wonder, desolation, acceptance. ‘So much beauty.’
When they got back the villa was silent. Mark and Kirsty were into the pool like a flash and Stella helped Zoe with her swimming costume and armbands and then sat on the side with her feet in the water to watch. She was almost certain that the silence boded well, it was part of a scenario that embraced declaration, confrontation, separation and reconciliation. This, she was sure, was the reconciliation bit – the big old bedroom cool and dark behind closed shutters, the bodies slithering and whispering on the cotton sheets, sucking and smacking with sweat where they touched . . .
But when an hour later she heard the light slap of footsteps on the stone floor no one appeared, and the next sound was that of the Volvo starting up and going away down the hill at speed. The kids, involved in a noisy infantile game involving the lilo and a lot of shouting, seemed not to have noticed. Stella sat tight.
Ten minutes later George emerged from the house with her arms folded, as if she were cold. She waggled a hand briefly at the children and walked round to join Stella who shone as broad a smile as she could manage.
‘How you doing?’
‘Hallo, I heard you were back. Sorry I didn’t come out sooner.’
‘That’s okay. We’re fine, as you see.’
‘Good day?’
‘I certainly enjoyed it.’
‘It was so kind of you.’
‘Not really. You must be doing something right, you have amazingly nice kids. I enjoyed their company.’
George burst into tears. There was no attempt at discretion, these were huge, heaving sobs of the end-of-tether variety. Stella took her by the elbow and pulled her to her feet.
‘Mark!’
‘Yeah – what’s the matter with Mum?’
‘She’s a bit under the weather, too much sun. Can you two keep an eye on Zoe for a moment?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘They won’t . . .’ muttered George wetly.
The Grass Memorial Page 52
