by Babs Horton
“None of us knew she had a son, even. What a dark horse she turned out to be! Anyhow, she said her son was adopted and he grew up in America, does some sort of work in films, a producer or some such thing. Apparently she had him years ago by the black fellow who worked up at Killivray. He came to a sad end and her father made her give the baby up.”
“What an ending,” Fleep said.
“Imagine living in a dump of a place like the Boathouse and then being whisked off somewhere glamorous like America. Los Angeles, I think she said he lived. Mind, she deserves a bit of comfort after the life she’s had.”
Cissie finished her drawings of the parrot and crept closer to the bird, holding her head on one side the way he did.
“What’s your name?”
“Zucca. Who’s a silly Zucca.”
Nan looked up from the bar. “I hope he’s not saying what I think he’s saying,” she said, “or he’ll end up in a stew.”
“Dio mio! Gwennie’s in a stew!” the parrot yelled.
“You’re a silly young bugger!”
“He’s a very rude bird,” Cissie said. “But I like him.”
Archie barely had a moment to himself once the Ristorante Skilly was opened. Lena and Alfredo, Martha, Archie and Lissia were run off their feet. The inquisitive villagers of Santa Caterina trooped down to taste Lena Galvini’s cooking and pronounced it good. In the following days old men came early in the morning and took up residence at the outside tables, drinking wine and coffee, playing cards and smoking. Soon it was as if the Ristorante Skilly had always been a part of Santa Caterina. Tiny birds came on the search for scraps and a three-legged dog adopted the doorstep. A few tourists found their way to the restaurant and soon word spread and the place was full most evenings. As Lena worked tirelessly in the kitchen, she glowed with happiness and Alfredo watched her with pride.
Martha Grimble worked alongside Lena and learned how to make pizza, pasta, risotto and many other things. For the first time in years she was happy, although sometimes she caught Lena looking at her as though she hadn’t quite fathomed her out.
Lissia washed up like a trouper, never tiring of the piles of plates and dishes that came relentlessly in from the restaurant. In quieter moments she blew bubbles between her thumb and finger and all the while Martha watched over her solicitously.
Archie, resplendent in his first ever pair of long black trousers, became the apprentice waiter to Alfredo, who watched him proudly as he handed out the menus to the customers and took the orders. Sometimes he looked from Lissia to Archie and wondered how the boy would take it if he ever found out she was his mother, and it made him afraid. Secrets of this sort weren’t good for anyone, they could only bring sorrow.
The letter from the porker came out of the blue at the end of the first full week of the restaurant being opened. It had been sent to Bag End but the postman had taken it to the Pilchard and Nan had sent it on. Archie watched his Mammy with trepidation as she read it.
He was dreading the day when they had to leave Santa Caterina. He didn’t want to imagine living under the same roof as the porker ever again. And what about Lissia? She would hate him and he would be unkind to her.
“What does it say, Mammy?” he asked. “Is he coming to fetch us?”
Martha Grimble put down the letter and wiped her eyes. Lena paused in her kneading of dough. Alfredo eyed Martha warily over his coffee cup. Archie held his breath while Lissia yawned and sucked the ends of her hair.
“No, Archie, he’s not coming for us.”
Archie let go of his breath and uncrossed his fingers. That was the best news he’d heard in ages.
“He’s never coming for us,” she said mysteriously and put the letter into the stove where the flames snatched at it greedily and reduced it to ash.
Archie, hardly able to keep the smile off his face, slipped quietly out of the kitchen.
Alfredo poured a small brandy for Martha and sat beside her at the kitchen table.
“You feel okay, Martha?”
She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
“What does he say in this letter?”
“Alfredo, I was so frightened that he would blackmail me, he was always threatening to tell the authorities what I did, what we both did. I always bought him off until the money ran out. But you see I couldn’t let them take Lissia’s baby. I couldn’t let him go, not my own nephew.”
“I understand. Is not really stealing to take your own family,” Alfredo soothed.
“The authorities wouldn’t see it like that. My father wanted nothing to do with the child, he wanted him adopted, forgotten about. It was all my idea to steal him, I persuaded Walter to go along with me, to pose as Mr Connolly from Wexford. Anyhow he’s written me to say that he’s sorry that he ran off so quickly but that just before he left the Skallies he’d been threatened. Someone had followed him back from the phone box one night and had told him to stay away from me and Archie.”
“Who would threaten him?” Alfredo said.
“He’s probably made that up to get himself off the hook. The man is a born liar. He’s fallen on his feet, got himself a little business of some sorts, met someone in London and says that he has feelings for her.”
“My goodness, I don’t know what to say.”
“Hah, he’s never had feelings for anyone in his life! The selfish bastard! He wants a divorce so that he can remarry.”
“I very sorry, Martha.”
“Oh don’t be sorry, Alfredo. I have never felt better. Now, where are those sardines you wanted me to stuff with breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese?”
Alfredo and Lena looked at Martha Grimble and couldn’t quite believe what they saw. She was a different woman to the quiet, downtrodden Martha Grimble they remembered from Bag End.
Archie finished clearing the tables after lunch, then went upstairs and took off his waiting clothes. Everyone else was taking a siesta. Leaving the house, he made his way up through the silent shuttered streets. He walked quickly, past sleeping cats and panting dogs too exhausted by the heat to bark at his passing.
The garden of the Casa delle Stelle was deserted except for a beady-eyed cockerel who watched Archie from the top of a high wall. It was a lovely garden and it was a shame that no one tended it. William Dally would love it here: there was a vegetable patch badly in need of digging; tomato bushes weighed down with bulbous fruit; and a small dry fountain that was choked with weeds. Whoever owned the Casa delle Stelle now didn’t take much pride in the place.
He stood among the sunflowers, looking at the house. A lizard skittered across the wall and disappeared into the trailing purple flowers that grew down from the roof. The cat that Lissia had chased was stretched out on the broken bench, asleep.
No sounds came from the house and the front door was shut. Everyone in Santa Caterina kept their front doors open when they were at home. He looked up at the convent and heaved a sigh of relief; the shutters were firmly closed against the heat and there was no sign of nosy old Sister Isabella spying on him.
He made his way furtively round to the back of the house and climbed in through the window. It was cool inside and he opened a shutter so that he could see his way. The fruit bowl on the table was empty and the wine had been drunk so someone must be living here. Creeping quietly up the stairs, he went straight to the locked room and with bated breath tried the handle. To his surprise the door swung open.
He had been right! Someone must have been hiding in there the last time he’d been here. It stood to reason; someone had to be in a room to lock it from the inside. He peeped round the door anxiously but the room was empty.
There was a large bed that had been hastily made, a chest of drawers and a rush-backed chair over which a towel was draped. He picked it up. It was still damp.
On top of the chest of drawers there was a small powder compact, the sort that women used to take the shine off their noses. The room smelled faintly of rose-scented soap, of cigarettes and pine.
/> He made his way back to the room next door, opened the roll-top desk and looked through it again. There were piles of unused envelopes and writing paper, a packet of sunflower seeds but nothing much of any interest. He was wasting his time. Sister Isabella had been right, sometimes it is best to leave the past alone and concentrate on today.
He stepped up to the window and looked out. The garden was quiet, the sun bright in the afternoon sky…
Suddenly his heart lurched painfully. Down in the garden someone was singing softly. A face bobbed above the sunflowers. It was Sister Angelica, the nun who had brought them drinks the day he’d been in the convent. The one who could forge passports and whose father had been a gangster.
What was she doing here? What should he do? He went back into the first room where the single beds were and glanced around, shivering with fright. He wanted to be out of the cool house now, to feel the sun on his face.
He wondered if he had time to get back out through the window but already he heard the key rasping in the lock…
He scrabbled under the nearest bed and lay there listening. Downstairs Sister Angelica hummed to herself as she clattered about. He heard the sweep of a stiff brush as she cleaned and the sound of a tap running. She was humming loudly; it was a tune that he knew vaguely, the one played by the music box that Lena had given him…
Da da da da da da dad a dad a doh…
He wanted to hum along. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where he first knew that tune from but he’d heard it even before Lena had given him the music box.
He prayed that Sister Angelica wouldn’t come upstairs. He imagined her kneeling down, her face looking in at him as he cowered under the bed. He wondered who would be more afraid and he knew the answer.
He heard her climb the stairs and bit his fist in an effort to stem the rising screech that was building up in the back of his throat He heard the pad of her soft-soled shoes go along the corridor and into the room where the desk was. He heard the drawer in the roll-top desk open and then the click as the gun was cocked.
He felt the hairs rise on the nape of his neck; goose pimples erupted like mini volcanoes on his arms and legs.
He listened as her footsteps approached. She stopped. The door to the room where he was hiding creaked as it opened. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep quiet. With relief he heard her go back downstairs.
He must have been under the bed for ages and he was aching all over. Finally, he heard the key turn in the lock and Sister Angelica singing as she made her way back through the garden.
Archie slipped out from under the bed and as he did his foot caught against something; there was an old shoe box tucked up against the wall. He slid it out from under the bed, opened the lid and looked inside.
His eyes grew wide, his mouth dry. He slumped down onto the bedroom floor with the box in his lap. He sat motionless in a pool of dying light. He knew now what had happened to Thomas Greswode.
Sister Angelica poured a glass of wine for Sister Isabella and together they sat watching the moon rise above the convent.
“Was the boy in the house when you got there?” Sister Isabella asked.
“Oh, yes, he was hiding under the bed. I could hear his breathing from the corridor!”
Sister Isabella grinned.
“He’s a persistent little fellow, isn’t he? How did he get in?”
“Through the little window at the back. It was lucky you saw him snooping about and we had time to change our plans. Is everything organized, Sister Isabella?”
“Yes. We make our move tonight. A boat will arrive close to midnight to take our people out. From here they go to Ischia, they will remain there for several weeks and then move on to France. Are their papers all in order?”
“Yes. And from France where do they go next?”
“After that no one knows. Il Camaleonte prefers it that way.”
“Have they the gun in case of any trouble?”
“Yes. But I don’t think they’ll need it. After tonight we will have no more worries for a while. And when they have gone our brave friend Miriam must make herself scarce.”
“Has she a new passport?”
“No, she has many already. She is as slippery as an eel, that one.”
“And soon our special guest arrives?”
“God willing that he’s strong enough to make it here,” Sister Isabella said and made the sign of the cross.
Archie could not sleep. He crept out of bed, opened the shutters and looked out into the starry night The moon was huge and dripped a silvered pathway across the gently heaving sea.
The candles in the shrines outside the houses lining the harbour flickered in the warm breeze and the smell of rosemary and lemons was strong in the air. Out at sea the lights on a fishing boat twinkled and then died.
He sat down on the side of his bed and began to reread the letter that Benjamin Tregantle had left for him.
…People aren’t always what they seem—usually they’re a lot better, but not always.
He thought of the nuns at the convent They weren’t what they seemed at all. He’d never heard anything like it Nuns with guns and perms. Passport forgers!
He read on:
Take yourself down to the wobbly chapel…you might be lucky, find yourself a proper mystery to solve there, a real piece of detective work.
And he had. He’d found out what had most likely happened to Boreo Orore. Yet he was sure that Benjamin hadn’t known what Archie would find hidden inside the font. If he’d known a secret like that, he’d have told, brought the murderers to justice, wouldn’t he? And Benjamin couldn’t have known that he’d meet Romilly and that his interest would be kindled in the life of Thomas Greswode. This wasn’t the mystery that Benjamin had meant him to find, he’d just stumbled into this by accident.
…you’re the type of boy who could find out things…if you put your mind to it and stopped being afraid of every bloody thing.
And he had put his mind to it and he had stopped being afraid of every bloody thing but it was luck that set him out on the trail. It was luck that Gwennie had fired the gun and he’d run into the woods. It was coincidence that Romilly had been in the summerhouse and had asked him if he was Thomas Greswode. Benjamin couldn’t have known that all those things would happen to him.
Or that Romilly would give him the diary she’d found in the summerhouse. He’d give anything right now to talk to Romilly, to tell her all that had happened to him since the last time he’d seen her. He imagined the look on her face when he told her what he had discovered here in Santa Caterina.
He put the letter away and took the photograph out of his knapsack. He looked at the young, hopeful face of Thomas Greswode standing outside the summerhouse at Killivray.
He knew now what had happened to him but there were still some things that he was desperate to know and he was sure that there was only one person in Santa Caterina who could tell him the truth. And as soon as he could, he was going to pay her a visit.
“There are no secrets locked away in this world that the curious can’t find a key to open up,” Benjamin had said.
As he stood at the window and looked out, he realized that something was different. The walkway beneath his window was darker than usual. He leant out and looked down. He saw that the candle had gone out in the shrine.
Moments later the one on the house next door was extinguished too. He leant out of the window and watched.
A figure moved furtively amongst the shadows…
One by one the candles were stubbed out and apart from the moonlight the darkness was almost complete.
What was it that Alfredo had said? When the nuns wanted to move people in and out of the convent, the good people of Santa Caterina put out the candles and dosed the shutters on their houses to give them cover of darkness.
A boat approached the harbour and the motor was suddenly cut. He heard the sound of oars moving almost silently through the water. There were muffled voices in t
he darkness below. Archie watched as two men climbed up the steps and their heads appeared over the harbour wall He stepped back from the window in fright, the men’s faces were covered in black masks and they looked eerie and threatening. Archie edged closer to the window again. One of the men looked up suddenly and saw him. His eyes glinted fiercely in the moonlight and he signalled to Archie to close the shutters. With shaking hands he obeyed and then sat down on the bed, quaking with fear.
He imagined the dark-clad figures making their way through the narrow streets of Santa Caterina towards the towering convent He was sure that right now out there in the dark night the nuns would be opening the side gate to let people in or let them out.
Time passed slowly but as the church clock chimed one o’ clock he was aware of muffled noises outside, the sound of a motor starting up and the stifled giggling of a child. He waited a moment, then he opened the shutters a crack and looked down. The boat was gone. The candles burned again in the shrines, small oases of light in the quiet darkness.
Archie woke just as the sun began to rise, streaking the sky with crimson and amber weals. He got up, took off his nightclothes and looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. Benjamin would have a real shock if he could see him now. He had grown at least two inches and his ribs didn’t stick out like they did last winter. His face was fatter and he had lost that pinched and peaky look. His eyes looked very blue against his tanned skin. His legs had muscles and the thin one was beefing up a bit. He didn’t wear the calliper all the time now that the leg was getting stronger. He smiled at his reflection, pleased with what he saw.
He dressed hurriedly, crept silently down the stairs and out of the house. Passing the bread shop, he waved to the sleepy-eyed young girl who was opening the shutters. She looked him up and down and giggled.
Breathless by the time he reached the convent, he yanked the bell. Deep inside, the bell rang out.
A small, wary-eyed nun who he had never seen before pulled back the grille in the door and peered out at Archie enquiringly.
