by Norrey Ford
The Signora came out. She was dressed in pink linen, her white hair coiled elegantly on the top of her head. ‘Good morning, signorina. I hope you slept well?’
‘Thank you, madam, I slept wonderfully. It is so quiet here, after a Rome hotel.’
She knows me. No nonsense about Bianca. I’m right, I know I’m right. Half her trouble is because people don’t bother to tell her things. And in having nothing to do, no object in life.
‘Signor Marco has returned to Rome,’ she ventured, wondering what the response would be.
Marco’s mother sat down and stared out to sea. ‘He comes and goes. He is always busy, that one.’ She seemed to take it for granted that Jan was wearing a sun-suit belonging to her daughter. Or did not notice.
‘Signora, you promised me an Italian lesson. Is it convenient now?’
‘Why not? Fetch my embroidery, child, and we can begin.’
Jan had no idea where to find the embroidery, but rang for Francesca and quickly made the girl understand, by gestures, what she required. Marco’s mother was a good teacher and seemed to enjoy Jan’s company, but after half an hour the girl called a halt. ‘You must not tire yourself. What do you do in the mornings, signora?’
‘Go round the gardens with my husband.’
Jan stood up and took the fine linen embroidery away. ‘But since your husband is not here today, will you go round with me?’
‘But naturally. You are our guest. Come and see.’ Without further comment, her hostess led Jan round the pool and into the garden proper.
The tour took time. There were so many corners, so many plants, and the Signora knew each one and what it needed. Flowers flowed like fountains from the walls, from tall white plant-stands. There were miniature rock gardens, and banks of ferns clustered round tiny fountains. The garden was so much part of the house, and the house part of the garden, that one could not always be sure whether one was indoors or out. Sometimes there was a view of the sea, and sometimes of the mountains. Up flights of steps, down into secret grottoes each with its stone deity and often a stone seat too. The Signora was tireless, drawn on and on by her enthusiasm, her love for every growing thing.
‘This is my husband’s favourite,’ she said so many times, and always with a glowing smile. But never, Jan noticed, did she expect her husband to appear. She was not looking for him. They were together in spirit only. It was the happiest hour of her day, Jan was convinced.
Reluctantly, she found herself agreeing with Marco. It would be cruel to sever this delicate link.
At last they came out on to a terrace, where chairs were set out, and a white wrought-iron table. The terrace overhung the sea on the harbour side of the island and dominated the view with a larger-than-life white statue of some Roman emperor set on the corner. Far below, Jan could see the busy little harbour, the bright coloured fishing boats, the gaily decorated horse-carriages; all looked like toys. Her companion sat down, with a little sigh as if her long walk had exhausted her. She pointed to a silver bell on the table, which Jan rang. Francesca appeared at once, with a tray of cool drinks and some almond cakes. Plainly this was a regular routine and the girl had been waiting for her mistress.
As they rested, Jan asked the Italian for harbour. Il porto. She memorized the word carefully. After the siesta, she would ask Dino to take her down there in the beach buggy, to buy postcards and perhaps find a few presents and souvenirs which would be different from the usual tourist trash.
‘There’s an orange tree!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘With oranges and blossom at the same time. I mean to make a list of all the things you have in this astonishing garden. But right now, I’m going to laze under it.’
The Signora smiled at her guest’s enthusiasm. ‘We planned the orange trees together, my husband and I. This was a bare rock when we began.’
Jan dragged her chair under the tree and tilted it till she could stare up through the fruit and flowers, and the sun filtered through the leaves.
‘Why don’t you go on planning?’
‘At my age? It’s too late. I would never see a new garden flower.’
‘For your grandchildren.’
‘I have none.’
Jan sat up again. ‘That’s no way for a gardener to talk. One plants for one’s children’s children, and you have Signor Marco and the Signorina Bianca. They will marry and they will have children. You could have a fountain with a baby, like the Moses fountain on the Pincine Hill in Rome. It would be the first of your grandchildren, but not the last.’
‘A new garden? I wonder where? There is the fern garden, we always meant to make that better. Fountains are difficult, here on the top of the rock. But a statue, that would be easy. I’ll speak to my husband about it.’
‘Speak to your son.’
The lady looked up sharply, with a strangely cunning smile. She knows, Jan decided suddenly. She’s perfectly aware that it’s Marco who is the head of the family now.
‘I’ll think about it. I’d forgotten the ideas we had for the fern garden. Perhaps Marco’s wife will help me.’
‘I didn’t know he was married.’ Jan felt a sudden shock of dismay. She had assumed, perhaps rashly, that the talk of Marco’s wife yesterday had been of no significance; one of those mistakes confused minds can make. But what if he really did have a wife somewhere?
She lay back and squinted up through the orange leaves. So what? It’s of no importance to me. Except, of course, that an unmarried man is always more interesting to a girl than a married one. And he really is rather a charmer, in spite of being so touchy.
Could I fall in love with him? He possesses terrific physical attraction, and he would know how to charm a woman if he tried. Instinctively she knew he would be more experienced, more passionate, more demanding than any of the boys she’d known. A woman could be wax in his hands. And if, added to physical passion, there should prove to be that affinity of soul and heart which alone can turn desire into deep and lasting love, he could know the sort of glorious marriage of which he dreamed. A marriage for all eternity, as his father and mother had known. Two dear lovers whom even death could not entirely divide.
I could fall in love with him, she decided, if he wanted me to. He could make any woman love him. But it would be a tragedy if he did not love in return, for having loved Marco Cellini, how could anyone be satisfied with another?
The Signora had dozed lightly; upright in her chair. Softly, Jan got up and prowled round this eyrie so high above the sea. The sheer drop was carefully guarded by elegant white rails, but in the farthest corner she found a gate which opened on to the rock and a narrow staircase leading down.
Interested, she leaned over to see where it led, but it quickly curved away and disappeared. Too dangerous, perhaps? But there was a handrail of sorts, so it must have been used once. Perhaps when Marco was a boy his feet would go flying down here, without any sense of danger? Because, unless it ended in some little ledge, with perhaps an old seat, just another viewpoint, that path must eventually come down on the shore. There might be a private beach.
Cautiously she pushed the gate. It opened silently on oiled hinges. If she could just peer round the corner—
It was not as difficult as she had feared. The handholds had been renewed, and the steps were in good repair. Like everything else she had seen at the Villa Tramonti, this staircase was cared for, even if no one used it now. At the corner she saw its continuation. It did, indeed, go all the way down to a narrow white beach, with the sea over the sand emerald and turquoise, and a tiny thumbnail of white foam on the edge.
It would be easy enough to get down, if one were careful. The return not so easy, being so steep; but possible. Although there were shrubs, and clumps of magenta valerian, the steps were not overgrown. Maybe Bianca used it. Tomorrow, Jan decided, I’ll go down and swim in the sea—the real thing, turquoise and emerald and azure.
Lunch was a featherlight pizza, with anchovies and olives. And after lunch the Villa Tramonti retired f
or the siesta, and Jan began to feel a touch of boredom. All Bianca’s books were Italian, and it was too hot to study. Siesta might be a good idea after all.
She woke about four, and went in search of Dino. The boy was gardening, but when Jan said firmly, ‘il porto, per favore,’ he grinned cheerfully and trotted off, indicating that he would bring the buggy to the main archway soon. His idea of soon being Italian and not British, Jan was there first. She was wearing her own dress and sunhat, feeling it would not be right to appear amongst the islanders in Bianca’s distinctive clothes: She planned to spend a long time wandering round the harbour and small village, and there seemed to be a Byzantine church which might repay exploration. So when Dino at last arrived, she smiled happily and climbed in beside him.
‘Il porto, Dino?’
‘Si, si, signorina.’
Certain that the boy understood she wanted the harbour, Jan made no comment when he started away uphill instead of down. No doubt he knew what he was doing. Before long they emerged on to a lonely coastal road, with magnificent views of the headlands and the sea. From the road almost down to the water’s edge, cascades of flowering broom fell like rivers of gold.
Dino grinned. ‘Bella, bella!’ He waved a hand proudly, as if he had himself laid out the road and the view.
A coastal road would, in time, lead to the harbour, so Jan agreed happily and settled down to enjoy Dino’s conducted tour. He stopped at a village and invited her to walk around. The houses, heaped together like a box of spilled bricks, were white or blue, yellow or Pompeiian red, but she was shocked by the dirt and all too obvious poverty. One house was built of ragged lumps of old concrete cemented together crudely. The roof consisted of terracotta drainpipes stacked six deep and covered in cement. There was no proper door and Jan felt pretty sure the floor was trodden earth. Goats and children played around the front of this shack. She shuddered, thinking the only good feature of the village was the fresh sea air and constant sunshine.
Returning to the buggy, she said again firmly that she wished to go to the harbour. He gave his usual happy nod, and set off at a reckless speed over the bumpy road. Half an hour later, after a breathtakingly lovely drive round the coast, he drew up triumphantly and waved a hand towards an ancient castle perched high on a solitary rock. ‘Castello!’ Then, turning and pointing to the heights from which they had descended, ‘Villa Tramonti.’
This must be, then, the castle visible from the Villa, where Bianca’s godfather lived, and from which he waved sometimes to the girl. Shading her eyes, she stared up till she located the roof of the Villa.
Time was getting on, and although she felt sure Dino was doing his best to give her an enjoyable outing, she began to feel irritated by her failure to reach the harbour and the few shops she had seen there. By now they must be a long way from home and there would be little time for the souvenir-hunting.
‘Dino,’ she said loudly and clearly in English, more than half convinced that he could understand, ‘I want to go to the harbour. Boats. Harbour.’ Suddenly she remembered the name of Marco’s boat. ‘The Drusus. Take me to the Drusus.’
‘Ah!’ Understanding lit the boy’s face. ‘Drusus? Si, si, signorina.’
‘If you say si, si again and don’t take me there, Dino, I will strangle you with my own hands!’
Another five minutes and the buggy jerked to another stop. They were as high above the harbour as ever. Dino leaned over a stone wall, pointing.
‘Drusus, signorina!’
Jan began to giggle. What an absurd afternoon! She had credited Dino with more understanding than the poor boy possessed, or her Italian was much worse than she had realised. Seeing her laughter, Dino laughed too.
‘Bella?’
The view certainly was beautiful, even though the harbour was as far out of reach as ever. ‘Tomorrow, Dino, we’ll try again. Let’s go home now. Villa Tramonti.’
He nodded. ‘Villa Tramonti.’ Then he jabbed a finger towards the port. ‘Il porto.’
How could she destroy his pride of achievement? ‘Thank you, Dino. Grazie.’
In the cool drawing room of the Villa, the mistress of the house was sitting with her embroidery. She looked up, smiled, and calling Jan Bianca, spoke to her in Italian.
Back to Square One!
Early next morning Jan put on one of Bianca’s bikinis, and her own trusty shoes. Then, with towel and sandals slung round her neck, she slipped away to find the steps down to that secret beach she coveted. She had a great longing to swim in the sea, and an even greater longing to be alone.
The gate was padlocked.
She felt sick with shock. That padlock definitely wasn’t there yesterday.
Yesterday she had walked through the gate and tested the path. Had someone seen her, and decided she was not to go down that way? If the steps were unsafe, surely the Signora could have told her? Who had made the decision—and why that heavy chain?
Dino had frustrated her desire to go down to the harbour yesterday. Was that lack of understanding, in such an apparently sensible and trusted young man? Or had it been done on purpose?
If so, did it tie up with the locking of the gate which effectively prevented her getting down to the beach?
‘In other words,’ she said aloud, staring back at the silent garden, ‘is someone trying to keep me a prisoner here?’
CHAPTER III
Jan sat on the warm stone, the morning sun across her shoulders, and stared into the azure distance, thinking hard. She hugged her knees and sat so still that presently a tiny green lizard flicked out from a crack and sunned itself beside her, the minute throat pulsating.
Marco’s stated purpose in bringing her to his villa was to keep an eye on his mother during his sister’s absence, but it was beginning to look as if he had another, and secret, purpose of his own.
It could be that the gate to the beach path was normally padlocked. It could be that Dino had not understood her repeated requests to be taken to the harbour. Maybe she was making a mountain out of a molehill.
It’s not that he planned to seduce me, she decided. He’s shown no signs of being impressed by my feminine charm. His only interest in my looks is that I’m very like his sister, and—
She caught her breath. Very like his sister!
He insisted that she wore Bianca’s clothes. Twice, he had asked her to wave to people at a distance—strangers who couldn’t possibly know her. He had encouraged her to play Bianca’s guitar.
‘So!’ She spoke aloud, and the lizard flickered into his crack with the speed of lightning. Was that what her host was up to? Had he brought her here to act as a stand-in for his absent sister? It was all right, was it, to be seen driving in the open beach buggy with Dino? But not permitted to stroll around the town where anybody could see she wasn’t Bianca Cellini?
So where was Bianca? Was she dead? No, because even an autocrat like Marco could hardly conceal a death for long. Had she eloped, made a marriage of which her brother disapproved? Young Italian girls of good family were strictly brought up and expected to obey the male head of the house, but Bianca’s room and her possessions suggested she had absorbed some pretty modern notions. So she might be defying Marco somewhere. Perhaps he had her locked up in some horrible dungeon in the rocks until she submitted and did whatever it was he wanted.
Whatever his motive, he had no right to involve Jan in it, without telling her. The more she thought about it, the more angry she became. She shivered suddenly, and saw that her bare arms had goose-pimpled. Not because she was apprehensive about her own situation, but because the sun had moved and left her in deep shade.
She moved over, following the warmth, stretched full length, prone under the orange trees, her chin on her hands. He couldn’t keep me here after the end of my holiday; there’s the British Consul, with my passport; and the bank, dealing with my lost travellers’ cheques. They know I’m here. The masquerade will have to end when my holiday ends, and Marco knows it.
The scent
of orange blossom and canna lilies was heavy this morning, so presently she gathered up her swimming things and went to the pool. There was time for a leisurely swim before her Italian lesson with the Signora.
After the lesson, the walk round the garden with Signora Cellini, the slow walk from one plant to the next. As they passed the white arched gate, Dino greeted them. The boy was washing and polishing the gaily painted buggy, and the sight of the little vehicle put a mischievous idea into Jan’s mind.
She left her companion in the long gallery overlooking the sea, and raced back to the gate, snatching up her Greek canvas shoulder-bag as she passed the pool.
‘Dino, the Signora wants you at once—in the open gallery, by the bronze statue. Hurry!’
The boy dropped his polishing cloth and ran off on brown bare feet. Jan gave him a couple of minutes’ start, then slipped into the driving seat and started the engine. The thing was simplicity itself to drive, but Jan remembered the eight hairpin bends on the precipitous road to the harbour, and went carefully. She had no doubt the Signora would believe she had sent for Dino, and find him a dozen jobs to do among the flowers before releasing him. She had plenty of time.
Parking her vehicle, Jan wandered round the harbour, watching the boats rocking on azure water, the fishermen mending coloured nets; peering into blue-painted wooden pails to admire the striped and gaudy fish so different from any she had seen on an English fishmonger’s slab. Pretty, they looked, but she had learned by experience that none had the good flavour of cold-water fish, cod and plaice, halibut and sole.
Leaving the harbour, she soon discovered the town, which had a miniature piazza surrounded by shops and cafes, and with a fine though small church at the top of a sweep of steps. A beggar woman sat on the steps by the church door; children played with a ball, a dog slept in the shade. Barini not having a regular ferry service, it had escaped the tourist invasion so far, and Jan enjoyed the experience of seeing the beauty of the old buildings and shops not swallowed up in advertisements of hotels, restaurants, and garages. There was, however, a bright clean cafe with basket chairs and coloured umbrellas, and here, when she began to feel hot and tired after her explorations, she sat for a while, ordered a coffee-flavoured ice, and thought about Marco.
