One Hot Summer

by Norrey Ford

  One should never accept the obvious. Bianca might have gone some other way. Someone might have fetched her, perhaps from the beach below. It would be easier to make a secret getaway from one’s own garden than to walk on to the supply boat carrying a suitcase. Fifty people could have seen her, noticed that Signorina Cellini had luggage, speculated on her destination. In a peasant community it was likely that no member of the Cellini family left the villa for any purpose, without being noticed and discussed.

  The beach, then? The only place a Cellini could leave unnoticed. Jan promised herself that as soon as the villa settled to the afternoon siesta, she would go down and look around, even if it meant braving that sheer ladder alone.

  Before lunch, when she went to tidy her hair and add a skirt to the brief swimsuit in which she had spent the morning, Jan riffled through the long fitted wardrobe, wondering not for the first time what Bianca had taken with her. If there were gaps, they were not evident.

  She looked again at the pretty beauty box full of make-up. Bianca liked experimenting, that was obvious. Shoes and sandals? Dozens of them. Whatever the girl had seen fit to take, it had not made much impact on her ample stock of lovely clothes. She had travelled light. Why? She did not seem like the simple-life type.

  Somewhere in these two rooms lay the clue to their owner’s whereabouts; a clue, that is, to her thinking and planning. Marco would not know. He was too much of a man to know much about a woman’s clothes.

  Francesca? It was too near lunchtime now to ring for the girl, but at the next opportunity Jan resolved to question her. Meantime, the beach.

  When all the villa was sunk in the silence of the afternoon siesta, Jan crept down the path to the hidden beach. Tight-lipped, she tackled the ladder. Once on the rungs, her face turned towards the rocks, it was not too bad. She fought the temptation to look down, and so was surprised when her groping foot touched sand instead of iron. She blew out a sigh of relief.

  The sand was warm and soft. The sea turquoise in the shallows, emerald over the rocks and seaweed farther out; and then that intense, brilliant blue that only the Bay of Naples can be. But it was empty. The tiny bay, cupped between tiny headlands, was silent except for the sibilant whisper of the water among the rocks.

  Could a boat land? She paddled along the white ruffles of foam, head down, thinking hard. Thinking herself into another girl’s mind. Then inevitably, her thoughts came round to Marco Cellini and her own imminent departure for home.

  It was her own choice to go. She had only to say the word, and this life in the sun was hers. Marco could be generous about salary. The duties would not be onerous. And she would be within sight and sound of the man she loved, for as long as she chose to stay.

  So why go back to an English winter, the long hours in the wards, the examinations still to come?

  Luxury, ease, sunshine, and a good salary were hers for the taking. So why not say yes? Why not take a chance that one day, sooner or later, Marco Cellini might fall in love with her? Stranger things had happened. The man was not indifferent to her—his kisses proved that.

  True, they had quarrelled. But they had also made up their quarrels, and grown a little in understanding by doing so. They had been good companions on occasion; talking, exchanging ideas, arguing, laughing. Such beginnings could blossom into love.

  Whereas if she took the long tiresome train and ship journey home, there would be no chance at all for her. Why be such a fool, Jan Lynton?

  Ankle-deep in creaming foam, she had almost reached the rocks at one side of the bay. Shading her eyes, she scanned them carefully for a cranny where a boat might be concealed. Nothing. The rock went sheer into the water, the cracks in it big enough to grow a clump of valerian or broom, no more.

  Turning, she kicked up a small shell and stopped to pick it up. The small, exquisitely sculpted thing lay on her palm, outside creamy white, the lining rosy and lustrous as a pink pearl. As she examined it with delight, a pair of strong male arms clasped her tightly; a man’s voice, certainly not Marco’s, poured out a flood of rapid Italian. She could feel his breath in her hair.

  She screamed at the top of her voice, kicked backwards viciously with her heel, and felt it jar on what she hoped was her attacker’s shin.

  Instantly she was released. A large brown hand steadied her when she staggered and almost fell.

  ‘Santo cielo! Cosa fa? You are not Bianca!’

  ‘I am not Bianca,’ she agreed crossly. ‘And you are trespassing. This is a private beach. How did you get here and what are you doing?’

  She spoke to the intruder in the tones Sister Macfarlane used to a tiresome patient, unconsciously adopting Sister’s intimidating stance, shoulders back, chin high, eyes blazing. That she was clad in a pink bikini instead of the crisp uniform of St Cleo’s made little difference. The young man was abashed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said meekly. ‘It was a mistake.’

  He was about twenty-five, she reckoned. Dark, slender, black hair curling neatly into his neck and making him look like a Greek statue. Blue eyes in an olive-skinned face. Eyes and mouth which were almost laughing in spite of the penitent attitude and humble apology.

  Jan pointed her finger at him, exclaiming: ‘You thought I was Bianca! So you must be Bianca’s boyfriend? I mean—’ she frowned, searching for the right words, ‘you love Bianca?’

  The boy straightened and bowed, as if in some elegant drawing-room. ‘I have that honour, signorina.’

  ‘At last! Well, where is she?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Is the Signorina Bianca not at home?’

  ‘You know quite well she isn’t. She has been missing for over a week. Her brother is almost out of his mind with worry, but that’s not so important as her mother. Will you please stop playing games and bring her home? Don’t pretend. This is serious. Her mother needs her—she is ill.’

  The boy said nothing. He stared at Jan, and if a suntanned olive skin can whiten, that was what happened. The blood drained from his face and for a moment Jan thought he would drop into the water in a dead faint. He closed his eyes tightly, shook his head like a dog emerging from a bath.

  ‘Missing? Bianca is missing? But where is she? Is no one searching for her? Has she had an accident? Santo cielo! She might be drowned.’

  ‘She might,’ Jan agreed gravely. ‘But we don’t think so. I thought she might be with you.’

  The boy was shocked. ‘But never! That would not be discreet, and Bianca is a young lady well brought up. I would never ask her to do such a thing—never.’

  ‘But you’ve been meeting her secretly, here on this beach? Is that discreet?’

  He spread eloquent hands. ‘Signorina, we love each other!’

  ‘And I suppose you swam round the headland, in the best traditions of Hero and Leander? Very romantic—but becoming serious if Bianca doesn’t come back soon. You’d better tell me all you know. Shall we sit down in the shade and talk? My name is Jan Lynton and I’m English, as you will have guessed from my shaky Italian.’

  ‘You speak very good Italian—for an Englishwoman. I am Paolo Ricardo, employed in the Cellini concern.’ His smile flashed. ‘One of their bright young men, supposed to have a big future. But nevertheless, one of the hired hands, and so not acceptable as a match for the daughter of the Cellini house.’

  ‘Why not? Our princesses are allowed to marry commoners these days, if it’s a love match. What is good enough for the British royal family should be good enough for Marco Cellini.’

  ‘Perhaps you will tell him so, signorina?’

  ‘I certainly will, given a chance. Now let’s get out of this water and conduct a proper conversation. There’s a useful rock over there, and if you’d be kind enough to fetch my wrap from the foot of the ladder, there are cigarettes in the pocket.’

  ‘Bianca and I met at one of the firm’s social functions,’ Paolo began when they were comfortably settled in the shade of the rock. ‘We fell in love that evening. We both knew it was foo
lish, wrong. She was already affianced. But love, signorina, love is like the wind. Who can tell when it will blow, and in what direction; who can stop it?’

  ‘It was for you to be wise and strong for her sake, Paolo. You should never have met again.’

  ‘Easy to say, when one is not in love. But when one is? We met in the Farnese Gardens in Rome—just once. And then again, to say goodbye. And then—’

  ‘Then you started swimming?’ Jan’s sympathy was wholly with the lovers, caught between the overwhelming power of young love and the rigid traditions of a proud family, a binding engagement. Romeo and Juliet, struggling in a cruel net.

  ‘I keep a boat, in Ischia harbour. It is anchored just around the rocks there. We have been waiting till Bianca could extricate herself from the engagement to Rafaello. She hoped her brother would listen to her, but he was so angry when she even mentioned the matter.’ He turned to look into Jan’s face. ‘Bianca is not very brave, signorina. She is afraid of her brother.’

  ‘Why? He seems a reasonable man, and young. Surely if she told him she was in love with someone else, he would at least try to understand.’

  ‘Ah, but he has never been in love himself, she says. One day he may learn about the pain of loving, and be more sympathetic. As a matter of fact, Bianca has not mentioned me.’

  ‘I thought not. Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I am an employee, completely in the Signore’s power.’

  ‘You mean he’d sack you? But that’s not fair. And even if he did, would that matter? You say you’re one of the firm’s bright boys? I suppose that means management trainee or something? If you’re good enough for the Cellini undertaking, you’re good enough for anyone else. There must be big opportunities for brains in the Common Market.’

  ‘That’s what I tell Bianca. But she is afraid of what Marco Cellini might do, to ruin my career. We Italians are not tolerant people; we feel intensely, and hit our enemies hard. Cellini has much power. So she is afraid for me.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette in the sand and turned towards Jan. ‘Signorina, I have told you too much. You will tell the Signore everything? Whatever he does to me will not matter, if Bianca is found. You understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Paolo. I want to keep your secret, but I am in a dilemma. I am Marco Cellini’s guest, he has been kind to me. To keep your secret means betraying his hospitality. You do see that?’

  ‘Yes. But if it must be so, it must be. I myself am willing to face him any time, and ask him for his sister’s hand in marriage. But he will simply tell me that she is not free and I have no right to ask. What he does to me after that is unimportant. As you say, I can find other employment, perhaps in another country. Bianca wishes us to go gently, to take no risks. She believes she can win him round in the end.’

  Jan let the fine soft sand trickle through her fingers. She did not answer at once.

  ‘Paolo,’ she said at last, ‘I believe Bianca is right. From what I know of Marco, he will not be rushed into an important decision like this. I will give you a little longer, but if Bianca is not back in two days, I must tell. Now, let us put our heads together and think. Where is she?’

  ‘I swear I do not know.’

  ‘Do you think she ran away to try and bring Marco round; to make him understand she really meant it when she said she wouldn’t marry Raf?’

  ‘She is capable of that. If they had a quarrel—if she lost patience—she is a passionate and self-willed girl in some ways. Gentle and loving, too. It has been hard for her.’

  ‘They did quarrel—Marco told me. The next day she was gone. Think, Paolo. Think hard. Where did she go? What friends has she?’

  ‘Few of her own age. Giulia and Pietro in Frascati would sympathise and hide her. She’d be safe with them. Otherwise—’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Rome is full of hippies, and wandering young people of all countries, but Bianca wouldn’t go to them. She is too—fastidious.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s in any danger?’

  ‘Not of her own making. She is shrewd, mostly. She may have bolted on impulse, but she’d choose a good bolthole.’

  ‘How do you think she got off the island?’

  ‘That has been puzzling me. She’s so well-known here.’ He stood up, stretched his arms above his head as if he could not contain his energy. ‘We are wasting time, Signorina Jan. I must go at once, and start searching for her. I shall try Giulia and Pietro today. Be sure I shall not sleep for an hour until she is found.’

  ‘Who were the bride and groom of last year’s wedding, where she was bridesmaid?’

  He grinned ruefully. ‘Too grand for me! But it’s a good idea. Can you suggest that to the Signore?’

  ‘I intended to. He is away from the island today, but as soon as he comes home, I shall. In two days, Paolo, I shall tell him everything. You understand?’ He nodded and she went on, ‘I am wrong not to tell him today. I owe him that much loyalty, and I know little about you. So I shall not give you one hour beyond the time. Two days.’

  He bowed formally. ‘Signorina, in two days I shall present myself at the Villa Tramonti and speak to Marco Cellini myself, whether Bianca is found or not. I am not afraid of him myself—only for Bianca. She has begged me not to speak to him, but I am a man and now I must do what is right, whatever she says. If a woman rules a man too long, she begins to despise him.’

  ‘Well done, Paolo! Now I begin to see why Bianca ran away. You sound like a man Worth waiting for. Good luck then.’

  He kissed her hand lightly, then waded thigh-deep into the water, then came back. ‘Have you considered that Bianca may not have left the island after all? She may be here somewhere.’

  ‘I thought of it. But who would dare hide her?’

  ‘The Cellinis don’t own everything. And everybody doesn’t love them, signorina. It would be worth while looking right under Marco’s nose.’

  Then he plunged into the sea and swam away, with a strong, slow stroke. In the clear water he was visible almost to the headland. She waited till, after what seemed a painfully long time she heard the chug of an engine, and knew he was safely on his way to Ischia.

  So half Bianca’s secret, the important half, had been revealed. The other half would follow, Jan was certain. Bianca would be found, or come home. Or Paolo would bring her.

  What would Marco’s reactions be, when he knew the whole truth? How could a man who had never been in love understand the hurt and the glory of it? The need to be together. The awfulness of the never-never!

  It was a thousand pities for Bianca that Paolo had come into her life. If she hadn’t gone to the party that fatal night, she’d be a happy girl now, choosing her trousseau and looking forward to marriage with the eligible Rafaello, to becoming a countess, to queening it over a splendid palazzo.

  Too bad that an ordinary boy, a nice boy with a cheerful grin, turned up that night, and upset the whole pattern of her life. What magic was love, that it could do such a thing? What made the fatal difference between Raf and Paolo? And why only for Bianca?

  She hauled herself over the last lap of the climb and sat on the terrace to recover her breath. Why Bianca with Paolo and nobody else? Why me—with Marco, the unattainable? Is it because they are unattainable that we fall in love with them?

  Forbidden fruit. Out of reach. Was that part of the magic, then? Jan’s own experience among the students and nurses had proved over and over again that easy-come too often meant easy-go. If she and Michael had had to fight for each other, wait, hope, and fret, maybe that first bright flash of love might have kindled a steadier glow.

  Dino was back. Seeing him in the garden, Jan asked if the Signore had returned with him. The boy set down the big watering-can carefully, to pull out a weed. ‘Assuredly, signorina. He is a good son, like all Italians, and he will not leave his mamma too long alone at this time.’ He began his evening task of watering again.

  ‘While his sister is away? Dino, if you should happen to see the Signorina Bianca,
tell her her mother is like a flower without water. She has been long enough without water. You understand?’

  Dino looked at her, blandly innocent. ‘How should I see her? I have searched the island for her, in the boat and on land. Unless I go with the Signore, I never leave Barini except at festa time, when we all go to Capri or Sorrento. How can I tell the young mistress anything?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dino. But keep the message in mind, you and the other servants. Just in case you happen to see her.’

  He grinned happily and nodded, then moved along the flowerbeds with his can and weeding fork. I’m wasting my time, Jan thought, but somebody knows. Somebody on the island. Ten to one the message will reach her.

  To Jan’s dismay, Signora Cellini decided to retire early and have dinner in bed on a tray. That meant a diner a deux with Marco. And after the events of last night, or rather early in the morning, she would have preferred the usual arrangements of mother and son discussing the events of the day, and herself acting the silent and tactful companion, speaking when spoken to but not pushing herself forward.

  ‘I think,’ she said when sitting at table could no longer be postponed, ‘I will sit with your mother. Perhaps Francesca will bring me something on a tray, too.’

  He drew out a chair. ‘You will sit and eat your dinner like a civilised person. Francesca can stay with Mamma for a while. Is she worse?’

  ‘No. But under strain. Even in a week, Marco, she looks older, more tired and thinner. It would be wise, perhaps, to have her doctor over.’

  The first course, was asparagus, smothered in butter and topped with a poached egg. Jan was too nervous to taste anything, though asparagus was a rare treat and unknown in the Nurses’ Hostel.

  ‘I’ll send for him tomorrow.’