That Summer in Ischia

by Penny Feeny

  About the Author

  Photo: Stephanie de Leng

  Penny Feeny has lived and worked in Cambridge, London and Rome. Since settling in Liverpool many years ago she has been an arts administrator, editor, radio presenter and advice worker. Her short fiction has been widely published and broadcast and won several awards. That Summer in Ischia is her first novel. She is married with two sons and three daughters.

  That Summer in Ischia

  That Summer in Ischia

  Penny Feeny

  First published in May 2011

  by Tindal Street Press Ltd

  217 The Custard Factory, Gibb Street,

  Birmingham, B9 4AA

  www.tindalstreet.co.uk

  Copyright © Penny Feeny 2011

  The moral right of Penny Feeny to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London WIP OLP

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 906994 18 1

  Ebook: 978 1 906994 60 0

  Typeset by Alma Books Ltd

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Mackays, Chatham

  For Elinor, Roisin and Imogen

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE: 1979 ISCHIA

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  PART TWO: 2003 LIVERPOOL

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  PART THREE: CASA COLONNATA

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  PART FOUR: FATTORIA LA CASTAGNA

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  PART FIVE: ROME

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  PROLOGUE: 2003

  Every movement was familiar: the languid easy stride, the swing of the hips, the tilt of the neck, the click of the fingers to an invisible beat. The woman on the path ahead had Helena’s height too, her blond fall of hair and the long lean legs that outpaced others so easily. Liddy would have to make an effort to catch her up if – and she needed to consider this – she actually wanted to. If she didn’t mind risking rejection. And if it were Helena in the first place. After so many years, memories become unreliable, eyes see traits that aren’t there.

  The figure stopped, balanced on one leg and raised the other, stooped from her waist to remove a shoe and shake out a stone. The action transported Liddy to the little cove below Casa Colonnata: Helena skipping over the sun-warmed shingle and coming to a sudden halt, adopting the same stork-like posture, the same impatient flick of her sandal; calling over her shoulder to the children, challenging them to find where the pebble had landed. A quick glimpse of a face was all Liddy needed to be certain, to settle her disquiet, but the woman didn’t turn her head. She restored her shoe and veered inland. As Liddy debated whether to follow, the wind eddied across the foreshore carrying a smack of salt and a ballooning plastic bag. The decision was made for her as Rolo launched himself at the bag and tugged her in the opposite direction. When he lost interest in it, and the scurrying trail of litter in its wake, he raced towards the sea. She just managed to unclip his leash before he dived through the railings.

  Crosby beach was a Mecca for dog walkers, ploughing furrows in their Wellington boots under a blustery overcast sky. She knew many of them to nod to, and apologize to when Rolo sniffed their crotches or licked their toddlers’ toes. She hadn’t expected training him to be so demanding. She hadn’t even been certain she wanted another dog. She’d waited a year after Flora’s death before going back to Animal Rescue because there was always a chance – you couldn’t keep hope down however hard you tried – that the gap in her life might be filled.

  She’d chosen Rolo (part spaniel, part retriever, possibly part terrier) for his friendliness. She wasn’t looking for a guard dog. They already had a sophisticated system of security lights and alarms. What she and Michael both wanted was to come home to an enthusiastic greeting, to sound and movement, to warm breath fogging the atmosphere.

  Now, with her feet sinking into puddles, she felt out of her depth. Rolo was oblivious to her commands, transfixed by the power of the sea. His tail quivered at the dramatic pull of the tide. His body tensed as if a thousand electric impulses were being delivered to each chocolate and toffee strand of his coat, propelling him into the waves. When he emerged again, scattering rainbows, the fur on his belly was matted and dripping, his tail sweeping the sand. She’d have to let him exhaust himself sprinting along the beach before she tried to call him to heel. There’d be plenty of time, pacing after him, hands deep in her coat pockets, to wonder whether her eyes really had been deceiving her and why this uncomfortable prickling sensation should lodge in her brain.

  A different kind of discomfort accompanied her when they set off on the return leg of their Saturday morning excursion. She’d hoped to reach home before the knot of pain swelled to intolerable proportions, but there were no short cuts. Halfway along the broad leafy avenue, something like a red-hot poker plunged into her abdomen and sent her into spasm. She staggered to the support of a sandstone gatepost, holding on to its curved finial and waiting for the worst to pass. It would, of course; she could be sure of that. This was not a new experience; it didn’t get any easier.

  Rolo took advantage of these circumstances to charge through the open gateway as if he’d spotted a rabbit. He started tearing chunks from the smooth, green lawn and Liddy was in no position to yank him off; when she called out her voice sounded shrill and strange. The house itself was Edwardian, grand and double-fronted, with a veranda running along one side. The upper storey sprouted gables and a turret; fetching red pantiles clad the roof. Originally built for a prosperous merchant family who’d made their fortune from jute it had since been divided into six self-contained flats. The occupant of one of the ground-floor flats appeared in her doorway and yelled at Rolo, who ignored her as serenely as he ignored his mistress. Then she saw Liddy clutching the gatepost.

  ‘Is this your dog?’

  Liddy moved by degrees from the safety of her prop to the uneven, treacherous surface of the gravel path. ‘I’ve only just . . .’ she began. ‘He’s still . . .’

  ‘What on earth does he think he’s doing? Digging for victory?’

  ‘He’s a bit wild I’m afraid. No one’s ever trained him before.’ An apology coupled with explanation was what she was aiming for; she didn’t want to grovel.

  ‘I realize that a dumb animal doesn’t recognize private property. That should be your responsibility.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  The woman, layered in cardigans, emerged from the shadow of her porch. ‘Just a moment. Don’t I know you?’

  As Rolo bounded up, s
howing no concern for the woman’s awesome bulk, Liddy prepared herself for the kind of lecture she could remember well. Daphne Myers had taught generations of girls to hate chemistry, delighting in quashing the lively and the joyful, sneering at their bad breeding as if they were livestock rather than exuberant adolescents.

  ‘Helen Liddle!’ she said with the satisfaction of a person whose memory has not lost its keenness.

  ‘Actually I sort of morphed into Liddy Rawlings a while back.’ They’d had similar brief exchanges on the past few occasions they’d met – most recently in the spirits aisle at Sainsbury’s, when each had refrained from looking in the other’s trolley. ‘I changed my name when I married.’ To all intents and purposes she had changed it at school. There were so many Helens in her class they had to find ways of distinguishing one another. (Helena had chosen to add the a.)

  Liddy was used to viewing Daphne as a figure of authority. It was almost impossible to see her as an ordinary human being, a woman with her own disappointments and regrets. She could never have imagined her showing solicitude. ‘Are you all right? You’re very pale.’

  And this was so unexpected that Liddy, instead of saying ‘I’m fine’, felt her shoulders droop as she admitted, like a homesick child, ‘Actually, no, I’m not.’

  ‘You’d better come and sit down a moment,’ said Daphne, waving her towards the house.

  ‘But my dog . . .’

  ‘Take a seat on the veranda. I’ll tie him up.’

  If Liddy’s clear thinking hadn’t been clouded by stomach cramps, would she have seen through this ruse? The lonely old woman capturing company the only way she could, like Ariadne with her spider’s web. Liddy would far rather have been in her own home, lying in her own bed with a hot water bottle, but she was trapped. She lowered herself into a teak chair, its wood smooth and silvered like beaten metal. Rolo, tied on a short rein to the wooden rail, yelped, strained his neck and then gave up, burying his nose in his paws. Daphne, with no haste and much precision, fetched a glass of water and a cushion to support her back. She then sat opposite and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Remind me, dear, what is it you’re doing now?’

  ‘I’m a management consultant.’ Usually this was a claim she could make with pride. It indicated a person who was incisive, observant, efficient: qualities that a chemistry teacher would probably admire, and even take credit for. Management consultants were not like life coaches or psychotherapists. They didn’t have dysfunctional personal lives. The fact that she couldn’t handle her dog or her own fertility had no bearing on her job, although it kindled a sense of shame she wished she could suppress.

  A slight frown, as if the term were baffling, possibly even as spurious as those new university subjects that hadn’t existed when Daphne taught her girls how to make copper sulphate crystals: media studies, music technology, sports science. Then she recovered herself. ‘How interesting. I always thought you’d do well.’

  ‘You did?’ This was not how Liddy remembered it. Miss Myers had been their form teacher in the lower sixth, had constantly despaired at their prospects, even though chemistry had long been abandoned.

  ‘You and your friend from down the road.’

  ‘My friend from where?’

  Daphne moved only her chin. The rest of her settled in folds between the stout arms of her chair. A line of conifers marked the boundary of the garden. Further south along the shore stretched the handsome Victorian terraces built to watch the ships steam up the Mersey. ‘They lived on the front. What was their name now? Ashbourne.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Helena Ashbourne?’

  ‘Rather a troublemaker, that girl. Clever though.’

  Liddy and Helena had considered themselves vastly superior to the drones surrounding them. They’d been inseparable at school, a striking pair identified by their contrasting looks: Helena’s tall, fair elegance (evident even when she cropped her hair and flirted with punk); Liddy shorter, curvier, a dark, dimpled prettiness.

  ‘She didn’t finish her degree, did she? Such a waste.’

  Liddy didn’t speak. Helena’s abandoned degree was the least of it.

  ‘Went off to Italy and never came back.’ Daphne spoke as if Italy were (in one of her favourite phrases) a den of iniquity.

  ‘Actually, she had to spend six months in Rome as part of her art history course. I haven’t seen her since.’

  Daphne was genuinely puzzled. ‘Really? But I thought you were such good friends.’

  ‘We didn’t keep in touch, after that summer.’

  That summer. Liddy had just graduated; Helena had another year to go. Liddy had come home and registered at a temping agency with a dismal sinking feeling. She could still recall her shock and excitement when the operator announced an international call.

  ‘Tell me your wildest summer fantasy, Liddy.’

  ‘Helena! Where are you?’

  ‘Rome, of course, where d’you think? I had to book this call from a friend’s apartment, so I can’t talk for long. You’re looking for work, right? How soon can you make it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I bet it includes lolling about on a private beach. The fantasy I mean. I’ve fixed us a job you’ll love. Get yourself here quick as you can and you won’t regret it.’

  ‘But I’ve stuff to sort out and . . .’

  ‘Listen, it’s a very simple proposition. There are two families who have villas on Ischia and are looking for girls to mind their children and speak English to them. There are only three kids so it will be a doddle and we’ll have a great holiday at the same time. They have a boat and everything.’

  ‘What’s Ischia?’

  ‘It’s an island in the bay of Naples. The Verduccis and the Baldinis both have loads of money so we’ll be living in the lap of luxury.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Never mind the names, you’ll get used to them. And it’s only for the summer. What have you got to lose?’

  Liddy could see the two-tone green telephone squatting on the hall table. She could hear Helena’s enthusiasm, could see her own hand lowering the receiver. It was disturbing, the way the events of more than twenty years ago could seem so fresh and immediate.

  Her attention had drifted and Daphne broke through by raising a voice which already creaked from a lifetime of strident hectoring. ‘You haven’t seen her, then, since she came back?’

  ‘Back? You mean recently?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Daphne enjoyed being an informant. ‘Mrs Ashbourne was in a nursing home, did you not know? And the house was let until she died some months ago. I would have gone to the funeral if I’d heard about it in time. One does like to make the proper observances. I understand the daughter’s been here settling things since she got probate.’

  So Liddy hadn’t been mistaken after all. She looked at Rolo who was snuffling at the ground beneath his paws. She imagined she saw contrition in his melting eyes. Don’t worry, she wanted to tell him, it’s water under the bridge now. Except, illogical as it was, the burden of guilt still weighed on her.

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to come across former students,’ said Daphne.

  ‘You’ve spoken to her? Helena?’

  ‘No dear. I meant you.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I do appreciate your kindness, but I really should get going.’ Her pain was rumbling at a lower, more bearable note and she stood to make herself clear. ‘Thank you for the drink.’

  ‘You will be sure to call again, now you know where I live?’

  Liddy nodded and grasped Rolo’s collar.

  ‘And remember me to your friend if you see her.’

  In the days that followed, the past swam close to Liddy, tugged with such tenacity at the memories which had been stacked and bound and stored away that she couldn’t resist turning into Marine Terrace. She hadn’t realized the strangers coming and going through the Ashbournes’ front door were only tenants, that the family might return. One evening after work, she strolled past the colourful ribbon of h
ouses with their florid hedges, long windows, and graceful wrought-iron trellis-work. She stood and stared, expecting at any moment that Rolo would interrupt her meditations. She was not planning to ring the doorbell.

  Her gaze travelled upwards, to what had been Helena’s room. The room where they’d drunk cheap wine, deliberately ripped and re-pinned their clothes and planned outings secret from their parents (not that Helena’s mother, a piano teacher with a continual stream of pupils, would have noticed). The room she had treated as her own: sitting with a towel wrapped around her head, while Helena in scanty underwear counted down the minutes until she could discover whether the henna had worked. The room where they’d devised torments for their teachers, fantasized about their careers, selected names for their children.

  She became aware of a young woman ambling towards the gate. She had an air of youthfulness that Helena could not possibly have retained. She moved with the same sinuous sway of her hips, but there was also something disconcerting about her which Liddy couldn’t identify. Her hair tumbled over a denim jacket, her skirt was short, her legs were bare. Joyfully, Rolo thrust his damp nose up the skirt and pressed it between her thighs.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Liddy, jerking at his lead, wondering how she could explain her loitering. ‘If I take my eyes off him for a second he gets into trouble. Only I was thinking how lovely it must be to look out from that balcony. You’d never get bored, would you? With the change of tides, I mean, and the light on the water.’

  The girl didn’t seem to be listening. She was crouching down to fondle Rolo’s ears and let him lick her palms. ‘He’s a gorgeous dog,’ she said in a tone both husky and uncannily familiar. ‘What’s he called?’

  And Liddy felt her throat contract so that Rolo’s name came out in a stutter. It might have been natural at this point to ask the girl her own, but her lips wouldn’t form the question. Could Helena possibly have a daughter so grown-up? Was Helena inside the house at this moment, watching from the window? But then another dog trotted into the street from the public gardens opposite and Rolo was distracted afresh. He hared off again, dragging Liddy with him. The girl walked up the path and the door closed behind her.