That Summer in Ischia

by Penny Feeny

  ‘Jeez, I’m sorry. Have you been waiting for ever?’

  She looked up. She wished he’d ruffle his hair a bit, like when she’d first met him. When it was sleek and slicked back, the echo of his father was too strong, unnerving.

  ‘Is this the best table they could offer you?’

  She indicated the rest of the courtyard. ‘They’re quite busy.’

  ‘I should have booked ahead.’ He slid into the seat opposite. ‘Hey, but it’s a privilege these days, don’t you think?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘All this: the leisurely lunch. Back home everyone’s walking around with take-out coffee in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Or maybe, if you’re the Wall Street end of the city, a tuna wrap. What would you go for, Allie, tuna or lox?’

  ‘What’s lox?’

  He laughed in apparent delight. ‘Smoked salmon. You’ve never been to the States, right?’

  ‘We had plans,’ she said. ‘Me and the others, but –’

  ‘You’d love New York. Everybody does. It’s so full-on, charged with excitement. Nowhere compares really . . .’

  ‘I grew up on Friends,’ said Allie. ‘I’ve spent hours in Central Perk.’

  He grinned and raised his arm to hail a waiter. ‘Have you chosen yet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She wasn’t even sure she was hungry. ‘I’ll probably just have a salad.’

  ‘Lox or tuna?’ he joked. He was keyed-up; animated. He’d had a good morning, solved some difficulty with a staircase return in a renovation project that had been bugging him, which was why he was late and he was sorry, but it had been worth it, to fix the problem. His explanation sounded too mathematical for Allie to trouble with. She couldn’t keep all his figures in her head as he talked and moved the cutlery into different positions on the tablecloth. A knife fell to the ground and when he bent to retrieve it, he spotted her backpack. She’d tried to push it under her chair, but the end stuck out.

  ‘Hey, you’re not leaving, are you?’

  ‘I think I should.’

  ‘Why? Is something the matter?’

  ‘I don’t think I should stay in your flat while your father’s there.’

  ‘Why not? He won’t care.’

  ‘Well, then, I probably shouldn’t stay in it anyway.’

  ‘What’s making you so squeamish all of a sudden?’

  ‘It’s, like, your family home,’ said Allie. ‘And I’m an interloper.’

  Max lifted an eyebrow. He pulled over the waiter to take their order. Allie chose a salad niçoise because she knew what it was. Max ordered pasta with pancetta and funghi. They both agreed to drink mineral water.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you or do I have to play twenty questions?’ He snapped a breadstick in half and held a piece out to her.

  The sunny courtyard was a warm, intimate space. The light tinkle of glass and china, the muted throb of conversation floated gently to the blue canopy of sky. This was what Italy was good at: creating seductive tableaux that made you think you could stay for ever. A family had reached dessert stage; an older child was spooning ice cream into a toddler’s mouth. A group of office workers was teasing a colleague who kept taking calls on his mobile. Three Scandinavian girls flirted with a man alone with his newspaper. A middle-aged couple, tourists with peeling complexions, held hands across the bread basket. What would an observer think of us, Allie wondered. Friends? Partners? Lovers? Ships passing? Siblings? No, probably not.

  Max crunched the end of the breadstick. ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s to do with my mother,’ she said. ‘I spoke to her just before I came here. It was a kind of heavy conversation.’

  She’d intended to follow Fabrizio out of the apartment. He had explained to her, with irreproachable courtesy, that he had an appointment; he was sorry their encounter was so short. He also made it clear he didn’t want to see her again until the DNA results had been analysed and the nature of their relation established. He had no doubt he would be proved correct. This was the deal they had struck, but she couldn’t find the words to tell Max. It had taken all morning to mull over their meeting and square up to ringing Helena.

  ‘Your mother? Is she ill or something?’

  ‘No, no. Don’t you remember? She used to look after you. I mean, she was your family’s employee. It makes things embarrassing.’

  ‘Why? I’m an employee, come to that.’ He stopped and narrowed his gaze. ‘Oh, wait a minute. She lived with us the summer I got lost, right? And –’

  Allie interrupted, still bitter towards Helena. ‘– Yes. She was no good at her job, was she? A complete liability, in fact. It wouldn’t be surprising if there were hard feelings. Not that she admitted any of this to me. I learned it from a friend of hers, Liddy, the one who gave me the idea of coming out here.’

  He brushed Liddy aside. ‘But that’s not all you’re saying, is it? She wasn’t just my babysitter. She was having an affair with my dad, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘It’s okay; she wouldn’t have been the first. Or the last . . .’ He put his fingertips to his temples and squeezed as if trying to contain the realization: ‘That summer I was what, three? Nearly four? And you, how old are you now?’

  ‘I’m twenty-three.’

  The arithmetic was simple, wasn’t it? You didn’t need a degree in mathematics or architecture to work it out. ‘Fuck,’ said Max.

  The waiter set down the salad and the bowl of pasta. He unscrewed the bottle of mineral water and poured it into their glasses where the bubbles hissed and exploded. He wished them buon appetito.

  Allie said, ‘You’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘What have I got wrong?’

  ‘Well, I’m guessing that you’re jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Adding two and two and making four? That kind of thing? Like suddenly discovering you’re my –’

  ‘Five,’ she said. ‘You’re making five.’

  There was a pause, an interval readily filled by the babble of other diners. The middle-aged couple called for their bill. Max’s cell phone beeped and he switched it off. ‘What’s going on here? What is it you want, Allie?’

  Fabrizio had asked the same question.

  ‘Why do I have to want anything? Why can’t I have a natural curiosity? Or be on a voyage of self-discovery like most other people my age? All those backpackers.’

  ‘But why are you being so evasive? You’ve already talked me through everything else that happened that summer, so talk me through this. In 1979 you were what, in utero? Only luckily for all concerned you had X-ray vision?’

  ‘That’s unfair! This hasn’t been any easier for me than for you. My mother never told me the truth until today.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ His glass halted halfway to his mouth. The expression in his eyes was appalled.

  Allie felt immediately defensive. Helena had, in a misguided way, been trying to shield her. ‘I told you we had a heavy conversation. You want me to go over it with you?’

  ‘I think maybe we should get some things straight, yeah.’

  She tried to keep the story simple, despite the loose ends yet to be woven and knotted. Max occasionally interrupted with questions or snorted in disbelief. He didn’t touch his food; the cream of his sauce congealed. ‘You’re saying my dad had a problem with your arm?’

  She rested the offending arm on the tablecloth, curling her bitten fingernails from his view. ‘People want perfect babies, don’t they? What’s the Italian – bella figura?’

  ‘La bella figura doesn’t mean beautiful figure, you know. It’s more, like, a concept: how you present yourself. A certain style.’ When he shook his head she supposed this was a style she lacked; she was too scruffy. But he said, ‘I can’t believe my dad would be so crass.’

  ‘Well, that was how my mum chose to interpret it.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me he supported her, didn’t he? Supported both of you. It wasn’t like he du
mped her in the shit. If he really thought you were someone else’s kid, you could say that was honourable.’

  ‘I got the impression he wasn’t around much, the whole situation made him uncomfortable.’ She imagined furtive visits, the curiosity of Helena’s flatmates, Fabrizio’s reluctance to linger. ‘Even so, he could hardly have kept it a secret. Your mother must have known about us. Is it common in Italy for men to have two families?’

  ‘Not common exactly, though back when my parents first married you couldn’t even get divorced.’

  ‘Do you think she gave him an ultimatum?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like threatening to take you away if he didn’t stop seeing my mother? Fabrizio wouldn’t want to lose you, would he? For a baby who might not be his.’

  ‘Also ironic since in the end we left anyway.’ His lips stretched into a grin. ‘Do you suppose we ever met, you and I, in an earlier life? You in your stroller in the Giardini Borghese, me riding alongside on my bicycle?’

  The notion was appealing. Was that why she’d felt she’d known him for ever? ‘That would have been something! Do you remember it?’

  ‘Riding my bike, yeah. Baby sister, not so sure.’

  ‘Don’t! He was absolutely adamant this morning that I wasn’t his daughter. Those were his words. In English. No mistake.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘He was very convincing. About the likely dates and so on. There was a short period, you see, when he and Mum split up.’ His certainty had been impressive. ‘I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About us. The possibility we’re related.’ She reviewed the unlikely image of an older brother playing with her in the park. ‘Up to that point, I’d sort of hoped we might be.’

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘You did?’

  ‘God, I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?’

  ‘There isn’t a right or a wrong here. There’s just stuff that needs figuring out.’ Belatedly he spooned a snowfall of parmesan over his pasta and sampled his first mouthful. ‘You wonder how some guys’ parents can make such an unholy mess of things . . .’

  The tourist couple paid their bill and left the restaurant, still holding hands. Allie wistfully watched them go. Max rapped on the table top to recapture her attention. ‘So then . . . you and I . . . where do we go from here?’

  ‘We just have to carry on, don’t we? Till we get the DNA results. Stick to the original plan.’ Now it was all in the open she could relax a little. She picked up her fork and turned over a lettuce leaf. You could spend as long as you liked toying with salad and it wouldn’t spoil.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Well, to start with I was going to book into a hostel, check out a few places I’ve been wanting to see, and then . . .’

  ‘Check out where, what places?’

  ‘Well, there’s Keats’ grave in the Protestant Cemetery and the church, San Pietro . . .’

  ‘You’ve never been to San Pietro!’

  ‘Not that Saint Peter’s.’

  ‘In Vincoli? Michelangelo’s Moses?’

  ‘No! The one on the Gianicolo, I’ve forgotten the name –’

  His face cleared. ‘Ah, San Pietro in Montorio. And Bramante’s Tempietto. That is the most stunningly perfect building. It may be small but the proportions are exquisite. Really you should see it with someone who knows the score, who can tell you –’

  ‘Like an architect, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  ‘Thanks. I might take you up on that.’

  When he had finished chewing, he said. ‘Afraid I’m busy the next couple of days, but if you can find out what time it closes . . .’

  ‘I’ll probably go there tomorrow after I’ve picked up some more emails. And leave in the evening. I can get the train and be in Paris for breakfast.’

  He shovelled some more rigatoni from plate to mouth. ‘Making a quick escape?’

  ‘My ticket’s running out so I’d have to leave soon anyway.’ She speared a morsel of tuna and a shred of cucumber. ‘But you could come to England whenever, now that you’re staying here. It’s only a couple of hours by plane.’

  ‘I was going to spend vacations back in the States.’

  ‘Just for a weekend?’ She tried to sound casual. ‘It’s easy these days. We could go to a gig, check out some upcoming bands.’

  ‘Are you inviting me?’

  ‘If I did, would you accept?’ She salvaged an olive pit before she choked on it and laid it at the side of her plate. ‘You could email me. Or call. I’ll send you my number when I get a new one.’

  ‘You think we should keep in touch?’ He paused. ‘Whatever happens?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘And how long would we keep this up?’

  ‘You mean, after we’ve found out for certain who I am?’ This was ludicrous. She knew perfectly well who she was: Allie Ashbourne, percussionist. ‘How am I supposed to answer that?’ Since he was waiting, she offered: ‘Till Christmas? Till we’re bored? Or maybe we’ll get the bug and carry on for five years. You’ll be fielding major commissions and I’ll be thumping away on backing tracks – if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Five years!’ He wiped a piece of bread around his plate.

  Allie couldn’t imagine that far ahead either. She couldn’t even imagine boarding the train or entering Bryony Cottage and confronting her mother. This was now. A shutter in her head clicked on the composition of the courtyard, the angle of the light on Max’s cheekbones, his fingers twirling the stem of his glass, the sardonic curve to his lips, as if he were merely humouring her. ‘We could give it a go,’ she said.

  27

  The man Helena was following seemed at home in the hospital corridor, his manner proprietorial. As he paused every now and again to greet a member of staff she wondered if he were a consultant en route to his clinic. He was a large man, substantial in his suit and brogues, and yet he had an air of disarray: a trailing shoelace, untamed hair, a patch of grease on his worsted elbow. He jingled the coins in his pocket and veered suddenly into the shop, into a crush of pastel rabbits, teddies in bow ties and silver helium balloons. Not a doctor after all then; a visitor. She was amused to see him collide with a stand of cards to welcome Your New Baby. The stand tottered and the cards floated to the ground like leaves. No one else paid any attention, but Helena joined him in his attempt to collect and replace them in their racks.

  ‘Size thirteen feet,’ he said. ‘Unlucky for some.’

  He was putting most of the cards back upside down so that babies fell out of their prams and storks perched beneath chimney pots. She didn’t alter them.

  ‘Thanks.’ He towered his bulk upwards again. ‘All I’m after is a copy of Elle Decoration.’ She laughed outright at this and the man said quickly, ‘For my wife, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘These magazines come with so much baggage, don’t you find? All that extra bumph.’

  They both stood gazing at their Cellophaned ranks.

  ‘It’s how they con us into paying more,’ said Helena. ‘Worthless freebies that go straight into the bin. Candyfloss. Popcorn. Spinning out the molecules. That’s marketing for you. Hot air.’

  ‘Is that your speciality? Marketing?’

  ‘No, just a hobby horse.’ She inclined her head and had to adjust her cloche hat.

  ‘You could grow plants in that,’ he said, running his hand through his own unruly hair, increasing its resemblance to thatch.

  ‘I suppose you think you’re the first person to make that crack?’

  ‘Well, I warned you. Size thirteen feet.’

  He had a manner that put you so much at ease you felt as if you’d known him for ever. He was nearly fifty she guessed – the lines around his eyes, the grey hair at his temples gave him away – though there was a boyishness about him. If you had strongly developed maternal instincts (which Helena didn’t), you might be tem
pted to take him in hand, knot his shoelace securely so he didn’t blunder into things, point him in the right direction. His smile was lopsided like the way he walked, with his weight falling on his left foot. He lolloped away from her towards the magazines and brought a spark to the face of the girl at the till as he counted out his change. She watched him wander off, checking his Blackberry, tangling with a buggy pushed by a baldpated father.

  In her bag Helena carried a punnet of nectarines. She hadn’t wanted to visit Liddy empty-handed, but now she wondered if her choice of nectarines was less a peace offering than a dig, whether she should play safe and buy some chocolates. The selection on offer was depressingly predictable. After contemplating the boxes of Cadbury’s Black Magic and Terry’s All Gold and the queue building up at the till, she decided chocolates were such a cliché she’d stick to the fruit. Back in the corridor, she headed to the reception desk for directions.

  There was no sense of urgency in the Women’s Hospital. Any evidence of operating-theatre drama was well hidden. She recognized the smells, though. They tried to disguise them with freshly brewed coffee, bunches of lilies, newsprint, but she could pick them out like a draught of cold air under a door. She couldn’t help her guts knotting as she recalled the frenzied panic of Allie’s delivery, the uproar among the nurses who made no attempt to lower their voices. She couldn’t understand what they were saying because her mind couldn’t access the language, couldn’t make sense of anything except the conviction that something was wrong: giving birth should not be this difficult. Why wasn’t the baby slithering out with a satisfying squelch? Why was everyone screaming at each other?

  There had been no cause for concern: she was young and healthy, her pregnancy for the most part untroubled. They knew the baby was large for its dates (whatever they were), but Helena was tall. Nobody had been concerned about the width of her pelvis until it was too late, until the baby had beaten against the bone for several hours, until its head had ripped through her vagina into the world and its body had jammed. This was the point at which she ceased to be a person and became a piece of meat to be hacked at and manipulated. And nothing could dull the intensity of the pain. The birth took place overnight, the lights in the labour ward so dazzling she was convinced she was in a torture chamber. She rarely spoke of it, but it was not an experience she would ever forget.