Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘Then who will—’

  But the door flew open and Mike burst into the room. ‘KNOCK KNOCK! Shagging are we?’

  ‘We’re revising,’ Ed replied, through gritted teeth.

  ‘All right, Mastermind,’ Mike added, before farting, flopping onto his bed and peeling off his socks to start applying some athlete’s foot cream.

  Chapter 26

  After a tortured night’s sleep, I wake sharply at nine-thirty. I reach for my phone and find a text from Ed:

  Found us a table on the terrace for breakfast. See you downstairs when you’re ready. It’s a lovely morning.

  I shower and tie back my hair, picking out a yellow dress with tiny black polka dots in a soft fabric that skims my knees. I pick up my sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, before heading downstairs.

  The heavy scent of potted lemon trees leads me onto a terrace constructed from thick slabs of marble. Vines twist around the colonnades that surround it and palm trees stand in neat rows, with marigolds and blue-green grasses planted at their roots. I find Ed at a table overlooking the glittering blue of the lake, in front of a row of clipped hedges. He is drinking from a cappuccino cup, with a silver tea spoon and a glass of orange juice in front of him.

  ‘Morning,’ he smiles sleepily, as a waitress arrives to lay out my place setting. She is in her early twenties, with raven hair, plump lips and skin as clear as mountain water. Ed is polite but seems not to notice her beauty, nor the bloom of pleasure on her cheeks when he looks up and thanks her.

  I breakfast on miniature sweet buns and cream-filled brioches, on snow-white yogurts topped with juicy pieces of fruit, but he eats nothing. He simply downs his coffee, ignoring the plume of steam from it, as if he hasn’t even realised it’s scalding.

  ‘I was happy about getting my clothes back but I suspect I won’t fit in any of them soon,’ I say, taking a sip of my americano. ‘Problem is, I’m not yet at the point at which another one of these pastry things make me feel guilty. There’s something about Italy that makes you not feel guilty about anything. You just feel . . . decadent.’

  ‘I think that’s why people love this country,’ he replies, raising his hand to capture the attention of the waitress. He orders another coffee.

  ‘When did you last come to Italy?’

  ‘Must be five or six years ago,’ he replies.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Tuscany.’

  ‘Was it nice?’

  ‘Very.’

  I wonder if we’re going to have one of those conversations again, the ones that finish before they’ve even started. But, after a pause, he continues: ‘I went to the Palio di Siena. You know the big horse race that runs around the town square?’

  ‘Oh, I remember you telling me about that. It must’ve been amazing.’

  ‘It was. You should go and see it one day.’

  I take a sip of orange juice and look out to boats dotted on the water, before my eyes are diverted by a tiny house martin hopping along the cast-iron railing.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the next stage in your hunt for Stefano,’ he says.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Couldn’t we just get the Italian PI to go and find him for you?’

  ‘It would cost a fortune.’

  ‘Then I’ll pay it.’

  I pull a face. ‘Absolutely not. You have already put me up in a palace and I refuse to allow you to spend any more money on me. And, on top of all that . . . I think I’m changing my mind about this whole thing.’

  ‘Surely not after you’ve come all this way?’

  I don’t answer. The fact is I don’t know what I want.

  ‘Well, I had another idea anyway,’ he continues. ‘That picture from the magazine that she sent you. The caption says it was taken in Torri Del Benaco.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I looked it up this morning. It’s only a boat ride away. It wouldn’t do any harm to go and check out that bar.’

  *

  The ferry takes longer than it looked like it would on the map. This is partly due to the sheer scale of this great lake and its multitude of ports, each with its own captivating features: medieval castles, citrus groves, rocky cliffs mossed with greenery. Our boat pulls into each quayside in the most leisurely fashion, refusing to be rushed as visitors empty out and others climb on, carrying cold drinks and smelling of sun cream.

  It’s possible, of course, that my perception of time is distorted by my anxiety. The thought of getting warmer on the trail of Stefano seems to bubble under my skin, even if I know logically that that picture in the magazine is nearly a year old, that he was merely a guest at a bar, nursing a glass of wine in the sun like scores of others before and since. There’s no way anyone will remember him now. This will be another dead end, I’m sure of it.

  Despite this, simply knowing what the young man pictured with my mother thirty-three years ago now looks like adds a new level of reality to this endeavour. Imaginary scenarios jostle in my mind, of bumping into Stefano in the cobbled streets of Torri. Of a dramatic family reunion that I absolutely don’t want.

  The idea nudges my thoughts to Dad, the man who’ll always be my father, no matter what. As the ferry approaches a new harbour, I look at my phone and realise that the signal is strong enough to text him. The town, Garda, is at the foot of a mountain that is thick with vegetation and rises above a string of pastel-painted buildings. Our boat hugs the pale bricks of the old quay and I compose a message:

  Hi Dad, all okay there? Hope my flat is still in one piece? x

  It doesn’t say much because it can’t. I’m too concerned about giving away where I really am.

  He responds within a few minutes, before the boat departs.

  All fine here. Post picked up, plants watered and still alive (promise). How is Portugal? I’ve been looking on Facebook for some pictures but you haven’t posted any. Dad x

  He and everyone else are still under the impression I’m on a singles holiday. God knows what he’d think if he knew the truth. I turn to take a selfie that captures a corner of water, which is blue enough under the cornflower sky to pass for the Mediterranean.

  ‘Let me take one for you,’ Ed offers. He has a better phone than me, a new device capable of far superior pictures than mine. He clicks on it and shows it to me for approval.

  ‘Much better,’ I say. He texts it to me and, when it lands in my phone, I forward it to Dad, with a vague update about the weather and nice food, plus a note of thanks for looking after my plants. Then the engine shudders and our ferry purrs away. I take off my hat, close my eyes and let the breeze whisper against my hair.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Ed asks.

  When my eyelids lift, I find him looking at me. Something about the way his gaze settles on my skin makes my heart flare in my chest. ‘I’m fine.’ I look at the timetable. ‘I think the next stop is ours.’

  Torri Del Benaco is a town of concentrated beauty. The dominating feature is a Roman castle that rises above the clear water, dotted with yachts and painted rowing boats. We follow the crowd off the ferry past a shock of pink oleander trees that lace through the streets, passing a medieval church with frescoed walls and a lemon garden.

  ‘Where are we going to start?’ I ask as we emerge next to a series of buildings with terracotta facades and wrought-iron balconies.

  If we were following a trail of clues on a TV show, I’d have a friend who conveniently worked in the police, who’d be able to tap a few numbers into a computer and a mug shot or address would appear. But I’m not an expert in surveillance. I’m not a private investigator. And where Ged McKenzie and Virginia Boldrini led me suddenly wasn’t nearly close enough.

  ‘Let’s look at your cutting again,’ Ed says, as I click on my phone photos and hand it to him. ‘We can just ask a couple of people, see if anyone knows where this place is.’

  ‘Really?’ I feel self-conscious at the idea.

  ‘Yes, we just need to bypass the holidaymakers and go
for people who live here. You can spot the tourists a mile off.’

  The first guy he stops is from Munich. Then he hones in on a man in his thirties with slightly receding hair and high cheekbones, striding purposefully across the square with a box of fruit hooked under his tattooed arms.

  ‘Scusi?’

  They talk for a minute or so, before the man disappears across the square. ‘It’s back by the harbour,’ Ed says.

  ‘It can’t be. We walked along it when we got off the boat and nowhere looked like the place in the picture.’

  ‘Well, he was a local and he was certain.’

  ‘But . . .’

  But Ed is already on his way down a narrow side street. He turns a corner and I follow him until we reach the harbour, retracing our steps along the neat slate cobbles, past the colonnades of the Gardesana hotel and the tiny pink flowers that tumble over its balcony.

  We pass each of the adjacent cafes and bars slowly, scrutinising elements of every building, the facades painted in soft shades of yellow and red, the creamy parasols shading tables from the sun, the striped canopies and creeping vines that sweep across the walls. Eventually, Ed draws to a stop.

  ‘It’s here.’

  I lift up my sunglasses, shielding my eyes from the sun to get a better look.

  ‘Imagine it without the canopies and a different paintjob. Look at the window frames.’ He’s right. It’s had a refurbishment but this is the place.

  *

  We find a table on the edge of a large al fresco dining area, shaded from the fierce sun under a series of vast canvases. It’s busy, and the service brisk and friendly, as visitors and locals alike take refuge in the shade with a strong coffee or a cold glass of Moretti. The waiter who arrives to take our order is older than most of the others, with a compact moustache and a head buried under black hair, flecked with grey.

  ‘Un’informazione per cortesia: stiamo cercando uno degli uomini in questa foto,’ Ed says, holding out the picture on my phone. ‘Sa per caso come possiamo rintracciarli?’

  He leans in briefly and looks blankly at the image. They talk in Italian for a few moments, before he disappears into the bar.

  ‘What did he say?’ I ask.

  ‘He asked if we wanted ice with our Cokes,’ Ed replies. I roll my eyes. ‘He also said he didn’t have a clue what the event was or who any of the people were.’

  ‘Did he have a clue about anything?’

  ‘No.’

  I sigh. ‘Well, I didn’t hold out much hope.’

  The drinks arrive and as I take a sip I feel someone looking at me from the adjacent table. There are eight or so people deep in animated conversation, but it’s an infant boy of about eighteen months, perched on his mother’s knee, who is gazing at me with wide hazelnut eyes, apparently mesmerised.

  I smile automatically and his face breaks into delighted laughter, displaying a set of tiny pearly teeth. He claps his chubby palms together and I mouth: ‘Ciao!’ before nudging Ed. ‘Look at this little guy.’

  But Ed is already smiling. ‘You’re really great with kids, Allie.’

  ‘It’s my immature streak.’

  He chuckles. ‘Yes, that’ll be it.’ Then, after a momentary pause he adds, ‘You’d make a great mum, you know.’

  I glance up.

  ‘Well, I’m hardly in a position to even contemplate that at the moment,’ I reply, but to my surprise the thought spreads through my chest like a warm drink.

  He’s about to say something else, when another waiter appears, thinner and younger than the first one. ‘My father said you asked about one of our events. We don’t have many but when we do, I coordinate them. Can I help?’

  ‘Perhaps you can,’ I say, taking the opportunity to have a conversation of my own with an English speaker. I pick up the phone from the table and show him the picture. ‘We’re trying to find this man. He’s an old friend of a woman whose family I represent. Do you remember anything about the party – or him?’

  ‘That was at an event to try and launch a new wine festival. The attendees were mainly merchants from different vineyards. I never had a copy of the guest list and I do know that he wasn’t the person who booked the event.’

  ‘Can you put me in touch with who did?’

  He hesitates. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll . . . see what I can do,’ he says vaguely.

  He walks away and we finish our drinks, unsure of whether the waiter is planning to help us or not. A few minutes later, Ed is waving to the little boy when the waiter returns to give us our change on a plate.

  ‘No, you can keep it,’ Ed says, offering him a tip.

  ‘Grazie,’ he replies, taking the money. Then he pushes the plate towards me again, before disappearing to attend to another couple. I realise he’s left a business card on it, which I pick up and turn over. There, in scrawled handwriting, is a name and address.

  Chapter 27

  Seeing that little boy with his mum and their extended family makes me wonder about how my dad managed by himself sometimes. Life can’t be easy for any single parent, but particularly a grieving one, still empty from loss and forced to take on the role of both mother and father.

  He was out of his depth for a while. All the packed lunches, the school assemblies, the dress-up days, the PE kits, the sleepovers . . . he was a modern enough man, but I suspect it would’ve been Mum who’d taken the reins on such matters had things panned out differently.

  Two years after she’d died, despite his valiant efforts to organise home and work life smoothly, on the afternoons when he was on a day shift, I was always the last to be picked up from after-school club. He’d arrive out of breath, his hair still wet having hastily showered away whatever carcinogens, chemicals, blood or bed bugs he’d had to deal with.

  I remember one evening when Mrs Edwards, the after-school teacher, looked at her watch and said through pursed lips: ‘Five thirty-four p.m. We’re not allowed on the premises after five-thirty. Our insurers won’t have it.’ Then she told him he had to pay an additional charge to cover the cost of her staying behind late.

  He rustled in his pocket and pulled out a couple of pounds, before handing it over and saying: ‘Thanks a million, Mrs Edwards. There was a big chemical spill off the M6, quite nasty. I won’t bore you with the details.’

  Mrs Edwards didn’t want the details, she just wanted the two pounds.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Culpepper,’ she said snippily, and he clearly decided not to correct her that he and I had different surnames.

  When we stepped outside, he gave me the biggest hug, as if having his arms around me was the best thing to have happened to him all day. He gave me a piggy back and we galloped to the car, where I sat next to him in the front.

  ‘Why isn’t my last name Hudson, the same as yours?’

  ‘Because your mum and I hadn’t married by the time you were born,’ he said, starting the ignition. ‘After she’d done all the hard work of carrying you round in her tummy, we thought it only fair that you took her surname, not mine. Besides, Culpepper is a very pretty name, isn’t it?’

  ‘But it’s not fair because Grandma and Granddad are both called Culpepper and so am I and that means you’re all on your own with nobody else to share your name with.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Besides, Grandma wasn’t always called Culpepper. She was Smith before she married Granddad.’

  Then I remembered something. ‘Oh! I got a lunchtime detention today.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘We had music and my recorder wasn’t in my bag.’

  He winced. ‘Oh . . . sorry, sweetheart. I forgot. You should’ve told your teacher it was my fault.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have believed me. I sat at the back behind Debbie Johnson and played my blue felt tip with my fingers instead, but Mr Jones spotted me and told me I was insolent.’

  He frowned. ‘That’s a bit uncalled for.’

  I liked the sound of this. ‘I thought so. Why don’t you go in and get him sacked?’
>
  He laughed. ‘I’ll just send in a note apologising about the recorder.’ He glanced at me. ‘Why have you taken your braids out?’

  ‘Oh . . . they fell out when I did PE so I thought I’d tie it in a ponytail.’

  This was a lie. In fact, I’d taken them out as soon as he’d dropped me off that morning, to avoid another humiliating day as the girl with the worst hairstyle in school. Dad had been practising braids for two years and still hadn’t mastered it. But I wasn’t going to hurt his feelings. And I hoped he’d improve, like he did when it came to painting my toenails with Mum’s polish. My feet looked like they’d been mauled by a dog the first time he had a go, but he’d greatly improved recently.

  ‘That’s a shame. They were really good this morning, too.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, wanting to change the subject. ‘Oh, you need to sign the letter saying I can go on the end of term museum trip. And provide one pound fifty for the coach. We’re also allowed a healthy snack – Peperami aren’t allowed so Mrs Hastings says you’re not to send me in with one again.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Also, they need helpers to accompany the children on the coach – can you do it?’

  ‘I can’t, sweetheart. I can’t move my shift.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I looked out of the window. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you buy me some bigger gym knickers? Every time I do a cartwheel my legs turn blue.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Also, can you cut my sandwiches in the shape of roses tomorrow?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Madeleine Brown’s mum makes her packed lunch sandwiches in the shape of flowers. Some days she has daffodils, other days she has roses.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m as artistic as Madeleine Brown’s mum.’

  I thought about this. ‘Could you manage a boat?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Stars? Teddy bears?’

  ‘How about triangles?’ he offered.

  ‘Great!’ Then I frowned. ‘But I have triangles already.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’