‘Yes, I’m sure. Believe me, if he ever laid a finger on me, I’d be out.’
‘Everybody thinks that’s the way they would react, but the reality is quite different. Nico only raised his hand to me a few times, but I always managed to convince myself it was my fault. When I was a little girl, before our Louis was born, I had a dog. He was only a mongrel, a stray my father had found quivering under the arches. I loved that dog so much. If ever I was upset, I’d bury my face in the thick fur around his neck. He made everything better.’ My eyes mist over. I’ve not thought about Hector in many a year. ‘When he got older, he became snappy and would growl at me if I fussed him. One day he was particularly grumpy, and I leaned down to kiss his head. He suddenly lurched for my face and clamped his jaws around my chin. There was blood everywhere and I had to have stitches. But do you know what, I loved that dog so much I would have forgiven him anything. He died a few weeks later and I tortured myself with thoughts that he might’ve been ill. What if he’d had a brain tumour or something? Perhaps he was in so much pain he just wanted to be left alone and didn’t know any other way to tell me.’
Candice pulls a face. ‘Surely you’re not making excuses for Nico?’
‘No, there is never an excuse for using physical violence against your partner, but when you’re in the middle of an all-consuming relationship, when you love someone so much, you’ll tell yourself anything.’
‘For the umpteenth time,’ she sighs, ‘Beau has never hit me.’
I’d rather not do this now, but I’m in too deep. ‘You’ve heard of the frog analogy?’
She frowns at me, I suppose with good reason. ‘What’re you on about?’
‘What do you think would happen if you plunged a frog into a pan of boiling water?’
‘Dunno.’ She shrugs. ‘He’d leap out, probably.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘The second he feels the heat, he’s out of there. Now imagine putting a frog in a pan of cold water and then lighting the gas under it.’
She doesn’t even bother to stifle her impatience. ‘Go on.’
‘As the water in the pan heats up, the frog adjusts his body temperature, so he doesn’t really notice the water getting hotter. By the time it reaches boiling point, he has no strength left to jump out of the pan and so he boils to death.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘What’s all that got to do with anything?’
‘What do you think killed the frog?’
She gives me the ‘duh’ expression so favoured by youngsters. ‘The boiling water, obviously.’
I pause while I consider her answer, tilting my head thoughtfully. ‘Or was it the frog’s inability to realise until it was too late when to jump?’
I can almost hear her brain ticking over.
Her voice is a whisper. ‘Beau has never been abusive towards me.’
‘Abuse comes in many forms, Candice. Beau is controlling you. He’s trying to make you dependent on him. Look at how he manages your money, tells you what to wear, suggests you lose weight. What was it he called you? Little Chubster, wasn’t it? He dressed up an insult as a cute little pet name and you thought it was all right. All those things are meant to look like he’s looking after you, but that’s not what it’s about.’
‘No, you’re wrong, Jenny. He loves me.’
‘I’m not doubting that, but it’s a toxic love, one that will end up eating away at your self-esteem until there’s nothing left of you.’ I reach for her hand. ‘Just think about it.’
58
The church is situated at the end of a long lane rising steeply out of the village. Visible above the treetops, the bell tower stands out against the cloudless blue sky. Candice sits beside Stefano as he negotiates the rough track, the car’s suspension not quite up to the job of cushioning the bumps. She looks over her shoulder. ‘Are you all right back there, Jenny?’
‘I do feel a bit sick, but don’t worry, Stefano, it’s nothing to do with your driving.’
‘Shall I stop? We only have about a hundred metres to go.’
‘I’ll be fine, you carry on.’
I’m hot in my heavy black dress. It’s the one I wore for my hundredth birthday party, the one from the charity shop, if you’ve been paying attention. As I said, the tailoring is exquisite and only for special occasions. I wonder how many more of those there’ll be.
Stefano brings the car to a halt under the shade of a beech tree and cracks open all the windows. As I try to heave myself out of the car, he offers me his hand.
‘Thank you, Stefano. You’re a good lad.’
He certainly looks the part today in his dark suit and black tie secured with a silver pin. His shoes are polished to a mirror finish and his hair has been slicked back with some sort of gel. A few people file past, heads bowed, as sombre organ music resounds around the graveyard. Stefano gestures to a woman swathed in black, her hands firmly clasped together. Candice would probably call her elderly, but to me she’s young, seventies I’d guess.
‘Please,’ Stefano says, ‘I’d like you to meet my mother, Isabella Buccarelli.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ I enthuse. ‘Your son has been so kind to us.’
Isabella gazes adoringly at Stefano. ‘He is a good boy.’ She pinches his cheek.
‘Mamma, please,’ he tuts. ‘Jenny is here for the seventy-fifth anniversary too. She’s come all the way from England.’
‘Oh,’ says Isabella, raising her eyebrows.
I feel compelled to explain my presence. ‘I used to live here. I was here that terrible day.’ I lean on Candice for support. ‘I saw it all.’
Isabella’s features have frozen, and it seems an eternity before she speaks again. ‘I was here that day too,’ she whispers. ‘I was a babe in my mother’s arms. You’d think that might’ve saved her, but no, they shot her in the back of the head. I was found days later, huddled under her body, barely alive.’
Bound by our common grief, I feel brave enough to touch her arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Isabella.’
She nods towards the church. ‘We really should be going in.’
Candice takes hold of my elbow. ‘Do you want your frame?’
I straighten my back a little. ‘No thank you. Today of all days, I need to walk tall.’
Stefano takes his mother’s arm and settles her into a pew before dipping his fingers in the holy water and crossing himself. He drops down on one knee in front of Christ on the cross, then seats himself next to Candice and bows his head, his lips moving in silent prayer.
A hush falls over the congregation as the priest takes his place in the pulpit. His address is in Italian, and I’m surprised by how much I understand.
My thoughts turn to Eva, as they have done so often over the course of my lifetime. Whenever I picture her, she’s wearing the peacock-blue dress I made for her, her plaits ramrod straight, her trusting smile never far away in spite of her terrible plight. Such a brave little girl. I press my handkerchief to my nose and try to focus on what the priest is saying.
From what I can gather, we’re going to listen to a reading by one of the few survivors. I shuffle in my pew, my feelings of guilt that I too survived when so many didn’t begins to resurface.
A woman on the end of a pew rises unsteadily from her seat, a sheet of paper fluttering in her hand. She looks elegant in black wide-legged trousers and a black and gold striped tunic. She makes her way to the pulpit, where a young man offers his hand and helps her up the steps. Her voice is surprising powerful given her age, but I suspect she’s driven on by her emotions. I’m overcome by mine and weep silently into my handkerchief. But I’m so glad I came.
I’m blinded by the bright sunshine as we exit the gloomy interior of the church. The priest smiles as he shakes my hand and thanks me for coming. He’s no idea who he’s talking to, of course.
‘I’ll get the wreath from the car, shall I?’ asks Candice. ‘You just sit here.’
She settles me on a bench under the canopy of a yew tree and hurries off. There i
s a memorial stone at the back of the churchyard listing the names of the victims. I know it’s going to be tough to see it, but I have to do this.
Stefano carries the wreath and Candice holds my arm as we make our way along the gravel path.
Behind the marble memorial, the Italian flag flies at half-mast, and there is a string quartet of young Italian girls, their hauntingly beautiful faces perfectly capturing the sombre mood. The music is quietly respectful and the mournful tune brings me to tears once more.
Candice squeezes my arm and I feel a rush of love for this young girl who has selflessly given her time to accompany me on this poignant journey. I certainly couldn’t have managed it by myself.
Stefano stands next to his mother and they both cross themselves and bow their heads. Isabella takes a step forward and her fingers find the name of what I assume is her dead mother. Stefano fastens his arm around her and she leans her head on his shoulder.
They move along and Candice and I step into their place. It takes me only a few seconds to find them. Enzo Bernardi and Valentina Bernardi. I shuffle forward and rest my fingers on the gold lettering. I close my eyes briefly before looking for the name I’m afraid to see. The name I loved so much. But . . . it’s not there. I can’t see it.
I scan the stone anxiously. Why is Eva’s name missing? How could they have forgotten her? She was only a child, but she should be remembered.
I’m suddenly unsteady and I feel a hand on my arm. It’s the woman who read the poem at the service. She is standing next to me, her huge sunglasses covering half her face.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks in Italian.
I nod my head. ‘I was looking at the names of Enzo and Valentina Bernardi. They were my in-laws. I was married to their son, Nico.’
The woman takes off her sunglasses and looks at me, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinises my face. It seems an age before she speaks again, and when she does, it’s only a whisper. ‘Jenny?’
I look around half expecting there to be somebody else behind me. ‘Yes.’ I frown. ‘But how did . . .’
She clutches both my hands in hers as she switches to English. ‘It’s me.’ She smiles. ‘It’s Eva.’
I suddenly can’t see. Black dots dance in front of my eyes and the world seems to close in around me, wrapping me in its suffocating embrace. My legs have turned to spaghetti and I know I’m only being held up by Candice. I hear her voice from somewhere far away shouting for help, and then there are solid arms around me and I know it’s safe to let go as the darkness descends.
‘Jenny, Jenny.’ There is somebody tapping my cheeks.
‘Oh, thank God,’ breathes Candice, her face only inches from mine. ‘We thought you were a goner.’
I’ve been manhandled onto a bench, the leafy shade of a tree providing respite from the blistering sun. The woman is now sitting next to me rubbing her thumb over the back of my hand. Candice picks up my other hand and presses a bottle of water into it.
‘You gave us all quite a fright,’ the woman says. Can she really be my Eva? After all this time?
I take a long drink from the bottle.
‘I . . . I . . . can’t believe you’re here,’ I gasp.
Her wide, intelligent eyes are locked on mine, and I suddenly see her as an eight-year-old again.
‘Just like you, I wanted to pay my respects,’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘No, I mean I can’t believe you’re alive.’
She gives me a quizzical look. ‘Well, I look after myself. A Mediterranean diet certainly helps.’
I grasp her arm. ‘But I don’t understand, Eva. You died that day. In the café, along with Lena and Enzo.’
It’s her turn to look confused now. ‘Surely your husband told you?’
There’s ice in my veins and I can barely swallow. ‘Told me what?’
She turns to look at the memorial, her hands clasped as though in prayer. ‘That morning, the morning of the attack, a man arrived in the café. I was sitting at one of the tables quietly reading my book, and he took the seat opposite. He looked wild and dishevelled, like a caveman. I remember his face was streaked with mud and he smelled of the earth, all dank and musty.’
‘Nico?’
‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘His mamma came through from the back and she was overjoyed to see him. She flung her arms around him and I remember wondering how she could possibly hug somebody who smelled so bad.’ She gives a little snort. ‘Such childish innocence.’ She brushes some invisible flecks off her tunic before continuing. ‘Anyway, he said he’d come to take me away to a place of safety. Well, I was so confused. I thought I was already safe. I started to cry because I knew that if I went away again, my mother wouldn’t know where to find me when she came back.’
She inhales a deep breath through her nose. ‘Of course, I didn’t know it then, but she was already dead.’
‘You poor lamb.’ It’s all I can manage.
‘I didn’t want to go anywhere without you, so I got off my chair and hid under the table, clutching my dolly. I squeezed my eyes shut as I heard Nico and his mamma arguing. I was terrified, and tried to block out the sound with my hands. The next thing I knew, Nico was dragging me out from under the table. He was so strong, and even though I kicked my little legs for all I was worth, I was no match for him.’
I’m simmering with rage now. ‘How dare he? I’m so sorry, Eva.’
Somehow she manages a smile. ‘Don’t be.’ She nods at the memorial stone. ‘If it wasn’t for him, my name would be up there too.’ She places a hand on my shoulder, her voice wavering. ‘Your husband saved my life.’
59
We’re back in the cool sanctuary of our hotel room. The curtains are drawn and I’m lying on the bed with a cool facecloth pressed to my forehead. There’s an untouched cup of sweet tea by the bed, which Candice insists is good for shock.
Whilst I am thoroughly overjoyed that Eva is alive, I cannot believe that Nico let me believe she was dead, and that I was responsible. He knew how much I loved her and saw how much I grieved. How could anybody be so cruel?
‘Why would Nico lie to me?’ I ask, although I’m not sure how Candice could possibly fathom Nico’s motives.
She sits herself down gently on the bed and offers some words of wisdom. ‘You told me that he said he didn’t want anybody else’s kids in his life. First there was Louis and then Eva. Look how he engineered it so that neither of them would be part of your family. He came back that day to spirit Eva away; it was his good fortune that you weren’t there.’
I shake my head vigorously. ‘There’s no way I would have let him take her away.’
‘Then you’d both be dead,’ Candice says with a slight shrug. ‘And then when the massacre happened, he knew that if you believed Eva was dead, you wouldn’t go looking for her.’
I prop myself on my elbows. ‘But to let me think she was dead . . .’ I flop back down onto the pillow. ‘It’s just plain wicked.’
‘He did save her life, though.’
‘I suppose so,’ I concede. ‘But he can’t have known the massacre was about to happen, otherwise he would’ve saved his parents too.’
She squints at the bedside clock.
‘I’m sorry, love, I’m keeping you, aren’t I.’ Suddenly I feel tired, overwhelmed by the events of the day.
‘Not at all. You take as long as you need. What time’s Eva getting here?’
‘In about an hour. I can’t wait. We have so much to catch up on. You carry on getting ready for your date with Stefano.’
‘It’s not a date,’ she states firmly, but there’s a hint of a coy smile.
She’s certainly having a hard time deciding what to wear for an outing that isn’t a date.
She pulls a cream linen dress out of the wardrobe, holding it at arm’s length. ‘Look at this, it’s creased to glory.’
‘Well, that’s linen for you, Candice,’ I reply absently. It’s hard to care about something so frivolous at the moment.
&
nbsp; She puts the offending dress back in the wardrobe and pulls out another. ‘What about this one? It’ll show off me tan.’
‘It’s perfect, love,’ I say, without looking up from Eva’s photograph. I caress her image with my thumb. My darling Eva. All these years . . .
Candice interrupts my thoughts again. ‘Stefano said we might have a chance to go swimming so I should wear a cossie. Well, he didn’t say “cossie”, obviously, but you know what I mean.’
She slips off the bathrobe to reveal a jungle-print bikini, the straps as thin as dental floss. After putting on the dress, she takes a long look at herself in the mirror.
‘Hmm . . . you can see the bikini through the fabric.’
I resist an eye roll. ‘It’s fine, Candice, now will you please get out of here and let me have a little siesta before Eva arrives.’ There’s no chance of sleep, of course, but I need space to think.
She opens the safe and retrieves her mobile. ‘Beau’s been calling again.’ She allows herself a small smile, presumably at the thought of him manically pressing the keys. ‘Hang on, that’s weird.’
‘What is it now?’ My patience is hanging by a thread. I just need some peace and quiet.
‘Beau. He was calling and calling this morning from around six, and then he just stops. Nothing, no text messages, no voicemails.’
‘Good, he’s finally got the message then. It’s taken him long enough.’
She bites her bottom lip. ‘You don’t think he’s done owt daft, do you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know . . . hurt himself, or worse.’
‘Candice, will you please stop fretting about Beau. I’m sure he’s fine.’ I tap my temple. ‘This is how he gets into your head. Forget about him and just enjoy your afternoon.’
She puts the phone back in the safe. ‘You’re right, as always.’ She scoops her hair up into a high ponytail and props her sunglasses on top of her head. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
The Memory Box Page 29
