Page 4 of Last Letter Home
‘I think it’s horrible to talk like that about your patients.’ I do sound prim, Briony told herself, but to her relief, Luke nodded.
‘He’s an idiot. I don’t think Aruna realized exactly what she was taking on when she invited them. He was all right in London. Isn’t it strange when you see people out of their normal context? You notice new things about them.’
‘About how they really are?’
‘Different sides, perhaps. You still have to consider them as a whole.’
She envied Luke his laid-back attitude. ‘I suppose so.’ Mike was affable enough, she had to admit, and could be amusing company, but when he’d had a drink or two he became loud, boorish. And – she felt a flash of anger – it was their precious holiday he was spoiling.
‘So, what about me?’ she said lightly. The path had widened and they were walking side by side now. ‘Am I different out of my milieu?’
Luke didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Yes and no,’ he said finally, as though choosing the right words. ‘I think in London we instinctively act in a certain way; it’s a kind of armour, but here it’s easier to see behind that to the person beyond. A nice person in your instance, of course.’ He glanced at her with a grin.
‘That’s all right then. Sometimes I suspect the person inside me is a poor shrivelled thing.’
‘We all feel that about ourselves sometimes. I know I do. I suppose, since you asked, you seem a little . . . careworn. I’m sorry if I’m saying the wrong thing . . .’
‘You’re probably right,’ she admitted. ‘I’m still unwinding, I think.’
They trudged on in silence, Briony’s feeling of anxiety returning the closer they got to the villa. She was faintly alarmed now by the concerned glances Luke was throwing her. Perhaps she’d made a fool of herself by flouncing out and he thought her bonkers? But when they came to the door and he stood back to let her go first, their eyes met briefly. He did not smile, but his grey-blue eyes under the mop of springy hair danced with good-humoured complicity.
‘Thanks for coming to find me.’
‘No problemo,’ he said. ‘Aruna was worried.’
‘It is called the Villa Teresa,’ the stout barman of the tiny local tavern pronounced loftily the following day in answer to Briony’s question. He gave the round zinc table a deft wipe with a cloth and set before her a cappuccino and a glass of iced water. Then he glanced about the sunny terrace and lowered his voice. ‘No one lives there now, bella. There is, how you say, a difficulty.’ He spread his fingers to indicate a web of intrigue.
‘But who does it belong to?’ Beautiful, he’d called her. The way he’d spoken almost made her feel it. She lifted her sunglasses up onto her head and blinked up at him and ran a smoothing hand over her long hair, released from its usual neat chignon. The sun was lightening the pale brown to blonde, she’d noticed happily in the mirror that morning.
More customers arrived, distracting him. ‘I do not know, signorita, sorry.’ With a bow of his head he stepped over to serve a silver-haired American couple who were settling themselves at a table nearby, the woman fanning herself with a tourist pamphlet, and her husband calling impatiently for acqua minerale.
Briony sipped her coffee and flicked through the book she’d brought down with her. It was an illustrated account of the Allied forces’ liberation of Italy. Round here must have been quite a battleground, she realized as she examined the photographs, fought over by the Germans and the invading Allied forces. It was difficult to imagine now, sitting outside this pretty ochre-roofed café with its view of the arched bridge and the chattering river, though this terrace would have been the perfect lookout spot. ‘The Germans retreated, blowing up transport links as they went . . .’ she had begun to read, when—
‘Scusi, signorita.’ A soft female voice from the table behind, where previously there had been no one.
She twisted round to meet the almond-eyed gaze of a fine-boned, middle-aged Italian woman in a long-sleeved top of royal blue who was sitting in the shade over a coffee. It took a second for Briony to recognize her as Mariella, the maid for their villa. Only yesterday she and her shy grown-up daughter had driven up with piles of fresh sheets and snowy towels which they had stowed in a cupboard before restoring the kitchen to order with tactful efficiency.
‘Buongiorno, Mariella, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you before. Sono Briony.’
Mariella acknowledged this with a nod, but her eyes were on the book. ‘Per favore, Briony, the book?’
Briony showed her the cover, then when Mariella reached out a beckoning hand, passed the volume to her. She watched the woman turn to the pictures with her long fingers, and was struck by the passionate expression in her eyes.
‘You, you know about this here?’ Mariella said, tapping the book, and Briony caught her meaning.
‘I’m a historian,’ she explained. ‘What happened here is fascinating to me. I write about the Second World War,’ and she explained about Women Who Marched Away, while the woman listened, examining Briony’s face with calm eyes. ‘Also,’ Briony added, ‘my grandfather, mio nonno. He was a soldier here, a British soldier.’
At this Mariella stiffened and her stare intensified, leading Briony to wonder if she’d unwittingly given offence. The war might be history to some, but she knew that for others it had left wounds that would never heal, with repercussions that affected their children, of whom Mariella might be one. She was still troubled when Mariella returned the book with a simple, ‘Grazie.’ The cleaner switched subjects. ‘La casa? The house? You are happy?’
‘Oh, very happy,’ Briony hastened to say. ‘Everything’s lovely, thank you.’
‘Prego,’ the woman replied vaguely, glancing again at the book. Then, ‘Signor Marco,’ she called over her shoulder and the proprietor appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, drying his big hands on a towel, his bald pate shining under the electric light. She spoke several sentences of Italian to him, too fast for Briony to follow, but the words ‘Villa Teresa’ kept being mentioned. Signor Marco replied with the same rapidity and Briony looked from one to the other trying to make sense of it all. Finally he retreated to his kitchen and the woman arranged her cardigan around her shoulders, collected a black tote bag from the floor and stood up to go. ‘Ciao, signorita.’
‘Ciao. Good to see you,’ Briony mumbled, still wondering what the conversation with Signor Marco had been about, and she watched Mariella call goodbye to him and wander out into the sunlight.
There was something puzzling going on here, she reflected. Mariella, her slender frame bowed, walked slowly, deep in thought. Suddenly she paused, turned and stared back up at the café, a watchful expression on her face. Then she seemed to come to a decision, for with purposeful stride, she crossed the road and set off along a narrow footpath that vanished up the hill behind the village shop opposite. Briony stared after her, feeling considerably disturbed by the whole encounter. Had she unintentionally touched upon some secret trouble?
Three
