Page 17 of A Place in the Sun
A large-bosomed woman in a black dress, a cardigan draped over her shoulders, is holding a dish, covered with a tea-towel. I’ve got a good idea of what it might be, and my heart sinks.
‘Buona sera. I brought you lasagne,’ she says, unsmiling, and holding out the dish to me. ‘Proper Tuscan lasagne.’ She emphasizes each word.
‘Oh …’ I hesitate, unsure of the etiquette, but I feel I should politely refuse it. ‘Really, we have so much …’ Her stare burns into me, like the intense heat of the midday summer sun. She is holding out the lasagne dish firmly and steadily to me. Of course I can’t decline it. ‘That’s so kind of you,’ I say. I put out my hand and take one side of the dish. I realize it would be rude not to lift the cloth and look at it. The sight ofanother lasagne makes me sigh and not in a good way. ‘It smells delicious,’ I say, barely able to look at it.
‘It is proper Tuscan lasagne. Made as it should be,’ she says fiercely. ‘Others may copy, but they don’t know the real secret to the sauce, even if they think they do. This is how it should be done.’
‘Okay,’ I say, still holding one side of the dish. I give it a gentle tug, only to find she keeps holds of the other side, assessing me.
‘And what is your name?’ she asks directly, with a jut of the chin.
‘Thea,’ I answer.
She narrows her eyes. ‘Who are you here with?’
I’m contemplating letting go of the dish, but if I do it will crash to the ground, causing all sorts of extra problems. My arm aches and I have no idea how much longer the interrogation will last. It’s a clever move on her part. She has me trapped and won’t let go until she has the information she wants.
‘Er …’ I’m taken a little aback by her conversation skills, or lack of them ‘… just me and my children.’
She gives a sharp nod and attempts to peer into the house past me, while still holding her end of the lasagne dish. ‘It’s been empty for a long time,’ she tells me.
‘Yes,’ I say. I wonder if I have to tell this stranger that my husband died suddenly, that I lost our business and our house, before she’ll let go of the dish and release me from the interview. Or maybe I can holdback some information and get away from the situation unscathed. ‘It certainly needs updating.’
‘It is sad. No one to take it on or care for it after she was gone. And there is no one else here?’ She looks past me again.
I give the lasagne dish another little tug. She’s still not letting go of it.
I glance over my shoulder at the tired room, then back at her. Day is turning to night, as dusk sets in, and the bats flit about outside the front door.
‘Anyway,grazie mille!’ I nod to the lasagne, wondering what on earth I’m going to do with it. The food bin isn’t big enough for all these lasagnes. I look at the cat and wonder if it would like some, maybe tell its mates. No, not a good idea. I’ll be inundated.
She finally lets go. ‘And where is your husband? The man who came here?’
She’s pulled the rug from under my feet. She met him. She saw Marco, here, in what was supposed to become our happy place.
There’s no way out of it. I’m cornered. ‘He died,’ I say. ‘Very suddenly. A heart attack at work. Just after we signed for this place …’ I peter out.
She says nothing, and then I’m bursting with questions for her, what she remembers of Marco being there, what his face looked like when he turned it to the sun. Does she remember him laughing? That laugh! But I don’t. Instead, she nods to me.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she says, then adds, ‘I hope the lasagne helps.’ She turns and starts to walk down the hill, her large hips rolling from side to side under her black dress. I wonder why the women hadn’t come together, perhaps brought one lasagne between them. And then I remember I heard neighbours arguing over the washing. They all know we’re here. They’ve brought lasagnes. We must be the talk of the village, wondering who we are.
From upstairs I can hear Luca reading aloud. Tears prick my eyes.
I turn back into the house and close the door with my hip. I look back to the kitchen. I can see Marco at the table again, laughing.
‘They are just trying to make you feel welcome,cara. They want to find out more.’
‘You can laugh. You haven’t got to eat it all! The children will have lasagne coming out of their ears! And I’ll have to remember which was which, make sure I can tell the difference. This one,’ I sniff, ‘smells much the same at the last one. Maybe there’s something different in it. If you were really here you could tell me.’
‘Mum?’ Luca is on the stairs. ‘Who are you talking to? Who was at the door?’
‘No one, lovely. Well, yes, someone.’ I don’t want to tell him I’m talking to a vision of his dead father. ‘It was …’ I hold up the dish and tilt my head to one side.
‘Oh, no! Not another!’
‘Luca …’ I try to scold him but end up laughing. ‘They’re being friendly,’ I say, although the woman I just met was anything but. And I’m going to have to get the empty dishes back to them tomorrow, tell them it was delicious and thank them. How on earth am I going to remember which was which and find out where they live?
‘Guess it’s lasagne for breakfast, then,’ says Luca, heading back up the stairs. ‘Bet it’s not like the one Dad used to make.’
