Page 18 of A Place in the Sun
When he’s gone, I can still see Marco. ‘They were good days, when we’d make lasagne together, Thea, for the family,’ I hear him say.
I nod. ‘They were. I wish they could be again.’
There’s no room in the fridge so I put the lasagne on the side and lock the back door. I turn back to the kitchen table.
‘Goodnight, Marco,’ I whisper, not wanting Luca to hear.
‘Good night,cara,’ I hear him say, so familiar and yet a memory. I wish I could wrap my arms around his neck, like I used to when he stayed up later than I did. He’d look up and kiss me. I wish I could feel his lips on mine, on my forehead, my neck, my body. I shiver at the memory, trying to hold on to the feeling of warmth and love as I make my way to bed, avoiding the broken step and the squeaking tap in the bathroom in case it wakes Aimee. I look in on her, Mr Fluffy stillclasped tightly to her, and Luca, fast asleep, then make straight for the high double bed in the room with the wallpaper falling off and the glorious view over the hills. I pat down the pillow next to me, making an indentation for where Marco’s head would be, and try to ignore the mosquitoes whining round my head.
7
The daylight wakes me. For once, I haven’t been lying in bed and waiting for dawn. I throw back the covers and trot down the stairs, counting them so that I miss the broken one. To my surprise and delight, I can see Marco sitting in the kitchen, as if he’s been there all night, watching over us. The sunlight streams through the windows as I push open the shutters.
‘Good morning,’ I say. He’s drinking coffee, just as I’d known he would be. He always liked to be up first. Coffee on the go.
‘Buongiorno, cara,’ he replies, as I open the back door to let in the fresh dewy air and make myself coffee with the cafetière, walking around Marco who is on a chair, olive-skinned arms resting on the table. He’s wearing his usual white T-shirt. ‘Just like I showed youhow to make it when we first met.’ He chortles, making me smile.
I’m thinking about the day he told me he’d bought this place. He had a small inheritance from his mother and wanted to buy somewhere. I never thought he’d get a house for the little pot of money he had. At the time we could have used it on the restaurant, but it would have been only a drop in the ocean of our huge overdraft. This way, he had something to remind him of her. His home town was in Le Marche but he thought buying in Tuscany meant he was moving up in the world. I remember him sending photographs, telling me he couldn’t wait to show me the place, introduce me to it and the local people.
The lasagnes have been generous gestures. I think about Marco’s lasagne, from Le Marche. Not a lasagne, he would tell me, but avincisgrassi, a lasagne-type dish. Seven layers of pasta, lots of béchamel sauce and a mixed-meatragù. He always made it for special occasions, mixed meats, pork and beef, but it could also include chicken livers, hearts and giblets, sweetbreads, pancetta, veal, duck, lamb, goose, rabbit or mushrooms, depending on the family recipe, Marco told me.
I look at the table. Having emptied the three dishes and, yes, fed some to the cat outside the back door and buried some in the garden, I need to return the clean dishes, although I have no idea how to get themto their rightful owners. I don’t know who the women were. I sigh. There’s only one way I can do this.
The children are still asleep. I leave a note to say where I’ve gone, that they’re not to answer the door, and I’ll be back really soon. I step outside to be greeted by the cat weaving its way around my legs in the already hot sunshine. I carry the three heavy dishes, with the tea-towels I washed by hand, with some of our clothes, in the old sink in the kitchen and dried in the morning sun, on branches of the fig tree. The fridge is crammed with as much of the leftover lasagne as I could fit into it. Each differed slightly in flavour and texture, but they were all delicious and very filling. One had mozzarella on top, another a different type of meat, lighter than the first, and the third tasted like a darker meatier version. I’m trying to remember the order they came in as I walk up the narrow, cobbled street, to where the terraced houses face each other, at the end of the neglected buildings, shuttered and silent. It’s sad to see them empty. I’m surprised more houses aren’t snapped up by people wanting a slice of Italian life, although there’s nothing around here, nothing at all, apart from the small shop, and practically no one. It’s not the sort of thriving Tuscan village I’d imagined, with cafés and a bustling market. It seems that even in areas like wealthy Tuscany there are pockets that have been abandoned and left to run themselves into the ground. Poverty and isolationmust have driven out even the most enthusiastic bargain hunter.
I pass another small house with an open door. A younger woman is hanging out washing on the little wrought-iron balcony. She smiles and I smile back, wishing her a good day. But apart from that, and the cat following me, there’s no one around.
But, in the distance, in the other direction, I hear voices again, loud women’s voices. They stop as soon as they start, clearly a short, sharp interaction. The quiet has returned. Except for one sound: goats. And bells.
The old man, Giuseppe, is coming towards me with his goats. He’s leaning on his stick and dressed in a thick woollen jacket, two sizes too big, despite the early heat of the day. The goats are walking along the middle of the road, the one in front raising its head and bleating, tongue quivering.
‘Buongiorno.’ I nod and pass him, and he wishes me the same with a wide, toothless smile. I give the goats a wide berth and hold my breath, in case Luca was right and they were smelly. We didn’t come across many goats on the school run at home.
Home. Was it home, or was it just because it was where Marco was? Where Marco and I created our business and our family, and an Italian restaurant would have an appreciative audience. Wherever we’d chosen, I don’t think things would have ended up differently, with rent escalating and rising food prices. Back home,prices were going up and up and we’d had to pass that on to the customer. No wonder people had stopped going out to eat.
I walk on slowly, feeling the weight of the heavy dishes in my arms. Nearing the top of the hill, I catch my breath, inhaling the warm, pine-scented air. I turn slowly to the wooden gate of La Tavola. It’s ajar. The dog slips out of the gap and runs towards me, wagging his tail and making me smile. Then, calling him to me, ‘Bello, Bello?’ I push open the gate and step into the shady walled garden.
‘Hello?Buongiorno?’ I call.
I walk towards the front door and knock on the peeling paintwork. It swings open further, letting in the morning sunshine.
‘Hello?Buongiorno?’ I call again, taking in the long table inside and the big kitchen beyond it. It’s clean, white and surprisingly cool as I step down into the big room. The dog follows me and I have no idea if he’s supposed to be there or not.
‘Hey,’ says Giovanni, walking out from the kitchen with a small coffee cup. ‘You came back. I thought you might. Like I say, we’re always looking for helping hands.’ He smiles, his dark curls bouncing around his face.
I shake my head. ‘Sorry, not here to help. Just come for some information really,’ I say, as the young woman I saw hanging out washing comes through the door behind me.
‘Ah,caffè! Great!’ she says. ‘Buongiornoagain. Would you like some coffee?’ she asks, going into the kitchen and returning with a pot and two small cups. She is pouring it before I can refuse.
‘I don’t want to take up your time,’ I say, looking between the two of them.
Giovanni is smiling. ‘Buongiorno,’ he greets the younger woman.
‘Time is the one thing we have here for free,’ she says.
‘Have a seat. Everyone is welcome,’ says Giovanni. ‘We’re waiting for a delivery, but also, as always, planning, brainstorming, whatever you call it, trying to think of ways to make ends meet.’
They go to sit at one end of the long table on a wooden bench and beckon me to join them. There is a notepad with a pen that the woman picks up, and a long list. I sit down next to them, hoping to find out quickly what I need to know so I can leave them to it. I look outside the door to where the dog has lain down under an olive tree on the stone patio.
