Page 30 of A Place in the Sun
I watch them go up the lane from the front door, carrying water bottles and Mr Fluffy. We’ve come a long way from where we were: summer was for organized sports camps, and an au pair, the last of whom seemed to spend most of her time on her phone, leaving them to make their own lunch and calling it ‘an activity’ for them. They’re growing up. I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad. But time is moving on whether I like it or not. The summer is at its peak, autumn just behind it, and tomorrow will be another day without Marco. I need to hurry up with the house.
I turn away, locking the front door, then push up the sleeves of my thin shirt and go back upstairs. By mid-afternoon, I’ve packed nearly all of the clothes from the bedrooms and put the tied bin bags at the top of the stairs. I carry them down and put them by the front door, ready to take down to the car. I’ll find a charity shop or a clothes bank, whatever they have here.
I take a breather by the back door, tilting my faceupwards, hoping for a hint of breeze to bring relief from the intense heat that’s been rising all day. Suddenly a gust whips the treetops and the shutters bang, making me jump, and I run upstairs to close them. Outside, raindrops start to fall, turning quickly to a downpour. Should run up and get the children? They’re probably in as safe a place as any at La Tavola. I don’t want them trying to get back here in the rain.
I text Giovanni and ask him to keep the children with him until the cloudburst passes.
He replies:Of course.
The rain against the windows is loud. But I can hear something else: drip, drip, drip. And this time it doesn’t sound as if it’s outside. I follow the sound onto the landing.
Drip, drip, drip.
I look up at the ceiling above the stairwell and see a bulge. I wonder what to do about it. The drip isn’t new. Another job to add to the list. But now I know it’s there, I can patch up the leak.
Suddenly, there’s a clap of thunder, and a flash. I find myself crouching. The rain intensifies, slapping against the window panes, and I hope there aren’t any other leaks.
I go into my bedroom, sit on the bed and watch shards of lightning shooting across the sky. There’s a crash and another flash, but as quickly as the rain arrived it seems to pass, grumbling and rumbling offinto the distance. Soon calm is restored. I watch the storm roll away and the return of the sunshine, with fresher air. I open the windows again and drops of rain fall from the frame, quickly drying in the sun’s rays.
The clouds are scurrying away, leaving a brighter, bluer sky. I imagine Marco saying, ‘Blue skies after rain.’
‘I hope you’re right, Marco, I really do.’ I push the shutters wider and turn back to the now empty bedroom, a blank canvas we can put our mark on. I glance from the bed to the brightening fields below, with the scent of wet soil in my nostrils. The rain has given the soil what it needs to nourish the plants, to allow seeds to germinate and grow into tomorrow’s blooms.
I turn to the last of the bags by the bedroom door and go over to tie them up and take them to the top of the stairs. I’m hot, sweating, ready for a beer and a wash in the basic bathroom. I straighten my aching back and suddenly there’s a shout from outside. Is it one of the children? Are they in trouble?
‘Luca? Aimee?’ I call, and drop the bags I’m carrying to navigate the stairs without them.
There’s banging on the door. My heart is thundering.
‘Open up!’
‘I’m coming!’ There’s more banging, and my eyes are burning with tears from the panic rising in me. ‘Coming,’ I shout.
I take the stairs two at a time, avoiding the fourth, which needs repairing. ‘I’m coming,’ I call again.
But then I hear something that doesn’t make sense and I freeze.
‘Hey, Marco! Marco! Marco!’ Am I imagining it, just like I’ve imagined him in the kitchen? I freeze.
‘Marco! Where are you?’ The door rattles. I’m being visited by a ghost from the past.
13
‘Marco? Come on, I know you’re in there. The shutters are open! Hello?’ The shouts continue.
I make my way to the front door and look at the handle, rattling and turning this way and that, threatening to give way at any minute.
‘Hey, Paps! I know you’re here.’
The key is on the floor – where the wind must have caught it and caused it to fall. I pick it up, my hands shaking as I put it into the lock, turn it and pull at the heavy door handle. My heart is racing, as if I’ve downed a couple of Jäger Bombs.
I open the door to see a young woman stepping back and staring up at the house. Dark hair bundled messily on top of her head, like Amy Winehouse’s. A collection of earrings in her lobes, catching the light.Friendship bracelets around her wrists. Cut-off denim shorts, a bikini top and a tattoo of a heart just above her breast. I don’t move.
The afternoon light is pouring onto her, as if she’s arrived on a shaft of sun. She just needs wings to make her celestial.
‘Marco! Paps!’
Why does she keep calling him that?
