Page 4 of A Place in the Sun
‘I wish Papa was here,’ says Aimee.
I pull her to my side. ‘Me too, honey.’
‘Me three,’ says my son, coming in to hug us.
‘Maybe he is,’ I say quietly.
Then, with a squeeze, I let them go and reach back through the door for the light switch.
‘Found it!’ I say, with my hand over it. ‘Ready?’
I push down the switch and suddenly there’s light. I push the door further open. It feels as if we’re walking into a museum, dark with falling wallpaper and a sagging ceiling. It’s packed to the gunwales with stuff. Piles of chairs and tables, clothes and books. I do what I’ve learnt to do over the two years since Marco died: I pull up my big-girl pants. Then I step inside.
It’s not too bad, cleaner than I was expecting, just crammed with belongings that someone has clearly been hoarding. The kitchen looks usable.
‘See? I told you it would be fine. A bit of a sort-out will work wonders!’
A loud crackling sound, like the fuse of a firework being lit, and a bang, makes us jump. All the lights go out and there’s a whiff of burning.
For a moment, none of us speaks. Then Luca asks, ‘Mum, how long do we have to stay for?’
‘When can we go home?’ Aimee clings to me.
‘Soon, lovelies, very soon. We just have to get this place looking like it’s wearing its Sunday best, then sell it to someone who wants to love it and live in it. After that, we can go back to England and find a lovely little house for the three of us near your school and your friends. Just think of it as a lovely long summer holiday.’
I hug them even closer. What on earth have I done, bringing them here?
2
I scan the walls with the torch on my phone, then open the first set of windows and push aside the shutters to let in the light. It’s still dark, but not half as bad as it might have been.
‘Let’s open all the windows and shutters for some air,’ I say, navigating the big kitchen table as I head to the back door to open that too.
‘Mr Fluffy needs a wee!’
‘Oh, yes.’ I push open another door. ‘In here,’ I say, checking the loo first. Again, it’s relatively clean.
‘Leave the door open,’ says Aimee, as she sidles in.
‘We’ll get settled and Mr Fluffy sorted, and then I’ll try to find an electrician,’ I say, as brightly as I can.
‘Will the electrician make the place less scary?’ Aimee says, as I flush the loo and turn on the taps for her to wash her hands. It’s cold but it’s water. I holdout my T-shirt for her to dry them and she walks out, hugging Mr Fluffy, her head down, her nose on the top of his head.
I feel like crying, but if I started I probably wouldn’t be able to stop. I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of. Remember, Dad chose this place for us,’ I repeat. ‘This is an adventure.’
‘Mr Fluffy’s hungry,’ says Aimee.
‘I’m starving,’ says Luca, and his stomach growls. His hands fly to it and he looks surprised, making us all smile.
We’re standing in what looks like someone’s front room after they’ve just walked out, leaving everything they’ve ever owned in it. There are photographs on the walls, vying for space, and it smells musty. It’s as if time has stood still, since the door was closed on the place, however many years ago that was.
‘It’s not scary. It was someone’s home,’ I say. ‘We just need to make it our home. Make it how we’d like it.’
I stare at the photographs, the lace doilies on the dark-wood sideboard, loaded with china ornaments and crockery, and wonder where to start.
‘Let’s go and find something to eat,’ I suggest, ‘and ask around for an electrician. Then we’ll come back and make our beds. Everything will look better in the morning. And we’ll go shopping now, get what we need for breakfast,’ I say cheerily, looking at their wary, yet trusting faces. Inside I feel tired, scratchy,and my spirits are dipping. Oh, Marco! Why did you have to leave me? A bloody heart attack of all things, I think angrily. And why didn’t we get round to tackling proper grown-up issues like life insurance? Because we were always too busy trying to make the restaurant the best it could be, dreaming of the day when life would be easier and we’d come to stay in our little piece of Italy. My eyes prickle.
I usher the children out of the door – it takes the three of us to pull it shut. I lock it, although, looking around the quiet street, I’m not sure why. I turn in the direction of the terraced houses where the three older women were arguing. It’s quiet now.
