Page 5 of A Place in the Sun
‘Come on, Dad wouldn’t have wanted us to feel like this.’ I put on a smile. ‘He’d have wanted us to enjoy ourselves. We’ll go and find a restaurant or café. Papa wouldn’t have bought a holiday home without somewhere good to eat nearby!’
I stop and take in the view. Now I know why Marco bought this place. He said he could see us sitting out here in our old age. There is a heat-haze over the golden hills in front of me and the higgledy-piggledy village houses seem to be tumbling down the hillside towards huge open fields, punctuated by cypresses and what may be chestnut trees too. The sun is sinking a little lower in the sky, and tears spring to my eyes. It really is beautiful, and I wish Marco was here to see it.Maybe he is, I muse, imagining him beside me admiring at the view.
‘You okay, Mum?’ asks Luca, touching my hand.
‘Fine, my lovely. Fine.’ I smile at him, take hold of their hands and squeeze. The three of us walk out onto the road and, following my instinct, which is about all I have to rely on, these days, we head up the hill towards the remote village Marco described to me after he’d put in an offer on the house. ‘How could I not, Thea?’ he’d said. ‘It was a steal!’ I remember him grinning, which made me smile, because however madcap his ideas were, I’d loved them – and him.
I breathe in the warm air. Maybe if Marco and I had taken time off, closed the restaurant for a few days, planned a proper holiday together, he wouldn’t have been trying to make plans for our future on his own. And I wouldn’t be trying to sell this house alone.
3
It’s still really hot. The sort of hot that means you have to take your time, whatever you’re doing. July in Tuscany is always going to be like this. We’re dragging our feet as we stumble up the cobbled street, which is leading us, I hope, to the heart of the village.
A cat wanders across our path and stops to lie down in the shade of a building. Aimee bends to stroke it, smiling as the cat purrs. That little smile means everything to me right now.
‘I’m starving,’ says Luca again. And I know he must be. He’s not usually one to complain, and since Marco died he’s hardly complained at all. I worry that he’s trying to be strong for Aimee and me and keep his feelings to himself. Aimee lets me know how she’s feeling via Mr Fluffy. God forbid anything ever happens to that rabbit. She’s had him since she was a baby buthas held on to him even tighter over the last couple of years, when other children of her age had long left their childhood toys behind. Mr Fluffy still goes everywhere with us. I worry she’ll be picked on for having a soft toy in school in September, but haven’t the heart to encourage her to leave him at home. That’s a conversation I’ll have with the teachers when we’re back in England. Right now, we’ll take one day at a time, one foot in front of the other.
‘There must be somewhere around here to eat,’ I say, passing the quiet, dark houses.
The old man and his three goats are wandering up the middle of the road behind us. The children huddle against me, more used to electric scooters and e-bikes taking up pavement space rather than four-legged animals.
‘Scusi?’ I try to call over the goats, which are bleating, and the bells around their necks clang as they walk. ‘Scusi?’ How do I ask if there’s somewhere to eat around here? I hold my fingers to my lips. ‘Mangia?’ It’s as much as I can remember from Marco and the Italian conversation course we played on the journey here. I’d always meant to learn more Italian, but there was never any time for any of the things we promised ourselves once the hard months of Covid and the squeeze on the hospitality industry were over.
The man directs me up the hill with a gnarled finger. ‘Mangiare!’ He encourages me, with a toothless smile, to follow the road.
‘Grazie,’ I call, and turn the children back in the direction he’s pointing, uphill, and we hurry ahead of the goats, grazing now at the side of the road.
Just when I think none of us can go any further, I spot it. ‘There,’ I say, relieved. There’s a doorway in a wall, with a wooden gate, and a small handmade sign, La Tavola. The table. At least I recognize that word. I step through the gate into a small courtyard, with a large chestnut tree in the middle creating welcome shade. There’s a table with chairs, just outside a stone archway with a door in it, and oil cans with plants in them. There’s even a white loo in which red geraniums are blooming, making the children giggle. ‘There.’ I smile. ‘I said we’d find somewhere.’
The children rush towards the table and I hurry after them, practically collapsing into an old plastic chair. I breathe a sigh of relief. The quiet courtyard is full of buckets and pots brimming with flowers and herbs. It smells amazing, and it’s cool under the branches of the tree.
Aimee has turned pale.
‘Aimee, are you okay?’
At first she says nothing.
‘Aimee?’
‘Mr Fluffy feels a bitwooo…’ She rolls her head around.
‘I’ll get some water for us,’ I say. ‘Hello?Buongiorno?’ I call, but no one comes. It’s just silent. ‘Ciao?’ I call againbut louder. Still there is no sign of anyone. I stand, getting impatient, worrying about Aimee. I understand the problems that result from keeping staff to a minimum – I’ve been trying to do that for the last couple of years – but there really should be someone to greet us.
I walk to the worn wooden door and push it open. ‘Hello?Ciao?’
A man appears from the kitchen, wearing a pair of workman’s trousers with padded knees. His appearance takes me by surprise. He’s tall, wide-shouldered and clearly very fit. He has dark, curly hair and no shirt, which I find a little alarming.
‘Buongiorno. Um, I’m … we’re sitting outside. Could we have some water, please?’ I make a drinking action with my hand. ‘Acqua?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He replies in perfect English with a strong Italian accent. He wipes his hands. ‘I’ll just clean up.’ He holds up his hands and smiles. ‘Doing a bit of maintenance.’
I can’t help thinking that maintenance should be kept outside opening hours. But it’s not my business. As long as the food is good, that’s all that matters. ‘And could we have the menus, too, please?’ I turn and hurry back to Aimee. ‘There’s some water coming,’ I say, sitting down again on the plastic chair, which is weather-worn and aged. I hope it doesn’t give way. ‘Mr Fluffy probably just needs a drink.’
‘Me too,’ says Luca.
‘And me. A large glass of wine!’ I add. And the children laugh, making me smile.
After a little wait, the door to the stone building opens and the maintenance man, who has put on a clean white T-shirt, I’m pleased to see, comes with a jug of water and three short glasses, stacked together. ‘It’s a hot one,’ he says, in his very good English. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks Aimee kindly.
