Page 8 of A Place in the Sun
I stare at my phone. I can’t ring the electrician to find out if he’s coming, because the battery’s died afterwe used it as a torch last night. I don’t say anything. It’s no one’s fault. We made it through our first night and that’s what matters.
‘There’s no Wi-Fi here anyway,’ Luca says, with obvious disappointment. ‘I can’t get the iPad to work. What are we going to do all summer?’
‘Mr Fluffy is hungry,’ says Aimee.
‘Let’s find a shop and get some bits for breakfast,’ I say, shoving my dead phone into my bag and pulling it up onto my shoulder. ‘We could all do with something to eat.’
‘Perhaps we could stop at that man’s house again,’ Luca says, making me cringe and laugh at the same time. My stomach gives a treacherous rumble at the memory of yesterday’s gloriouscacio e pepewhile my cheeks burn all over again.
I pull the door closed behind us as we step out into the already scalding hot day and lock it with the giant key that is the only one I have for the house. I must think about getting the locks changed and new keys.
Another cat wanders up the slope at the side of the house. I look down to the view over the fields with the sun already baking the soil.
‘Me and Aimee could go and find the shop on our own,’ says Luca. ‘You could wait for the electrician.’
‘Not yet you can’t,’ I say, terrified that something will happen to them. Maybe it’s irrational or maybe I’m being sensible. I’m scared of them not comingback, like Marco didn’t that day he left for work. I know I’ll have to start to let go, but not yet.
I write a quick note saying ‘Back soon’ in case the electrician turns up while we’re out, using a pen from my bag and the back of a fuel receipt. I hope his English is better than my Italian. I addprestobecause it’s all I can remember. I leave it under a stone on the doorstep, and as I step back, I can hear voices from down the cobbled street. The same voices from yesterday, I think. My ear seems to be getting attuned to the language and I can just about make out what they’re saying.
‘Madam, please move your washing. I have no desire to look at your undergarments all day.’
‘Close your windows, then!’
‘Keep the noise down, you two. You’re hurting my ears.’
I raise my eyebrows and turn down my mouth at Luca and Aimee and we walk up the hill. I hurry them past the wooden door with ‘La Tavola’ written on it, the gate ajar, just as it was yesterday. I get a sneak peek at the table and chairs under the tree and embarrassment overcomes me again. I chivvy us on up the street to where the road opens out into a small square.
We stand and look around. There seems to be little here. Houses that were once shops now look as if they’ve been closed for a long time. I notice a small corner shop with crates of vegetables outside. ‘This way,’ I tell the children and point. We cross the small square in the hot, bright sunlight.
We step into the shop, which is small, dark and quiet, but has everything we need. The owner greets me with a nod and watches me, clearly intrigued to see an outsider shopping there.
As I let my eyes become accustomed to the gloom and study the shelves, I realize that although the range of products might be minimal, it’s wonderful. Home-made salami, bottles to buy and fill from a barrel of wine. In a corner, I spot fresh lemons and oranges, piles of dark aubergines, fragrant tomatoes and misshapen peppers. My spirits lift at just the smell of the place. I fill a basket with ingredients: onions, big fat bulbs of garlic, a bottle of olive oil and salt and pepper, dried pasta, and lots of tomatoes, big, red and smelling like tomatoes should. I wish Marco was here to enjoy them.
I hear a little bell from another room and the shopkeeper excuses himself. We wait. He returns, smiles and apologizes. I tell him there’s no need, curious as to where he went, but it’s none of my business.
He adds up my bill on a pad, glancing between me and the pad, and shows me the figure. When I pay, clearly a good customer for the day, he hands the children a lollipop each. They smile widely. Then he gives another to Aimee for Mr Fluffy and tears prick my eyes at his kindness. We thank him in Italian and say goodbye. The children are much chirpier for the lollipops and I’m humbled to see the difference that such a small gesture can make.
We head down the hill with our bags, the children with their school rucksacks, which contain bread and cheese. I’m carrying two baskets, which I’d found on the back of the kitchen door, old but serviceable, with a bottle of wine, the tomatoes, pancetta, pasta, milk and the rest of the ingredients we bought.
We pass the man with the goats who smiles at us and asks if we enjoyed the food …
‘Noi mangiamo bene.’ I’m not sure if he’s heard about my mistake at La Tavola or is telling us to have a good meal. But I smile anyway. ‘Buongiorno.’
The goats walk slowly but surefootedly up the hill, snatching at grass and leaves on the verges. One looks up at Aimee and Mr Fluffy, and she clutches him protectively to her chest.
I nod and smile and we move on.
‘Do you think the electrician has been?’ asks Luca. I realize I need to go down to the car to check on it and charge my phone.
At the house, the note is in the same place as I left it, under the stone on the doorstep. ‘No,’ I say, deflated.
Luca drops his smile and his head.
‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon,’ I say.
I turn the key in the door and push it open. It squeaks – I must oil it, I think. The sun is making its way up the sky with fiery determination, but it’s lovely and cool inside and we fall into the dark room. I navigate the bigtable and lots of stacked chairs and head for the kitchen. I put a big bottle of water on the table, find glasses in the old dresser, pour the water and pass them round.
‘Help yourselves to a snack – you can tear off some bread from the loaf we bought. I’m going to charge my phone,’ I say. ‘And then I’ll be back to organize some proper lunch for us. Don’t answer the door to strangers.’
