A Funeral in Fiesole (22 page)

Christmases

My plan to visit Naples on my own fitted in perfectly with everything else. All my siblings were quite ready to leave the villa. It was plain they had had a sufficiency of contact with me and each other. They all started moving out, having signed the final document, packed, and said their farewells. Some resentment and awkwardness was still in the air. Things were always stilted in Larkin goodbyes. We never quite got it right.

We lied about how we felt. We lied about what we saw in each other. We lied about the past, and the future. Truthfulness died long before Mama went, but it was benign mendaciousness; it was something we all recognized and accepted. To experiment with honesty was disruptive and dangerous. We could not all be Harriet. We bade our farewells to her with good grace, I supposed.

Suzanna and Lewis were off quickly, thanks to his organized packing. I went up to them in the hall, where my sister had stood her perfect burgundy handbag on the round table.

‘Well, then, Paola! Goodbye and … goodbye. Ciao.’

I had to ask. ‘Suzanna – do you remember being given a box of sweets, which converted into a jewel box when we were little?’

She grimaced like I had gone completely mad. ‘A jewel box? Full of sweets? No, Paola. Was there ever such a thing?’

I waved a hand, as if to dismiss some flighty butterfly wavering into the hallway. ‘Nothing. No. Um … forget it. Goodbye.’

She kissed me on both cheeks and was gone.

It was a bit distressing, but we all were affected by the last meeting with Notaio Umberto Ugobaldi. That could have been it.

The notary was businesslike as usual. Only one thing he said was cause for regret. He looked at us in turn, and regarded the papers in front of him. His spectacles glinted; the weather had suddenly changed, and shafts of sunlight came through the large windows. ‘There was an intention, on the part of your mother, Nina Larkin, to write a letter to each of you.’

There was a combined intake of breath. I could see eager expressions in Brod’s, Suzanna’s and Nigel’s eyes. My heart stopped at the thought of reading a letter from Mama.

‘But I am afraid her infirmity overtook her, before she could tackle the task. She left it too late. However, I am very sure you each might imagine what she had to say. Her legacy is obvious – her will was fair. It is abundantly clear she left you more than mere material things. In these envelopes, I have folded a photocopy of some notes she made. They are practically illegible. They are nonetheless yours.’

No letters. We were all disappointed. There was nothing one could do about some of life’s omissions.

I watched them go, either from the balcony outside the upstairs drawing room, or from the front steps. It felt good to wave them off. It gave me a new sense of propriety, of being in charge. Of owning something which didn’t have anything to do with John. There would be a divorce settlement, but it didn’t matter much to me how the split went now. My future was pretty much decided by Mama’s wise thinking. Running a retreat for writers in this rambling house would be good, especially if it was done up well. I could rely on Brod and Grant to get the renovation right. The expense would not be a bother – the details would be taken care of without the need to economise or compromise. It would be beautiful when finished.

Brod said something about Mama’s exceptional rugs, so I had no doubt he’d got them squirreled away somewhere, to be returned to their original places as soon as ladders, scaffolding, debris and all the mess was cleared away.

How long would it all take? I wondered. Neither I nor Brod and Grant were in a real hurry … and yet we were eager to start it and see it to completion within a reasonable timeframe.

My next task was to look up Beatrice Sottalbero. I knew I’d be seeking resemblances and differences to her great uncle Basile. I knew I’d trail all over Naples seeking his work to examine and link to memories I had of him. It would tie a loose end which had flown and fluttered, untied, for far too long.

I had two photographs – one of Papa, and one of Mama, taken in Cornwall, which I wanted to be copied, converted into matching oval paintings. I might very well find Beatrice and she could fit the bill, and take on a commission, on my visit to Naples. It would mean a complete break from my Melbourne life, but a continuation to what I’d found here in Fiesole. My old self.

I made a resolution last night – to spend time in Cornwall too. And Wales – my desire to visit Wales had never been entertained, let alone fulfilled, when John was around. Strangely, so strangely, I wanted the rest of my life’s Christmases to be English ones, just like the ones of my youth and childhood. Not strictly to recapture anything – or even to cancel the Australian Christmases I’d had – but to fulfil a wish for red and green and silver. A wish for cold weather, churches lit up with more than mere light. Choral music, boots and scarves, and the rich smell of oranges, plum pudding, and real English baking. I needed the music of Byrd and Elgar and Holst – they didn’t only belong to Nigel.

I wanted to look out from a window and see the sea, the sea of England. It didn’t hold significance only for Suzanna. I might not be the boating kind, but I wanted the sea within walking distance, and renting a cottage in Truro or Penzance was not out of the question.

Before he left, Brod pushed two sheets of paper into my hand.

‘What’s this?’

He smiled. What a difference shaving off that silly moustache made. It took years off him. ‘It’s a receipt. From a place down in Florence. They know about you. I’ve paid for a consignment of seedlings, plants … little saplings and shrubs and stuff. You can call them and name what kinds you want. I thought …’

‘Brod – this is wonderful of you.’

He beamed. ‘Just as wonderful as you giving the Brigante portrait of Papa to Suzanna.’

It was something I had to do.

‘When you get back from Naples, Paola, dig your hands in the villa soil. Do what Mama did. Get the garden thriving and splendid again.’

I didn’t think Brod would ever know how significant it was, and how it laid out a path for me – a path down through the Larkin history in that rambling place. There was no doubt in my mind the next few years would be gloriously busy, with things I loved doing best.

I had a lot to look forward to in Fiesole.

The end

A year ago I sat down to write this. It was still too early. Now, my hand shakes, but I can see my way clear, and I ought to write these notes at some point. There is clarity in writing. Even if only to get it all right in my mind, and base a letter to each of the children on what I scribble here. Yes, I shall do it – a letter each. Or perhaps not? I don’t know.

The light comes through these big windows like it always has, but this year something’s different. It can’t be the sun. It can’t be the season. It can only be me. I’m changing, and I know why. I’ve noticed changes, and they aren’t for the better.

Soon, I’ll need looking after, round the clock. It’s not a nice prospect, but there’s nothing I can do to stop my decline. Like there was little I could do when Roland died. I’ve been a widow longer than we were married, and it still irks and chafes. Time numbs pain, but it cannot take away what was. It cannot erase what could have been. It was so close to perfect it could not possibly last. Perfection is momentary. A flash.

Roland was the beginning and end of everything – but we had four children, wonderful … dynamic. So full of his spirit. So full of his ideas and verve. Two even inherited his sticky-out ears and clownish smile. One received his observation; another, his sympathy and kindness. The children kept Roland alive. They made his life real. I poured mine into theirs.

I’ve written to the notary, and he will be here on Monday to take my dictation. We’ll do it the old way – I shall speak, and he will write. Umberto will like the sentiment. He liked the way I asked him to be present after my last general check-up at the doctor’s. He was satisfied as to the soundness of my mind – we all laughed about it, and I made sure I laughed the heartiest, since I was the case in point. The doctor and nurse signed the ‘soundness’ papers, which serve only to reassure Umberto Ugobaldi. I’ve known him for years, and he knows that in about a month, after I am absolutely sure the will is worded correctly, and after he has seen it’s lodged with the right authorities, Nigel and Harriet will come to stay.

They were brilliant when they helped me move from Cornwall. It went smoothly enough, and I had made sure the crates I wanted moved were moved at the right time and to the right places.  I could not die in Cornwall. It would be too heartbreaking to leave from the same door as Roland. His sudden death was such a shock I could hardly enter the house when I returned from the hospital without him.

Without him. How empty it all was. How hollow and startlingly bare my life would have been if I didn’t pick myself up right away and think about the children. Four children, all needing me in their funny little ways … their urgent, momentous life-changing ways … and I was all on my own to do it.

As it happened, it worked out very well, and I was only in the Cornwall cottage when it was full of the children’s Christmas cheer. We had brilliant summers here in Fiesole, and I did my travelling, painting, and living in between. At the time, it all seemed complicated and not a little scary, especially the first year after Roland went. I did it, however, I did it properly; and I knew the entire time Donato and Matilde had a lot to do with the family’s success.

For almost five years, Basile Sottalbero was in my life … and not. On and off. He hated one part of it; the inconsistency and my lack of commitment, my defiance of seriousness. Such a grave and solemn man. For an artist, he was pretty serious and dependable. He did not understand my English humour, so I was not entirely surprised he grew dismayed with my inability to settle with him forever. No matter how committed, no matter how artistic, no matter how he liked the children, no one could take Roland’s place. I said it so many times, in two languages. Basile finally understood, and did not return to the villa the following summer. His last words were about Paola. I laughed. ‘Will you miss my daughter more than me, Basile?’ Even that was too impenetrable a joke for him.

But he was right to miss my perceptive Paola. She was the only one to notice he was not there the following year. She was the one who needed him most, who most closely observed the way he painted, his attentiveness to detail. And it was likely she saw more than I did. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I feel her juvenile adoration was a bit more than a young crush. Ah – we tend to think first love is easily brushed off. No – for someone as solemn as Paola, it could possibly have formed her entire life view. Is it possible I only see this now?

How quickly they grew and took off. Now, it’s over, and even though Roland’s been gone more than forty years, I still long for him, and wish he could see them. His Suzanna, so clever in business. Nigel, so quick to anger, such a thoughtful father, and so easy to appease and please. Brod, in his young confusion – something Roland never knew I would have to contend with, a gay son – who grew up to be a banking brain. He would have marvelled too at Paola’s writing talent. No one guessed she would make a living from writing. Her youthful indecision and eloquent excuses developed into an insightful way with words.

I shall leave them everything, but first, the small details. I need to care for Matilde, who was as deeply sorrowful after Donato died as I was about Roland. We always understood each other, Matilde and I. I’ll see her flat in Prato is fully paid off, what little there is left to pay, and she will not have a worry in the world for the rest of her days. I shall do it now, simply by writing a cheque, so it is not in any way included in the will.

My lucky strike when inheriting my father’s fortune was his flair for investments. I left everything as it was, and took the right advice. I preserved what was there, and some parts grew in value. Roland’s flutters in the hospitality industry were surprisingly quite successful, despite his bad timing and crazy ideas, so few dents were made. I remember smiling at his often-repeated assertion. ‘Your father’s money is family money, and not to be put on a horse!’ His ventures were not the same as a mere wager, of course.

I shall leave the Fiesole house to Paola and Brod, together. They are both thoughtful and sentimental enough to keep it. Oh, this house needs to stay in Larkin hands. I do realise it will need restoration, but they will manage. Although I do not think John is in love with Italy, Paola will see she gets enough time here. I often wonder if my big girl and her husband see eye-to-eye, and if the loss of that baby had anything to do with John’s occasional coolness. I realized what had happened, even though she did not confide in me. A woman who has had five pregnancies and four children can recognize the effect of loss in a woman’s eyes. She never saw I knew, but I did, and had to keep quiet.

I have every confidence that Brod will eventually find someone who understands him, who hopefully will see his fine spirit and warm sentiment. He has great empathy, and a wonderful way in the garden, even if the soil makes him sneeze and gets in his eyes.

Together, or in turns, they will restore the villa back to the way it was when we all enjoyed it. Who knows – they might even entertain guests in the way their father wanted to.

To Nigel and Harriet, who cared for me so well, and spent so much of their time and money bringing me here from Cornwall, I shall leave the cottage in Newquay. Entirely free of encumbrances, it will provide them with a home, and they can dispose of their London flat later, when Lori and Tad finish their studies. It is by far greater than a quarter of the legacy, but Nigel and Harriet made me very comfortable and respected my wishes, without stopping to think about their own inconvenience. It’s about time they were recompensed.

I wonder what the notary will think when I tell him the share portfolio is to go to Suzanna? It is a nice little earner. I have done some estimates, and it is worth about two-thirds the value of the Cornwall cottage. So it’s very fair. Suzanna can either save it up, or use the income, or put it all towards one of her ventures. She will enjoy the freedom of not having to sell, or buy out, or share anything with her siblings. She used to dream of the Mediterranean, and often mentioned owning her own yacht. I wonder if she will ever make it come true. Knowing Suzanna, she will try hard enough. And Lewis will help her make it happen.

Umberto Ugobaldi will make the precise calculations, and tell me whether I have figured correctly whether the bank account I currently use, and my father’s remaining investments, will – after succession duty is subtracted – cover the tax due on the entire legacy. In this way, neither house nor portfolio will have to be sold to pay for any state impost, and Paola, Suzanna, Brod and Nigel can enjoy their inheritance intact.

It was great fun to meet and talk with Matilde last week. Her niece Anna has arrived in Prato and is such a caring person. I know my old friend is now in good hands.

‘What can I do for you?’ Matilde kept asking me. I had to laugh. She was always so thoughtful and considerate. It was time I did something for her.

‘But you paid us! You paid me and Donato, so well, too. Is there anything I can do for you … anything you need from Prato?’

So I told her what she could do. She could take several things off my hands as I decluttered the villa. The accumulated belongings of decades are not always sentimental. There were small appliances, rugs, kitchenware, stools and tools and more which would prove useful to her and others.

But there was another important task – to deliver to Paola, Suzanna, Brod, and Nigel the four little secret gifts I have planned for them. They are not bequests, strictly speaking, but giving them back objects from their childhood, objects which would always serve as memory triggers.

Memories – ah! They are not all good. Because of the way I am, I choose to isolate the good ones, and make much of those. There is enough bitterness and sorrow in life without demarcating negative recollections. The children must all have things to regret. With someone like Paola, they become plain on the face. With someone like Suzanna they are exclaimed over for a split second and quickly forgotten, or intentionally discarded. For Nigel, they become something to be sorted out with Harriet, darling Harriet – always another daughter to me. And Brod? Ah, Brod. He always brought his troubles to me. What will he do now?

Quiet, quiet. I should not shed tears for them. They are four fortunate people. More blessed than they know, with their strong personalities and all sorts of things they got from Roland.

They will most certainly have different memories … depending on what made a lasting impression on each of their inquiring minds as they grew. So, as Matilde pointed out to me once, might very well remember the same events in very different ways.

What stirring events some of them were. How changed they always returned to the two houses from school each year. What attention I needed to pay to each little personality. How many individual pancake feasts I conjured up, to elicit from a youngster replete with blackberry juice and sugar the secrets, adventures, fears and desires of a maturing heart.

What fine times we had in Fiesole.