Bad Girls Good Women (91 page)

Tomaso had black curly hair, and limpid brown eyes. He had a broken tooth that made his smile rakishly appealing.

‘Oh, for an Italian,’ Julia agreed.

After that, Lily’s mood changed dramatically. She devised an ingenious hiding and chasing game for the stronger children that led them up and down the garden terraces. And at one refectory supper she took a place beside Guido and talked to him while he crumbled his food into his awkward mouth. And she and Tomaso pretended to bump into each other everywhere, and then glanced quickly away, blushing.

‘How do you talk?’ Julia asked. Lily knew no Italian, and Tomaso didn’t have a word of English.

Lily looked surprised. ‘We manage fine.’

After some thought, Julia agreed to let Tomaso take Lily down to the sea on the old blue bus that left the Montebellate square twice daily. And after the first time, the expedition was regularly repeated.

‘Does Alexander let you go out with boys?’ Julia asked. ‘Be sensible, won’t you?’

Lily looked levelly back at her. ‘I know what you mean. And I’m not silly.’

Not half as silly as I was
, Julia thought.

She wrote a letter to Josh. She didn’t have to describe Montebellate to him, nor the view that spread beneath her open shutters. Josh did reply to the letter, many months later. He told her that he had been working in Argentina, and then had travelled back very slowly, through Peru and Colombia. Josh had no more ties than he had ever had.

There was the inevitable evening when Lily came home with her red mouth swollen and her eyes starry.

Julia sat with Nicolo with the planting plans and designs from the experts in Rome spread out in front of them. She told him about Lily and Tomaso.

‘What do you feel about it?’ he asked.

Julia put her hands over her face, rubbing under her eyes. ‘Old,’ she answered. ‘I’m thirty-three.’

Nicolo put his hand on her bare shoulder. His touch was dry and light, like a falling leaf. ‘How old do you think it makes me feel, to hear you say that?’

Julia took his hand between her own. ‘You’ll never be old.’

‘I am quite ancient,’ Nicolo said cheerfully. ‘Too old, sadly, for anything except friendship.’

‘Friendship is enough.’

Nicolo sighed. ‘Try to tell that to Lily and her Tomaso.’

Lily spent six weeks at the palazzo. By the end of the time she was as brown as Julia, and she seemed to have grown up again. To Julia, she seemed to be on the very heartbreaking edge of the divide between girl and woman.

On the morning of her departure, everyone who could came out into the courtyard to say goodbye to her. Tomaso waited at the edge of the crowd, hanging back to the very last moment. Then, when Lily looked around for him, he edged forward. He kissed her, very formally, on both cheeks and then stepped back again. Lily hesitated, and then nodded. Her smile had turned shy again. She held her head up and walked quickly after Julia. In the car, on the way down the hill, she cried a little, very quietly. Then she dried her eyes and watched the sea receding.

‘I can’t wait to see Elizabeth,’ she announced at last.

At the airport, on the point of saying goodbye, Lily asked suddenly, ‘Can I come back another time?’

‘Of course you can. Whenever you want. Next time, I’ll have a house for us. Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected you to spend your holidays in a hospital.’

Lily beamed at her. ‘I’m glad you did.’

After she had gone it occurred to Julia that they had, all unexpectedly, come close to friendship.

All through the summer and on into the autumn the consultations with experts and the garden planning went on. Nicolo had found a garden historian in Rome, and he came and spent a week amongst the palazzo papers researching the original plantings. Through his discoveries the Montebellate gardens were linked back to the classic gardens of Northern Italy on which they had been modelled.

Designers and horticulturalists came, bringing with them stonemasons and marble masons who examined the cracked pillars and urns, and began the exhumation of the classical statues from their crypts of weeds.

When the summer season was over, the workmen moved in to begin the job of clearing the ground. Fredo, Vito’s nephew, who closed down his beach pizza bar in mid-October every year, came to lead the gang of labourers. Rotavators were towed in, and trucks loaded with topsoil and fertiliser and fresh gravel ground their slow way up the hill to the village.

Julia and Nicolo and the nuns watched with childlike excitement as the magnificent bones of the garden were raked bare. And as the work of clearing went on, plans for the restored planting arrived. In the late evenings, under Nicolo’s red-shaded lamps, they pored over the lists of santolinas and lavenders and helichrysums, cistuses and helianthemums and hundreds of bulbs.

Julia paid the huge bills, signing the cheques with a flourish of satisfaction.

At the end of the autumn, the first batches of plants arrived from the nurseries. These, and the spring bulbs, would be planted out while there was still some warmth in the ground. The rest would wait until the end of the short winter. She walked out in the sharp early mornings, with the thin mist wrapping around her ankles and the white sea like flat metal under the colourless sky. Fredo and his Uncle Vito knelt to unwrap the earthy balls of plant roots, and pressed them gently into the planting holes. Julia worked beside them, firming the moist earth around the neck of each plant, touching the crowns of cropped shoots as if to bless them. Fredo smiled at her as she sat back on her heels and rubbed her forehead with earth-blackened hands.

In the first summer after the planting the garden lay fresh and raw, with the statues standing blindly in the haze of new green. Julia watched with fierce pleasure as each new shoot uncurled. She walked the terraces, up and down, seeing the hard lines of the long walls and wide steps soften with foliage, and the grey and white of stone and marble fade by contrast with the brilliance of blossom.

Under the hot sun, she felt the garden’s vitality inside herself as well as all around her. She felt an erotic charge that made her lift her head and straighten her back, aware of the pressures and recesses of her body under her faded cotton dress.

Fredo came up from his beach bar in the evenings, to help with carrying the tubs of dirty water from the palazzo for siphoning on to the beds. He watched her all the time, smiled at her more often.

One evening, when the late darkness was falling, he caught her alone on the lowest terrace just within the sound of the sea. She was working not far from the point where she had first seen Lily and Tomaso together. She stood up as soon as she heard him approach, but he was already close and they almost bumped together.

‘Sera,’ Fredo murmured. She twisted her head away, then looked back at him, feeling the heat in her cheeks. Fredo had muscular, thick shoulders and damp black hair showed at the neck of his shirt. The hair tangled with a gold chain on which hung a crucifix. She had often seen it dangle while he worked, before he tucked it away again in his shirt front. There was a white, crescent-shaped scar in the brown skin at his jawline. She had never noticed that before. He was so close that she thought she could see the blood pulsing beneath it. She could smell his clean sweat, and see the sheen of it in the hollow of his throat.

Dizzily, she thought,
I could put my mouth there. Taste the salt
. And she thought of the other things, too.

Her heart thumped in her chest, and her head swam. It would have been easy to let her head fall forward, by slow, slow degrees, and let it rest against him. The heat of their skins would flash and burn.

Fredo moved the one half-step that brought their bodies into contact. He put his hand at the small of her back, heavy and hot, moving her hips against his. He put the fingers of his other hand on her breast. Julia almost screamed. Fredo’s white teeth showed as his mouth opened.

Fredo had a wife and several children, down on the coast. Julia put her hand up, closed her fingers round his wrist and lifted his hand away. She stepped back, into coolness, into safety. She nodded at Fredo. Not angrily, not dismissively. A neutral, concluding gesture. Then she turned away and managed to walk up a flight of stone steps. Another and another, and up to the palazzo. She reached her room and closed the door. There was no lock so she leaned against it, the palms of her hands pressed to the panels. She realised that she was panting, like a dog. After a long time, she crept across to her bed and lay down. She lay on her back, stretched out, staring up at the white roof. She ran her fingers over the taut skin inside her thighs, touched herself.

Julia was grateful to Fredo.

It was a long time, longer than she could remember, since she had felt the imperative, unspecific ache of physical need. It made her feel young, after she had decided that she was old. She was regenerated, like her Italian garden. Julia thought, with amusement, of the sap flowing again.

After that, she was careful not to be alone near Fredo. Not because she was afraid of him, but because she didn’t trust herself.

Before Lily’s summer holiday that year, Nicolo found Julia a house. It was a little way down the cobbled street from his own, a small white building full of awkward angles sheltering in the corner between two higher walls. It belonged to an old woman who was moving inland to live with her daughter. Nicolo helped Julia with the legal formalities involved in the purchase, and Julia sold her Camden Town flat to pay for it. When the house became hers she repainted it with fresh white paint, and put small iron bedsteads in the two bedrooms. She left the primitive kitchen just as it was, and left the walls bare because she had forgotten how to make magpie collections of things to adorn them. But she did paint the front door the harebell-blue that she remembered from the Pensione Flora.

She wrote another letter to Josh, and after a long time he wrote back.

Julia never wrote to Alexander. Sometimes he sent her short, formal notes, enclosing Lily’s school reports or other evidence of her progress. She always read his letters very carefully over and over, but they never yielded more than the bare words.

Julia thought that it was as if they had both retired behind their own ramparts, herself to the remoteness of Montebellate, and Alexander deeper into the old stronghold of Ladyhill. He never mentioned Clare, but Julia imagined her as a newer fortification.

Clare wrote too, sometimes. Clare evidently thought that it was her duty to keep Julia informed about Lily’s elocution lessons, the date of her first period, her first dance dress. Clare’s handwriting was as unformed as Lily’s own, her spelling even more erratic.

Lily herself came out for her second summer, and her friendship with Tomaso renewed itself. He used to come down from the palazzo to visit them in the little house. By the next year in the gardens the thin shoots had swelled into branches, and the flowers lay along the terraces in hot, shimmering sheets of colour. Marigold, peony, pinks. Julia moved amongst them, sometimes half dazed by the abundance.

Against one wall of the palazzo, a functional glasshouse was built. Julia and Tomaso learned to strike cuttings, to propagate seeds. Tomaso was much better at it, but Julia loved the fecundity of the seed trays and earthenware pots.

She was happy; a passive, unfocused happiness.

Another year. Julia sometimes lost track of days, even of weeks. Her calendar became the seasons, measured out by the demands of the gardens. They were reaching their full, forgotten glory now. They began to attract visitors, and an entrance fee was charged for the benefit of the
ospedale
. Julia and Tomaso worked full-time on the terraces and parterres. Tomaso was paid a wage, by Julia. For herself, she lived very frugally. She ate in the convent refectory, burned wood in winter in the stove in her little house. Tomaso moved out of the palazzo into a room across the square. He acquired a moped. That was the summer that Lily was fifteen.

At first Julia forbade her to ride with Tomaso on the moped. Then she saw that the other girls rode behind the boys, and she relented. The boys and girls used to gather in the evenings, in the square beyond the palazzo gates. They stood in the shade of the plane tree, where Julia had first seen the old woman and her tethered goat, laughing and talking and listening to pop on tinny transistor radios. The mopeds coughed and whined round and round the square. Julia saw Lily absorbed into the crowd. She was proud of Lily; of her ease amongst the Italian girls and boys, of her natural good spirits, of her beauty. She liked to see her with Tomaso and the others, enjoying the evening and the summer’s richness.

Julia would wave, and walk on down to her little house. Sometimes Nicolo would come to have dinner with her. He looked older now, and his joints had lost some of their elasticity, but he was as acute as he had ever been. Julia loved his company. Without him, for all her friendships with the nuns and the patients and the villagers, she would have felt her isolation.

It was during the moped summer that a letter came for Julia. The stamp was Italian and the print on the back flap read Hotel Garibaldi, Rome, so at first she didn’t register the handwriting on the envelope front. Then she looked more closely, and saw that it was indeed from China.

China announced that since she was, as she put it, getting so horribly old, she had decided to take one last continental holiday. Travelling alone, she had been to Paris and Florence and Siena. She had visited old friends, and been to the Louvre and the Uffizi, had looked for the last time at Brunelleschi’s dome. She was now in Rome, and would Julia be willing to show her the famous gardens if she came to Montebellate for a night or two? She would put up in an hotel, of course. And at the same time she could see Lily, and Julia herself, if that would not be an inconvenience.

From Nicolo’s house, because she still didn’t have a telephone of her own, Julia rang the hotel at once. She told China that she must come to stay in her house, and that it would give her more pleasure to show the gardens to her than to anyone else in the world.