The Villa (28 page)

‘There is someone else,’ she said quickly. ‘My father should have told you.’

‘Someone else?’ Rodrigo stared at her
. ‘Veramenti?
Is this true?’ He seemed to be mentally reviewing the eligible men of the neighbourhood
.

It wouldn’t take him long, she thought ruefully. ‘
Veru.
It is true,’ she said
.

‘Surely not?’ He frowned.

‘My father should have told you,’ Flavia repeated. ‘He had no right … ’

‘Ah.’ Rodrigo looked triumphant, as if he had just solved a difficult equation. ‘You are thinking of the Englishman, yes? Your father said he had been a problem.’

‘A problem?’ Flavia bridled. ‘The only problem,’ she said, ‘is that I love him.’

Rodrigo drew back, clearly affronted. ‘But you have not …? With this Englishman, you have not …?’

‘No!’ Flavia felt herself blush, felt the heat reach to the roots of her hair. Though she would have. If he’d wanted it, she would have. What did she care for her reputation?

‘Ah.’ He wagged a finger. ‘You are a foolish girl. But you are a Sicilian girl. And you must marry a Sicilian man.’ He drew himself up to his full height. ‘Rodrigo Sciarra can make you forget him.’

Flavia heard throats being cleared and coughs from outside in the passage. All Souls’ Day was a day for engagements and new beginnings too. She should have known. ‘I am sorry, Rodrigo – but my answer is no,’ she said quickly. ‘Please do not press me further.’

The others re-entered, Mama armed with a coffee pot and the
biscotti
of the dead, looking expectant and hopeful, Papa with a bottle of grappa and raising an eyebrow at the mournful Rodrigo, who shook his head sadly. Enzo’s expression changed from geniality to thunder, in a second
.

Flavia didn’t stay for the aftermath. She excused herself and took refuge in
la cucina
until the last biscuit had been eaten and the visitors had gone
.

The row with Papa went on for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. Flavia had never seen him so angry. He raged, cursed, called her every name under the sun.

‘For the love of God … What use is it to have an ungrateful daughter?’ he had eventually demanded of Mama. ‘What good is she – if she cannot make a man happy, if she cannot form a bond with the family of his closest friend?’

Flavia listened to him and knew it was not just a case of friendship
.
Her father was walking a delicate tightrope with a precarious edge. Why shouldn’t he sacrifice his daughter? They didn’t call it
La Piovra –
the octopus – for nothing. The Mafia had tentacles that could reach far and wide. If the Mafiosi wanted you, there was nowhere to hide
.

At one point, Flavia dared to mention Peter’s name. ‘I still love him,’ she said. ‘I made a promise to him. I am not free to marry another man.’

‘That scoundrel!’ her father yelled.

‘You helped him,’ Flavia reminded him. ‘You saved his life.’

‘Would that I had not bothered.’ His face was twisted in anger. ‘And where is he now – this boy you say you love, this boy who has not come back for you? Promises? Pah! The promise of that English boy means less than nothing. You are a fool if you cannot see this.’

Flavia flinched.

‘The war is long ended.’ He looked around him. ‘Where is he? Why has he not come? Why has he not written you one word? Can you tell me that?’ He reached for his stick as if he would beat her, and it was at this point, as Mama put a hand on his arm to restrain him, that Flavia ran.

She ran into the balmy, cobalt darkness and across the fields she knew so well, over to the valley, where she stayed for what seemed like hours, thinking about what had happened. The night air was heavy as a quilt around her and she felt as if she could not breathe. But she knew what she must do.

When she came back, she went straight to Villa Sirena. She glanced briefly at the motif above the front door. Flavia knew the story. She too had been trapped. She understood. She let herself in
with only a light knock at the door
. L’Inglese
would still be up; he never retired before midnight
.

And sure enough, Edward Westerman was seated in his customary place, a glass of red wine on a table by his side. As usual, he was wearing a crumpled linen suit, and his old panama hat was balanced on the arm of the chair. He was, perhaps less than fifteen years older than her, and yet for all that, Flavia knew that he was a man of the world, an experienced man. Even before the war, when she was a child, Signor Westerman had never seemed young. He would know what to do.

‘Flavia,’ he said, as she entered the room. He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see her.

‘I need to go to England,’ she blurted.

‘Is that so?’ He picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Now, why would that be, I wonder?’

‘I need to get away.’ Haltingly, she told him about Peter, about her father, about Rodrigo.

Her father had worked for Signor Westerman for a long time and she didn’t want to be disloyal. But she needed his help. ‘I need to live my life,’ she said. ‘My way.’

He nodded. Of course he would understand. He too had had to live life his way – and had come to Sicily to do it. ‘How can I help, my dear?’ he asked.

‘I have saved some money.’ She told him the amount.

‘It is a long journey. Two days by train.’

‘I can do it,’ she declared. ‘I only need to borrow a little more money. I will send it back to you. I promise.’

Edward Westerman seemed thoughtful. ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘If you are determined to go to England, then I might have an errand
for you. I have a package – a manuscript of mine – that must be conveyed safely to my older sister Beatrice, who lives in London. It would be a considerable service to me.’

‘A package?’ she enquired. London. She could hardly conceive the thought.

He looked down modestly. ‘Some of my own poetic works. I hope Bea will act as a go-between for me and my publishers. But … ’ He sighed. ‘Times are hard. We will see. Perhaps I am wasting my time even churning out the stuff.’

‘Oh, no, Signor,’ Flavia protested. She loved his poetry. It deserved to be published. He was a good man. He should be successful. And if she could help in any small way …

‘You’re very kind.’ He smiled.

‘And I will certainly take the work to London for you,’ she said.

‘Very good.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘I don’t trust this damned postal system.’ He patted her hand. ‘But I trust you, my dear. And Bea will help you when you get to England. I will see to it.’

‘I am grateful,’ Flavia said proudly.

‘And naturally, I will pay you for doing it.’ He nodded. ‘That will enable you to complete your journey, I think.’ He stared into his wine glass. ‘You must be prepared for disappointment though, my dear. People, I have found, have a habit of not living up to our expectations.’

She looked down at her hands. ‘I know.’

‘But … ’ He gripped her wrist – quite hard, and for a moment she flinched. ‘You only have one life, Flavia, and you must live it. In a new place a person can be whomsoever he or she desires.’

‘Papa
—’
she began, though in a way she sensed that he was talking
about himself just as much as he was talking about her. He had left England, left friends and family; reinvented himself. It was a similar story. He had felt an outcast in his own country and so did she
.

‘Your papa has his method of doing things,’ he said. ‘Don’t you fret. I’ll make things right with your papa.’

She bowed her head. ‘Thank you.’

‘Come back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And we will make our plan.’

Outside, she heard the rain come. A huge torrent washing down on the roof and streaming over the terrace, as if the sky itself had fallen to the ground. The sound of the downpour seemed to clatter through the hills and valleys, as the water sluiced the parched red earth. Some thread of tension in the air was released, and something in Flavia too. And she was glad.

Ginny wasn’t sure what made her go in. The Bull and Bear was a bit of a sleazy pub, and she’d never wanted to work behind a bar. To be a barmaid, like a character from East Enders or Corrie … Jabbering jellyfish … But it was a job.

After Nonna’s breakfast bombshell, she had typed up a cv on the computer – Pops had always kept up with technology, he’d even talked about getting an iPod, though when Ginny’s mind conjured up a vision of Pops with earphones, it didn’t quite work somehow. And after lunch she’d trailed around shops and restaurants in Pridehaven, thrusting copies into the startled faces of shopgirls and waiters.
This is me. This is what I have done with my life
…

Not a lot, they probably thought. A paper round, babysitting, college. A girl without direction. A drifter. That’s what they called it in some of her mum’s old hippy songs … That’s what her father had been.

It was pretty hopeless. No one seemed interested. And perhaps she only went into the Bull and Bear because it was 6 p.m. and she didn’t want to go back to Nonna and Pops and tell them she’d failed. With her mother she could rise to this sort of challenge (angry and defensive always worked well), but with Nonna expectations were high. Ginny hated to
disappoint her; her diminutive white-haired grandmother had a quiet dignity that Ginny envied.

‘I was wondering,’ she said to the guy behind the bar – in his late thirties she’d guess – ‘if you had any vacancies for bar staff?’

‘Who’s asking?’ he said.

Well, that was bleeding obvious. ‘I am,’ she said.

He grinned. ‘Yeah, but what’s your name, love?’

‘Ginny Angel.’

‘Over eighteen?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Previous experience?’

‘No.’

He seemed surprised. ‘Why d’you want to work behind a bar?’ he asked.

Ginny racked her brains. Why would anyone? ‘I like people,’ she said. Which was a lie. ‘And I’m an evenings sort of person.’ Which was another.

He raised his eyebrows.

Dumb dog, she thought. The place was probably open all day. ‘I’m quick,’ she said. ‘I can learn.’

‘OK,’ he said.

‘OK?’

‘I’ll give you a try,’ he said. ‘The last girl walked out a week ago and I haven’t got round to advertising for a replacement yet. Start tomorrow at six?’

‘Er … Great,’ said Ginny.

‘Aren’t you going to ask how much I pay?’ he asked. ‘Or what hours I’ll be wanting you to work?’

‘OK.’ She waited, but he said nothing. ‘How much do you pay?’

He told her. It wasn’t that much, but it was a lot more than nothing.

‘OK,’ she said.

‘The hours are negotiable,’ he went on. ‘We’ll talk about that tomorrow.’

As soon as she left the pub she sent a text to her mother.
Guess wot? I got a job!

Her mother phoned her right back. ‘Well done, darling,’ she said. ‘I worked in a bar once.’ She sounded quite nostalgic.

‘At least I’ll be earning some dosh.’ Ginny wished her mother’s voice didn’t make her feel quite so sad. It reminded her how much she missed her. ‘So I can start saving,’ she added. ‘To go away.’ The Ball made her twist the knife.

‘Yes.’ Her mother’s voice was small and slightly hurt. ‘Is everything all right at home?’

‘Fine and dandy.’ Ginny turned into Nonna and Pops’s road; a close that was going nowhere; Bramble Close, Pridehaven – what sort of an address was that? Safe houses in safe streets in a town that had lost its edge … A dead end, a going nowhere sort of town.

‘And Nonna? And Pops?’

‘They’re cool.’ Ginny wondered what her mother was doing right now, why it had been so important to drop everything and go back to Sicily. Maybe it was some sort of
mid-life crisis; an early menopause or something. Maybe …

‘So …? ’

‘Gotta run, Mum,’ she said.

‘OK, darling. I’ll—’

‘Bye,’ And Ginny clicked to end the call before she could say more. It was one of those want and don’t want situations; love and hate; bitter-sweet. The way these things were.

Nonna didn’t seem at all surprised that Ginny had found herself a job so quickly. ‘Good girl,’ she said, and dished up cannelloni with meat and white sauce
parmigiano
and nutmeg for supper. Yum.

‘I think I’ll go round to Ben’s,’ Ginny said when they’d finished. ‘After I’ve washed up.’

Nonna started clearing plates. ‘Are you doing something nice?’ she asked. ‘Something special?’

Probably not, Ginny thought. ‘Dunno,’ she said.

‘Well,’ said Nonna. ‘Just so long as you enjoy yourself, my dear.’ But she gave Ginny a look. It was a strange look. As if she was wondering why someone like Ginny was even bothering with someone like Ben. And this made Ginny think. Why was she bothering with Ben?

At Ben’s, they watched a movie and then a couple of his mates came round and they all went out for a drink. (This was what nearly always happened when she went round to Ben’s.)

They talked about stuff Ginny wasn’t remotely interested in (bikes, cars, football) and made (sexist) jokes she didn’t find
funny. At 10.30 she thought about Nonna’s look and got up to go home. The Ball tried to stop her, but she surprised herself by finding the strength from somewhere the Ball couldn’t go.

She walked home alone. It wasn’t that she no longer had feelings for Ben – she did. But … She wasn’t enjoying herself, was she? Ginny thought of Nonna’s look. It was simple. She wasn’t doing anything special. So why was she there?

The streets were well lit and she wasn’t scared. Just a little sad – because of Ben. And a little anxious – tomorrow night she would be starting her new job. The question was – would the Ball come too …?

At Nonna and Pops’s there was a lamp on in the bedroom and a porch light left on for Ginny’s benefit. ‘Make sure you switch it off when you come in,’ Nonna always said. And Ginny always did, even though at home she’d developed a habit of announcing her presence by leaving all lights blazing in her wake.

Now, Ginny let herself in with her key, switched off the porch light and crept upstairs, even though they weren’t asleep. She could hear the murmuring of their voices as she slipped into the bathroom.