The Villa (30 page)

In order to look after his mother, she supposed.

‘When I got back here I began the salvage work on the wrecks. And after she died … ’ His words dried up.

‘You stayed,’ she said.

‘
Sì
.’

There was money in the family – from an inheritance – and he had used this to start up the mosaic business in the
baglio
, he told her. Pretty soon he was making an adequate living. ‘I need quality in my life,’ he said. ‘But it does not have to be the kind of quality that comes from material things.’

But was he really happy here – working in the
baglio
and
spending hours staring out to sea? Tess doubted it somehow.

She stirred the sauce and added more milk until it was the right consistency, then switched off the heat and added seasonings and the pungent blue cheese. She drained the pasta and tossed it with the sauce. She’d certainly found out a lot more about Tonino this afternoon. And what would she find out tomorrow?

When eventually, they had scrambled down the mountainside trail from the olive grove and strolled back into the village, Tonino had not let go of her hand. It was an odd feeling. But a good one.

Tess took her pasta and salad with a glass of chilled white wine out on to the terrace. It was almost dark, but still warm, and she lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the wrought-iron table top. She didn’t feel lonely. She felt at peace with the world. Was that what an afternoon with an attractive man could do for you?

They had walked into the main piazza, past the Hotel Faraglione – and Tess thought she saw someone at an upstairs window, looking out, half-hidden behind a muslin curtain. She probably had. But it was Sicilian Paranoia syndrome again to imagine that everyone in the village was looking at them. Wasn’t it?

Tonino certainly didn’t seem to care. He continued chatting as they made their way across the ancient
baglio
past the stone fountain and the eucalyptus tree. As far as the bottom of the steps that led up to the villa. She waited
for a hint that he wanted to come in, not sure yet what she’d say. But, ‘I must do some work now,’ he said. It was very quiet; the air seemed to pulse slowly around them. ‘But I can see you tomorrow, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Tess didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

‘In the afternoon?’

She nodded.

‘We could go out in the boat.’ He nodded towards a small yellow fishing boat that was moored by the stone jetty. ‘To the Reserve. It is very beautiful.’

‘OK. Sounds good.’

‘We can swim there,’ he said. ‘And have a late lunch.’

He let go of her hand. He didn’t kiss her. He just held her gaze and she felt like he were telling her something; making some sort of promise.

Tess finished her meal, drank the wine and watched the sky darken and shift into night time. The stars were clearly defined against the backdrop of the night sky and the moon was almost full and surrounded by a shimmering halo of cloud. She thought of Tonino down in the
baglio
in his studio – so near, but still so far. She almost thought that he had given her this time, this thinking time, on purpose, so that she was sure she knew what she wanted. What did she want? An uncomplicated life, a return to England and a job that bored her? Or an adventure that might end up in financial suicide and a broken heart?

Tess stood on the terrace and looked out at the ghostly
silhouettes of the rocks in the bay, the dark sea oily in the light of the moon, the canopy of an indigo sky. Ginny no longer seemed to need her. So it was a bit of a no-brainer really.

On the bumpy ride to Castellammare along the dusty coastal road in the horse and cart Signor Westerman had procured for her, Flavia tried to prepare herself for the journey ahead. ‘It will be long and hard,’ Edward Westerman had said – he had done the same journey on several occasions in his life, once in wartime. That must have been arduous indeed. But how much harder for a young girl from Sicily – a girl who knew nothing about where she was headed, a girl who was quite alone.

Apart from Peter. She must remember that. She must hold on to the faith that somehow, somewhere, he would be there for her. Waiting.

It was a misty dawn and would be a dry and breezy day, she guessed. On one side of the road the reddish mountains rose, studded with rocks and greenery, serene in the pale morning light. On the other, she caught tantalising glimpses of the sea. This was her landscape – and she was leaving it behind. How long would it be before she saw again the island in which she had grown up, the only home she had ever known?

And her family … For the first time, Flavia felt the pang of homesickness, a premonition perhaps of what was to come. Maria – annoying, yes, in an older-sisterish kind of way, but still familiar and much-loved. Mama, with her quiet, dark energy; the love for her
children held back, lassoed, in order to tend with total dedication to their father. And Papa. Papa who wanted to control her life, who would not listen to what Flavia felt, or desired or needed; Papa who was stuck in the old way. They were her blood, but she could not stay with them. Not now.

Bumpity, bump … Flavia bounced around in her seat as the cart negotiated the ruts in the road. The driver whistled and the horse snorted as if in reply. The road was deserted, but it was still early. So early that no one yet would even know that she was gone.

Flavia held on to the side of the cart. Papa had not been so bad, she thought, when Alberto Amato was his closest friend, when Enzo Sciarra was just another crony in Bar Gaviota – to drink grappa with, to talk to, to play the dominoes. In those days, she was sure, he had gone his own way. Look at how Papa had responded when she found Peter … For a moment, Flavia closed her eyes, recalled that moment when she first saw him
. O dio Beddramadre …
The heat of that day … His blue eyes burning into her like cold fire
…

The horse and cart trundled on. The man who was driving asked no questions; no doubt he had been told to do so. In Sicily this was not unusual.

Papa had been pro-English during the war. He had supported the underdog too, fiercely hated what the war was doing to his beloved island. He had done what he believed in – he wouldn’t have taken Peter into his home otherwise. But over the years … Papa had changed, no doubt. All that business with Alberto had changed him, Enzo’s growing influence had changed him. And now – he was blood, yes, but she could not stay. She dared not. It was Rodrigo
Sciarra now, but who would he want to marry her off to next? Flavia shuddered, although she was not cold in her coat and woollen blanket. Signor Westerman had told her to wear lots of clothes. ‘Wrap up warm, my dear,’ he had said. ‘It will be cold in England.’ England …

If she stayed, Mama would try to use reason to get Flavia to change her mind about marrying Rodrigo. She would not understand
. ‘He will treat you well,’
she would say
. ‘It could be so much worse’.
That was the Sicilian women’s philosophy, Flavia thought; their curse. This was why they did not fight for change
. ‘Do you want to live your life an old maid? Do you?’

No! Something inside Flavia shrieked the word. Of course, she did not. But neither did she want to marry a man she did not love. She did not want that man to touch her and caress her, she did not want to look after his house or have his children. It was no way to live. She had said that to Santina so many times. ‘It is no way to live.’

Dear Santina had looked at her so sadly and whispered, ‘But Flavia, there is no other way.’

She was wrong. Flavia blinked the tears out of her eyes. There was another way.

As they overtook an ancient cart laden with vegetables on its way to market, Flavia saw they were approaching Castellammare. The road wound down to the wide bay and the sea; to the railway station where she would be catching the train to Palermo, and then on to Messina. This was the first – and shortest – leg of her journey. And it was almost over.

Flavia knew that Santina was wrong – that she had to be wrong, because now she knew there was so much more. She had seen a glimpse
of it, heard a whisper of it. More than a whisper. Now there was Peter, and she could not let that go.

Flavia had never been on a train before. She had tried to prepare herself for it, but the size of this clanking, spluttering monster was utterly overwhelming. She counted ten coaches
. Mamma mia …
Signor Westerman had told her that the train would take her to Messina, and from there it would be rolled on to a gigantic barge and taken across the Straits to Italy. This too was mindboggling. ‘So we will book you a sleeper,’ he had said. ‘You will need it.’

Flavia finished the brioche she had bought herself for breakfast. Courage. She took a deep breath, grabbed the battered travel bag Signor Westerman had given her – it held so little and yet everything she now owned – and jumped aboard. It was like leaping into the jaws of a lion.

The hissing, clattering train wound its way around the island to Palermo. Flavia peered out of the window. They said the city centre was a ruin – piles of rubble and open-roofed palaces little more than shells. But all she could see was the busy station platform, more people boarding and alighting – and then doors slamming, whistles blowing, and it was on to Messina. The train was a force to be reckoned with, Flavia thought. A mighty creature. She could feel its power, its energy, its rhythm, as it drove them relentlessly onward.

And then – just as Signor Westerman had predicted – the train was sucked noisily on to a huge ship (or so it seemed to Flavia as she hurriedly crossed herself) and taken across the water. It wasn’t far – about five miles – and took only thirty minutes, but she was able to leave her compartment and go out on deck to get some much-needed fresh air.
This was so bizarre – to travel on both a ship and a train at the same time. But perhaps just one bizarre experience of the many that were to come, Flavia thought.

She looked down at the white and foaming water as the train ferry churned its way forward. She breathed the sea air, deep into her lungs. The wind razed her skin and her dark curls flew out behind her as she stood at the rail. It was as if her life, her old life was simply being blown away.

The train ferry was called
Scilla.
She was an impressive sight indeed to Flavia, as she chugged majestically across the Straits of Messina, and she felt privileged that she had been given the chance to sail in her. Thanks to Signor Westerman. She could not have done this without him. Papa would rant and rage when he discovered she had gone (maybe he knew already? Maybe even now he was hammering at the door of La Sirena to find out if the Signor knew her whereabouts?) But she was not worried. Signor Westerman was a man who could calm Papa with just a few words – he had that gift.

Of course she felt guilty – marriage to Rodrigo Sciarra would have improved Papa’s standing in the village; he would have gained more privileges, more food and help for his family. Life was not easy in postwar Sicily, God knows. Every man needed all the help he could get. But Flavia Farro would not prostitute herself for that. She could not. ‘Sorry, Papa,’ she whispered. Though perhaps he would not blame her for grasping this opportunity – just as he had when offered a way out of poverty by the very same man.

Nevertheless, she looked back at the coast of Sicily, her island, and she touched her heart
. ‘Arrivederci,’
she whispered. ‘Goodbye.’

* * *

As they approached land, they were summoned back to their seats.

They had arrived at Villa San Giovanni. A man on the train (she had allowed herself to talk to him as he was accompanied by his son, a boy of twelve years old or thereabouts, who could not take his eyes off Flavia) told her it was the busiest passenger port in Italy. Flavia looked around her at the hustle and bustle, at the people scurrying that way and this. The place was a heaving hubbub of activity – people talking and shouting, running, hugging, waving, crying; important-looking men in naval uniform striding here and there, dockers loading cargo, cranes lifting goods from the ships, horns blaring. And in the air she smelt anticipation and excitement; a sense of journey and change.

The Maritime station itself showed little sign of wartime or neglect. Her travelling companion proved to be a fount of knowledge (‘It is built in the fascist style, and in the departure hall a magnificent Cascella mural showing the great man, Mussolini
, il Duce,
lifted aloft by farm workers … You must see it, my dear, everyone must see it’), but although Flavia tried to show interest, in her heart she was done with caring about politics. She was scared of what was happening in Sicily – not the poverty, but the oppression, the corruption, the darkness. People are people, she thought, the world over. Some good, some bad.

Flavia couldn’t believe that this one clattering train could take her all the way to Rome. But it did. And so the journey continued. It seemed interminable. Then there was the sleeper train from Rome to Paris; the entire journey was a blur of sleeping and waking, of the train blundering and crashing down an everlasting track. Of looking out of the grimy train window – first in daylight then in darkness – on to a
changing landscape of fields, hills, villages, towns. Whistles blowing, doors slamming, people saying goodbye. No one was saying goodbye to Flavia, and she had never felt more alone. Porters with trolleys carrying baggage. Railway station after railway station, platforms stretching long fingers towards the future. Her future
…

Flavia was exhausted. Who would have thought travelling could be so tiring? She had brought food rations – chunks of yellow Sicilian bread – Mama’s bread, she thought with a lump in her throat, some late grapes from the vine, and goat’s cheese, and these she had nibbled at when the hunger pangs reminded her. And a flask of water, from which she took regular sips when her throat was dry.

At the Gare du Bercy in Paris they transferred to Gare du Nord. Another day had begun. Paris … Flavia could not believe she was in Paris. Not in the city, of course, but even so … She shivered. It seemed so much colder here.