(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement (5 page)

Our hotel was in the oldest part of the city, not far from the Duomo, Florence's cathedral called so prettily Santa Maria del Fiore. The magnificent dome could be glimpsed, it seemed, from every quarter of Florence.

The hotel had once been the property of a wealthy Florentine family. The taxi driver whirled round the innumerable corners into ever more narrowing streets and at last pulled up with a flourish at an imposing doorway.

'I'm thankful I shan't have to do much driving in this place,' remarked James, as we alighted.

The taxi driver grinned.

'One way! Always one way!' He held up a nicotine-stained finger to add point, and then went to help James unload.

It was cool inside the building in contrast to the heat of the streets. The thick walls and small windows had been built to keep out the weather and had done so now for three centuries.

James and Amy were escorted into their room first, and I was ushered down a corridor to an attractive single room which overlooked the little garden.

It was an unremarkable patch, consisting mainly of some rough grass and shrubs, but my eye was immediately caught by the happenings in an adjoining garden.

A long clothes-line was almost filled with flapping white sheets, and two nuns were engrossed in unpegging them and folding them very tidily and exactly. They held the corners with their arms spread wide and then advanced towards each other, as if treading some stately dance, to fold the sheets in halves, then into quarters until there was a snowy oblong which they put on a mounting pile on the grass.

In contrast to their measured ritual of folding, and their solemn black habits and veils, their faces were animated. They smiled and gossiped as they worked. It was a happy harmony of mind and body, and a joy to watch.

We were more than ready for our evening meal when the time came, and the food was delicious, a precursor of all those we enjoyed at the hotel.

Later, we took a walk round the nearest streets, mainly for James to find the way from the front of the hotel to its car park at the rear.

Although he himself would have very little time for exploring, he had hired a small Fiat, to be delivered in the morning, so that Amy and I could do so.

'Do you know,' he exclaimed when he met us later at the hotel, 'it is exactly three-quarters of a mile from the front door to the hotel car park.'

'It can't be!' protested Amy. 'It's only at the end of the garden.'

'One way streets,' replied James, holding up a finger just as the taxi driver had done. 'Always one way!'

James was picked up each morning at nine o'clock. Two other men who were attending the conference were already in the car when it arrived, and we knew we should not see James again, most days, until the evening.

Amy and I found each day falling into a very pleasant pattern. After James' departure to work, we took a stroll to one of the famous places we had been looking forward to visiting for so long.

We soon discovered that there was enough to relish in the Duomo, Santa Croce and the Uffizi, to keep us engrossed for years rather than our meagre allotment of days available. But we wandered about these lovely buildings, and many others, for about two hours each morning when, satiated with art and history, we would sit in one of the piazzas and refresh ourselves with coffee.

After that we would return to the hotel, shopping on the way at a remarkable cheese shop. Here, it seemed, all the cheeses of the world were displayed. While we waited, and wondered at the riches around us, we looked at a line which ran across one wall of the whitewashed shop. It was only a few inches from the ceiling and marked how high the water had reached during devastating floods some years earlier. The proprietor told us about this with much hand-waving and eye-rolling, and although we had no words in common we had no doubt about the horrors the citizens of Florence had endured.

We purchased warm rolls nearby and delicious downy peaches, and thus equipped for a picnic lunch we went to fetch the car.

We made for the hills usually, visiting a cousin of Amy's mother's in Fiesole on one occasion, but falling in love with Vallombrosa we often pointed the car to that delectable spot which was just as leafy on those golden September afternoons as Milton described it so long ago in
Paradise Lost.

Thick as Autumnal Leaves that strow the Brooks
In Vallombrosa, where th'Etrurian shades
High overarch't embow'r...

Under the arching trees which sheltered us from the noonday sun, we sat in companionable silence enjoying the quietness around us and the bread and cheese in our laps.

Later, bemused with Italian sunshine and beauty, we would head back to the hotel. Amy negotiated the one-way maze of streets to bring us successfully to the garage at the back of the hotel.

We walked through the shady and shaggy garden into the dim coolness, there to refresh ourselves with tea, before bathing and changing and settling down to await James's return from his labours.

I think I grew closer to Amy in those few magical days than at any other time in our long friendship. It may have been because we were alone together, in a foreign place, for most of the day, without the sort of interruption that occurs in one's home. No callers, no telephone ringing, no cooking pot needing attention, no intrusive animals interrupting our conversation or our quiet meditation.

We hardly spoke about home, although I did tell her one day, in the quiet shade of Vallombrosa, about Henry's unwelcome visit on the eve of our departure.

I was surprised at her reaction. Normally, when she hears that any man has visited me or taken me out, Amy responds with much enthusiasm, imagining that at last romance has entered my bleak spinster's life.

This time, however, she was unusually censorious of Henry's behaviour.

'Henry Mawne,' she began severely, 'has made his bed and must lie on it.'

'You sound like my mother,' I protested.

'Your mother had plenty of sense,' replied Amy. 'Really, Henry should know better than try to engage your sympathy.'

'He didn't.'

'He's chosen
two
wives,' went on Amy, 'and doesn't seem to have made either very happy. I can't feel sorry for him, and I hope you aren't.'

I reassured her on this point.

'It'll all blow over,' I said, 'once Deidre comes back.'

'But suppose she doesn't?'

'I think she will,' I said slowly.

'You don't sound very sure about it,' commented Amy. 'I should nip any advances of Henry's in the bud. I shouldn't like to see you with a broken heart.'

'A flinty old heart like mine doesn't crack very easily,' I said, and at that moment James appeared, looking remarkably buoyant for one who had been engaged in high-powered discussions on international trade and finance.

The time passed in a golden haze. Florence was still basking in the sunlight, like a contented cat, as we went by taxi to the airport.

Our luggage had grown since our arrival, as Amy and I had succumbed to temptation and bought soft Italian leather handbags, wallets and purses and a pair of glamorous shoes apiece. The range of beautiful silk scarves, which we had also acquired, would be so useful for Christmas presents we told each other, but I had no doubt that we should see them being worn by ourselves in the future.

It was raining when we alighted from the plane, and people were striding about in dripping raincoats. I was surprised to feel that somehow this was absolutely right. It was home-like, familiar and reassuring. Even the smell of wet tarmac and petrol fumes was welcoming.

James dropped me at my door, propping my luggage in the porch and promising to ring during the evening. I tried to thank him, but he brushed aside my endeavours with a great hug and a kiss.

Tibby, asleep on the stairs, opened a bleary eye, closed it again and went back to sleep.

In the kitchen a piece of paper, anchored to the table by the flour-dredger, was covered in Mrs Pringle's handwriting. It said:

Am out of Brasso. Washer gone on cold bath tap. Mouse come out from under the stairs. And went back.

See you Wednesday. M.P.

I was home all right.

4. Home Again

I
T WAS
good to be back.

I relished the cool air, the green countryside, my own goods and chattels, and best of all my comfortable bed.

In those first few days of my return, I realized how much my habitual surroundings meant to me. I looked anew upon morning dew on the lawn, on the yellowing poplar leaves fluttering and turning in the autumn sunshine, and the bright beads of bryony, red, orange and green, strung along the hedgerows. I had returned with fresh eyes.

I had also returned much stronger in body. The sunshine, the lovely food and the warm companionship of dear Amy and James had relaxed earlier tensions, and I had thrived in these perfect conditions.

But, even more important, was the nourishment of spirit which would sustain me for months, and probably years, to come. Constantly, as I went about my everyday duties, cleaning, cooking, gardening and the like, pictures came to mind; a glimpse of nuns folding washing, a sunlit alley, a barrowload of peaches under a striped awning, Donatello's David with his girlish hat and curls, or the plumes of water flashing from the fountains of Florence.

These exhilarating memories and hundreds more would, I knew,
'flash upon the inward eye'
for the rest of my life.

Mrs Pringle, when she came on Wednesday, commented on my improved appearance.

'Done you a power of good,' she informed me. 'I said to Alice Willet before you set off: "She's aged a lot since those funny turns. You could never had said she was
good-looking,
but she used to look
healthy,
but even that's gone."'

Thanks,' I said.

'Funny how people's looks change. Mr Mawne now, he looks a real wreck since his wife left him.'

'Isn't she back yet?' I asked, feeling some alarm.

'We all reckon she's gone for good,' replied Mrs Pringle, with much satisfaction. 'He's not an easy man to live with. Still got a bit of that military business about him. He used to criticize his wife something dreadful.'

The bedroom windows could do with a clean,' I said pointedly.

Mrs Pringle went to fetch appropriate cloths, and made her way upstairs. Her limp was unusually pronounced and her breathing unusually heavy, but I ignored these signs of umbrage and went out into the garden.

I found Mrs Pringle's news irritating. Should I have to put up with Henry's unwelcome visits? Surely he would have the sense to realize that his marital affairs were no business of mine. I was genuinely sorry for him, but saw only too well what a nuisance he could be.

And what about John Jenkins? I remembered, with misgiving, his offer to see off anyone who molested me. The thought of two middle-aged men coming to blows over a middle-aged spinster - not even good-looking - was too silly to contemplate, and I resolutely set to and attacked a riot of chickweed in the flower border.

A few days after my return from Florence I peeled September from the various calendars around the cottage and faced October. About time I sent off those Christmas parcels to New Zealand and Australia, I thought, with my annual shock.

Usually, I miss the last surface mail date, and have to cudgel my brains for something light enough to be sent by air mail. My overseas friends must be heartily sick of silk scarves and compact discs. This year I would be in time, I promised myself, and send boxes of soap, or books, or even delicacies such as Carlsbad plums.

Thus full of good intentions and armed with a shopping list, I drove into Caxley one morning and parked behind the town's premier store.

I visited the hosiery department first to stock up for the months ahead. There was so much choice it was formidable. Having made sure that I was looking at 'TIGHTS' and not 'STOCKINGS', the first hazard, I then had to find my way among the 'DENIERS.' After that, already wilting, I had to decide on 'COLOUR'. Why do hosiery manufacturers give their wares such extraordinary names? Who can tell what one can expect from 'Carribbean Sand' or 'Summer Haze'? A few leave a minute square of mica showing the contents, but short of taking the box to the door and using a magnifying glass whilst there, it is really impossible to judge.

However, I plumped for three pairs of 'Spring Hare' and three of 'Autumn Night' and then went to inspect the boxes of soap for my distant friends.

I must say, the display was magnificent and I selected six fragrant boxes for presents and for myself.

Smug with my success I chattered away to the obliging assistant about catching the surface mail for Christmas. She looked up from her wrapping with dismay.

'But they will weigh so much,' she protested. Why don't you buy something like handkerchiefs or scarves?'

It was rather deflating, but I rallied well.

'They've all had hankies and scarves,' I assured her. 'Besides, I shall feel really efficient catching the right post this year.'