Lettice & Victoria (3 page)

Chapter 5

L
aurence’s crabbed lawyer came from Florence – all the way in a hired car with driver. Bernadini, he was called. Laurence ordered stuffed eggs and said that lunch must be on the dot. One o’clock sharp. Bernadini had been tipped off by the
Contessa
, Primrose, who had been worried by the state of financial chaos at the villa on one of her recent visits.

Laurence lived in dread of Bernadini. Blindness, though, came in handy. Victoria must deal with him. Discussions were to take place before lunch; eleven thirty, with Victoria taking notes. On the occasion of his previous visit to the villa the
lawyer
had warned Laurence that funds were running low. Were three gardeners really necessary with – ‘how shall I put it? – the
padrone
chair-bound and unable to enjoy the sights and smells out there? Wouldn’t one lad be sufficient?’

Then there was the indoor staff. Alfredo, the cook, Elena and Dante doing odd jobs. Couldn’t Elena and Dante
manage
on their own now with the
signorina
living in and able
to help with household matters; only the two of them to be fed?

Letters from the lawyer written during the six months between visits had been left unanswered. On this occasion Victoria greeted Bernadini and guided him across the hall, upstairs, past her own bedroom door to the sanctuary – ashes included. The nervy old lawyer steeled himself as Victoria stood by. He refused to sit but went up close to Laurence
saying
, ‘
Signor
. There is no money left. It has run out.’

‘Run out? No. No. I felt sure there was enough for another fortnight.’

Eyes to heaven, the lawyer answered, ‘It need not be a
disaster
,
Signor
, if you will kindly listen to me. Here you have a valuable property.’

So it was. Acres of sea frontage, olives and vines.

‘One building – one only, perhaps one of the lodges – could be sold off separately for a large sum. Large enough to save the day.’

‘If you say so. Perhaps we must. My wife would never have allowed it. My stepdaughter must be consulted.’

‘She has agreed to it,
Signor
.’

Victoria guided his old soft hand over a provisional document prepared in advance by Bernadini. He had arrived full of pessimism but now there was hope. Laurence’s blank eyes turned towards the urn on the mantelpiece.

Chapter 6

A
s she opened the morning’s post, Victoria’s eye fell on a flimsy envelope; postmark English. Voice raised, she read it aloud.

‘Dear Laurence (if I may call you this.) What an age since we met! Who are you, you may ask yourself. And well you might! Lettice. Lettice Holliday.’ Bold italic hand and engraved daffodil telephone plugged into the paper. Relief nib dipped in mauve ink.

‘Do you remember? But why should you? Lunch – on a lawn. Jugs of wine, straw hats, tennis. Yes! You’ve guessed! Tennis at the Lovelace’s. Where have those days gone?

‘And now a favour! My son, Edgar, can it be true? Oh, the tragedy of the passing of time! Yes! He’s no longer a child! He will be in Italy (my wicked green eyes are glinting). Can he, might he, call on you? He works in the production department of one of the larger publishing houses. Bliss to be involved with books! They’re sending him to Italy (then on to Yugoslavia – what it is to be young!) investigating printer’s ink.’

Laurence winced and planned to say no.

Victoria, increasingly aware of her isolated position, was scared. Only the day before she had heard from a school friend asking if they could meet in Florence for a few days. Surely the old geyser would let her off the hook for the odd night? He only paid her a pittance after all. She had asked for permission to go but Laurence merely replied, ‘Oh no. I don’t think that would do at all. What would become of me? Oh dear no. It wouldn’t do at all.’

Defeated, Victoria thought of novels she had read.
A
Handful
of Dust.
She was captive. Lettice’s letter was in her hand.

‘Let’s give the absurd person’s son a try, Laurence,’ she found herself shouting. ‘I’ll see to the room and he might have news from London. Theatres or something.’

‘Very well, but one night only.’

Soon after he had refused to allow Victoria to join her friend in Florence, Laurence was fearful of her displeasure and offered one of his rationed treats.

‘Did I ever tell what dear Henry James said when introduced to a bevy of beauties? One of them was the celebrated actress Ellen Terry.’

He had told her twice but she answered, ‘No, Laurence. What was it?’

‘One of the miserable wantons was not without a certain cadaverous charm.’

Two weeks later, Victoria rested her elbows on the
windowsill
and squinted sideways to watch Edgar Holliday hop out of a hired car. He was handsome, as far as she could see,
unexpectedly so. Lanky but trim. With a mother sounding like that Victoria had pictured a fright. She watched Elena greet him, washing him with words he couldn’t follow. She waited in her room. The visitor was being led past her door by the
slit-eyed
maid, heading for Laurence’s study, and she decided to join them there – efficient with her notebook.

Laurence introduced them.

‘This is Victoria. You mustn’t distract her during your short visit. We have work to do. I hope you’ll find everything you need.’

Edgar, ignoring house rules, asked, ‘But can I take her for a drive this afternoon? I’d like to do some sightseeing as I have a hired car and my free time is rationed.’

Laurence sank back and patted the new dressing gown
several
times.

During eggy lunch the matter was raised again.

‘Very well. Very well. But bring her back for tea.’

The villa was remote and there were few sights of interest nearby. Victoria, stuck on the promontory as she had been, had seen little of the neighbourhood and hankered for an outing to a town on the edge of a lagoon – not impossibly far away. She had heard about it in a letter from a friend. Puccini’s birthplace at Torre del Lago, near Viareggio. Beside the lake the maestro had been inspired to write
Madame Butterfly.
That was all she knew. Edgar made a dash to the car and returned with a fistful of maps. It was possible but tea would have to be scrapped. Laurence groaned and gave in.

Edgar was pernickety in the car, fussed over the tyres and
was unused to driving on the right. Victoria took charge of the route and read aloud from a guidebook. It described Puccini’s house, now a museum, as ‘enchanting’.

They left the car beside a restaurant in the square that, on one side, bordered a lake. The restaurant, enclosed on three sides by green verandahs, jutted out over the water. Lazy drinkers sipped in sunlight. The square was semi-tropical, planted here and there with palm trees and brightened by red geraniums stuffed into massive tubs. Umbrella pines spread, tops flattened, on the other side of the lake. Half-hidden in the greenery, Victoria spotted the hero. Puccini. Larger than life, wearing a thick overcoat, collar upturned, under a
broad-brimmed
hat. The statue, green and speckled, might have been modelled in lead; lead or copper. She wasn’t sure which. A cigarette was stuck between his lips, tucked in under a waxy moustache. Perhaps he was wondering what next to compose. Perhaps marking down a local lass to share his bed that night. The sharp point of a handkerchief stuck out of his pocket at an impertinent angle. Edgar asked Victoria to stand beside the figure while he took a snap. She was tickled pink. Nearby there was a kiosk where souvenirs were sold. Miniatures of the swaggering statue, skimpy Madame Butterflys, cards, posters and the Pope’s head converted into a battery lamp. From a restaurant drifted strains of potted Puccini taken fast on a jukebox. Surrounded by souvenirs (Christ in a shelly grotto, tortoises and crabs combed from the lake, models of
Turandot
encrusted with sequins), Edgar bought a postcard for his mother. Then a miniature maestro for a speechless Victoria.
She slipped it into her bag and felt disturbed. He asked for the museum, the one described as enchanting in the guidebook. A man smiled and pointed. There was something in his face that reminded her of her miniature maestro and all the other
miniature
maestros that stood shoulder to shoulder on the stall, as he wagged a finger towards iron railings a few feet from where they stood. A small group gathered there and waited beside a closed gate. Edgar and Victoria gaped through the railings at a modest villa. Beside the gate, moulded into the ironwork was a tatty, ill-connected bell. Under this, written shakily in pencil, they saw the word ‘Puccini’. Perhaps he was in. A tall German woman, member of the group, stuck her finger on the button and a shrill ring came from the villa a few yards up the path, flanked by more geraniums in pots. A figure shuffled towards them – fat fist pointing outwards, keys on a ring in his hand. His signal demanded patience. Again Victoria noticed
familiarity
in a stranger’s face. His clothes were shabby but his
moustache
was trim. He unlocked the gate and ushered them in. Bright art nouveau tiles lined the room. They showed willowy girls holding out bunches of lilies under a setting sun that shot out spiky rays. Victoria clasped her bag and the small statue that Edgar had given her. She was excited.

An attitude crisis attacked her. Edgar was nice enough – but was it because he was the only man to have crossed her path in months? Puzzled, lit up and aghast amongst treasures, she touched the legs of the maestro’s piano and blinked in delight. There beside her was his aspirin bottle, his spectacles, his white and waxy death mask lying snug on the pillow where his true,
living head had lain during final hours. A dedicated smoker he had died from a cancerous growth in his throat. Victoria decided to stop smoking now that things were looking up. Edgar stood beside her and made comments. He was enjoying himself, running a hand over a mother-of-pearl screen; a present to the maestro from the Japanese government to mark the opening performance of
Madama Butterfly
, as the guide called it. Behind the piano, bones of members of the Puccini family were walled up. All squeezed in somehow. The group filed past the family monument that held them tight and dead behind it; then into the gun room. Boots for every type of weather, macs, cartridge bags and guns took up most of the space. The
visitors
could hardly inch in and Edgar’s body was close against Victoria’s. Victims of sport in glass cases stared out to the lake – expressions curiously forgiving. A great crested grebe, two pheasants, a cormorant, tufted ducks. Edgar recoiled. His father was an ornithologist of acclaim. There was also an owl, beside it a bag or two of feathers and the odd loose wing. But a good set of antlers and a mothy deer’s head cheered him up. Jammed tight, in corners of the room, were clusters of
enormous
guns and rifles; every shape and size.

Back in the main room where the tour had started, the guide took charge. He led them to a portrait of the great
composer
. It was surrounded by framed photographs and original manuscripts. He halted under the gilded frame, his
concentration
deep, and with a chuckle pointed to the face inches above him and almost identical to his own, ‘
Bel uomo
.’ Identical, too, to the face of the souvenir seller. He explained with a shrug
that his mother had been a serving maid in the house, his father the gardener. The disapproving face of Puccini’s sister, Soeur Angelica, a nun in nun’s habit, hung alongside. Victoria glanced at Edgar and wondered how much the nun had known of her famous brother’s philandering.

The guide, in full swing, held forth again in faulty English, ‘The maestro had four great loves and they came in this order. Smoking. Women. Shooting, Music. Music was the least in importance to him’

Hints of the guide’s inherited lechery as Edgar stood by made her feel shaky and unsure. Shyness mingled with distaste and a modicum of desire confused and frightened her.
Confused
and frightened her even more, later, in the car park where many more Puccini lookalikes scampered in every direction. Edgar almost leering by her side.