The Runaway Visitors (11 page)

‘It was hardly a thoughtful way to behave,’ he said.

‘No,’ she agreed, but in a very detached voice, ‘especially after you’d put yourself out for me so nobly all day. Thank you very much for your patience, and for showing me such wonderful things.’

The words might have been all right, but the tone of voice most certainly was not. Even Sebastien and Amanda recognised the insincerity. Charles and Victoria exchanged a long, cold, almost hostile look, and then Charles turned on his heel and left them. There was a brief silence on the terrace. Then Sebastien said:

‘Why do you quarrel, Vicky?’

‘We don’t quarrel, Sebastien.’

‘You don’t sound very friendly. Why don’t you like each other?’

It was on the tip of Victoria’s tongue to say: ‘I’m tired, tired, tired of being an unwanted guest in strange people’s houses.’ And this would have been the truth. But she did not want to upset the others, particularly Amanda, when they seemed to be settling down so well; so she did what she was always having to do. She repressed her own feelings for the good of her sister and brother, and made excuses.

‘Oh, it’s my fault, I suppose. I’m tired and headachy, and it was rude to rush off and not say anything to him. Naturally he would be angry. It’s only a storm in a tea-cup, Sebastien.’

She was not sure if she had reassured them. She thought Sebastien was much too sharp to be deceived. She must watch her tongue when she was with Charles.

When they had eaten supper, Amanda blew out the candles in the tall glasses, because too many moths and insects flew into their flame and were burned. They did not move from the table, however, but sat there lazily looking through the soft night towards Firenze.

This terrace, given over to any guest who might be staying with Charles, was a constant source of delight and entertainment to Victoria. By day, from the earliest heat haze to the later clearness, she could identify many places around and below: the Duomo and its tall campanile, the Piazza della Signoria, the church where Michelangelo was buried, the Piazzale Michelangelo high on the opposite hills: even, needlelike on his eminence there, the copy of David. By night, it was a fascinating fairyland of coloured lights spread below in the still, warm, peaceful nights; and the hotter the night, the more the lights seemed to twinkle and sparkle. And here they saw fireflies, Amanda for the first time in her life; hundreds of them darting and glimmering in the darkness like will-o’-the-wisps, each making quite a powerful small greenish illumination, lighting up a little space around it. They were all fascinated by these.

A day or two later, Giorgio came to lunch with them. Victoria and Amanda made a great thing of making the terrace table look festive; they knew they need not worry about the food. And when he arrived, he brought with him his usual
bonhomie,
his sunny disposition, and a pot of thick cream for Miss Jameson. She responded by bringing out a tray of drinks and canapes.

‘Let’s take it down into the garden,’ suggested Victoria.

‘By the fountain,’ added Amanda.

Giorgio carried down the tray and set it on the stone edge of the basin. As usual, fresh lemonade was supplied for Amanda and Sebastien, but Giorgio and Victoria were accorded the courtesy of ‘grown-up’ drinks; while the canapes were so exotic that they all

hung over them, drawn by their picturesqueness and variety. ‘Miss Jameson does us awfully well,’ Amanda told Giorgio.

‘I can see that. But you must say it in Italian.’

‘Oh, I can’t,’ she protested.

‘We should all speak Italian,’ said Victoria.

‘Not me,’ declared Sebastien. ‘I’m not nearly good enough, I’d never say anything.’

The sisters tried, however, making many mistakes, which caused a good deal of correction and laughter. Sebastien, who would not even try, hooted with laughter at their mistakes. They were a happy little party, gathered round the fountain, Giorgio and Amanda perched on the stone edge, Victoria seated on a bench, Sebastien making himself responsible for passing round Miss Jameson’s delicacies; but it did occur to Victoria that they were making a good deal of noise and she glanced guiltily towards the house wondering if they were disturbing Charles. Immediately, she saw him at the open window in the end wall of his studio, drawn there no doubt by the outburst of laughter and conversation, to see what was happening. Her first reaction was to say: ‘Sh, we’re making too much noise,’ but she repressed this, for why shouldn’t they have a party?

At that point, Charles gave her a brief salute and turned away from the window. She was on the verge of calling out to him: ‘Come and join us in an aperitif,’ which would have been natural to her; but then she remembered her resolve not to be a nuisance to him. Besides, he was probably at work, up there in his studio; so she turned back to the others, trying to forget Charles, thinking he might even be relieved to know that they had their own friends. It certainly never occurred to her that he could be thinking: ‘So that’s what she wants, people of her own age. She is obviously bored by our stuffy, older society.’

Giorgio was full of plans for the party he would give for them. Music from his stereo for dancing on the terrace, the furniture there moved out of the way. His mother would probably insist on a sit-down supper— that was the way she did things—and it would probably be in the kitchen where there was so much room.

‘Oh, that will be fun,’ exclaimed Amanda. ‘I shall pretend it’s my birthday party. ’

‘What, you have a birthday?’ queried Giorgio. ‘But that’s marvellous, even more reason to have a party. We must have a birthday cake for you. ’

‘And
I
thought it was going to be such a dull birthday.’

‘Well, it will not be,’ he promised her. ‘We will have it this Saturday.’

Later in the day, Victoria went along to the kitchen to tell Miss Jameson about this party.

‘We shall all be out on Saturday evening, Miss Jameson, so won’t need dinner that evening. I thought I would let you know as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Giorgio is giving a party for us, to meet some of his friends and as a birthday party for Amanda.’

‘I see,’ said Miss Jameson.

Victoria was slightly stung by what seemed like appalling indifference on Miss Jameson’s part. She said in a slightly bitter tone:

‘Well, it will be nice for her to have
some
recognition of the day. Signora Beltoni is going to make her a birthday cake.’

‘I’ve already made a birthday cake for Amanda.’

‘What?’ Victoria gazed at Miss Jameson, wide-eyed.

‘But how did you know about it?’

‘The parcels came from your parents a week ago to Mr. Duncan, asking him to have them on the breakfast table on the big day. So I made the cake. You can see it if you like.’

‘But how kind of you,’ said Victoria, completely taken aback. ‘I’d love to see it.’

The cake was brought out, a masterpiece of complicated icing, with marzipan roses on the top.
‘They
took me a fair time,’ commented Miss Jameson.

‘You made them yourself?’

‘I should hope so! You won’t catch
me
buying them from a shop. ’

‘But they’re beautiful. It’s a work of art.’

‘Ay, well, I know my job.’

‘It’s a most gorgeous surprise. Well, I shall tell the Signora not to bother, we’ll take our own cake with us to the party. It will be a prize exhibit.’

This pleased Miss Jameson. Victoria saw that she was glad that ‘these Italians’, as she always called them, should see her handiwork. Before she turned to leave the kitchen, she said: ‘Thank you, Miss Jameson, for thinking of Amanda.’

She hesitated, as if she would like to say more. Miss Jameson hesitated too. There was an embarrassing moment between them, which neither of them seemed able to bridge. At last, Miss Jameson said brusquely:

‘That’s all right,’ and Victoria went away, oddly unsatisfied with the way the conversation had ended.

So on the morning of Amanda’s birthday, there were a great many parcels at the breakfast table: an Indian necklace from her father and a slender gold bracelet from her mother, a box of make-up from Victoria and an art book from Sebastien; a cameo brooch from Miss Jameson, obviously one of her treasures from the past, a pretty basket full of ripe peaches from Giorgio and an outsize box of chocolates from Charles.

‘Gosh!’ breathed Amanda, opening box after box, shedding gift wrapping around her, ‘I never expected all these wonderful things . . .’

She could not wait to eat breakfast. She kissed Victoria and Sebastien, rushed off to the kitchen to thank Miss Jameson and was shown the birthday cake, darted off to find Charles, and finding him about to enter the library-living room, flung her arms about his neck and kissed him too. He promptly hugged her tightly and kissed her back.

‘Thank you for the gorgeous chocolates, Mr. Duncan. I’ve had such super things . . .’ and rattled off the list while he watched her with amusement. ‘And Giorgio is giving us a party to-night and we’re taking Miss Jameson’s birthday cake to show off to everybody, and we’re going to have dancing and a feast and everything.’

She darted off again, back to the terrace and breakfast, leaving Charles looking after her, reflecting that he hardly needed to make an effort to entertain these young people, when others were doing so much to make them feel at home—even his Jeanie

Jameson with her birthday cake!

The party was everything the Fenn family could have hoped for. Victoria wore her sunshine yellow dress, and helped Amanda to use her new make-up box, even applying a light green eyeshadow and a little mascara which Amanda was sure made her seem older and more mysterious. There were eight of Giorgio’s friends, making twelve young people in all, who danced by candlelight on the terrace and hugged and kissed each other in the darkness of the garden below; and who crowded round the extended kitchen table for supper. A supper which consisted of two vast bowls of
pasta
of different kinds with rich savoury sauces and a dish of grated Parmesan; home-made bread and bowls of butter, a rough wine and heaped dishes of fruit. No refined elegance about this food, thought Victoria, but a fine, hearty supper for hearty appetites, tasting all the better for the convivial company with whom it was shared. And Miss Jameson’s birthday cake in the centre of the table, much admired by everybody, though Victoria suspected that Mama Beltoni found it difficult to understand how anybody could spend so much time making marzipan roses. In the end, nearly everybody had one of them, and preferred taking them home as exhibits to eating them!

At the end of the evening, Giorgio insisted upon driving the Fenn family home.

‘Nonsense,’ said Victoria. ‘I’ve got my car here, and it's no distance.’

‘You’ve been drinking too much wine,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want you driving into a ditch and overturning everybody.’

‘I’m perfectly sober,’ she protested.

‘But for my own peace of mind I’m going to drive you,’ he said; and was quite firm about it, so Victoria shrugged her shoulders, got into the back of the car with Sebastien and allowed Amanda the honour of sitting in front with Giorgio. At the house, he drove the car under the carport allotted to it, and insisted on seeing them safely on to their own terrace.

‘It was quite unnecessary, but thank you,’ said Victoria.

‘It was my pleasure,’ he said.
‘Buona notte,
Sebastien,
arrivederci. Buona notte,
Amanda. ’

‘Buona notte,
Giorgio, and thank you for a wonderful party. ’

He took her hand, bowed over it and kissed it. As she went inside, walking on air, Victoria could see the shine in her eyes by the light which Sebastien had just switched on. She turned to say good night herself, but her hand was caught and tightly held by Giorgio, and he was pulling her across the terrace towards the narrow flight of steps that led down into the small fountain garden.

‘Giorgio—’ she began to protest, but he interrupted her.

‘Sssh,’ he said softly. ‘Be quiet, Victoria,’ and seemed not even to notice her effort to extricate herself. She had no option but to be led down the steps and towards the fountain.

‘It’s late, Giorgio,’ she protested. ‘You must go back and I must go to bed.’

‘Victoria, Victoria,’ he said, ‘I never seem to have the chance of being with you alone. Always there is Sebastien or Amanda. I am always searching for a moment to be with you alone.’

‘They are both so fond of you, Giorgio.’

‘I know, I know, and
I
like them. But it’s
you
I want to be with, lovely, beautiful Victoria ...
Carissima
...’

He took her into his arms and Victoria, not altogether surprised by the turn events had taken, leaned against him, deriving comfort from his embrace, not understanding all his whispered Italian words of love, but certainly understanding their meaning. But when he turned her face up to his and began to kiss her, she struggled to free herself.

‘Please, Giorgio . . .’ she protested.

‘No. Stay still,’ he said. ‘Tell me when we can meet each other without your brother and your sister. I cannot wait for the odd moments. Please arrange something now. Tomorrow is Sunday; can’t we meet to walk on the hills together?’