The Villa (3 page)

This was also true. She had not told Tess why she had left
Sicily in 1950, nor why she would never go back. She had not allowed the memories of her upbringing to surface and seep into her English life. She had been unable to forgive. Flavia held on to the counter top, just for a second, to rest.

‘Let me help you, Muma.’ Once again, Tess was at her side.

‘I am not yet totally decrepit,’ Flavia said, feeling her breathing get back to normal. She sprinkled oil into the pan. ‘There is still life in the old wolf, you know.’

‘Dog,’ murmured Tess, putting the mugs of tea on the table.

‘Dog, wolf, whatever,’ muttered Flavia, adding the garlic, onions and chilli. Her daughter was pedantic – it was the Englishness in her. Now she poured oil for the
melanzane
. She had her own methods, her own way of working. And there were – of course – some matters in which Sicily would always be triumphant. Olive oil, for example. In Sicily the best oil was pale and golden; here it was green and more refined. Here, people thought you odd if you used it to moisten bread or toast – they preferred to use animal fat. In this respect, Flavia had not adopted English traditions.

Tess was watching her. She seemed restless, long fingers fidgeting first with the buttons on her shirt then with her teaspoon. ‘Can’t you tell me anything else about him?’ she complained. ‘This benefactor of mine?’

Flavia clicked her tongue. The oil had reached the correct temperature and she lowered in the aubergines. Into the other pan she tossed the tomatoes she’d prepared earlier. What you did not know could not cause you harm. ‘Grate
me some
parmigiano
, hmm?’ she said over her shoulder to Tess.

‘Muma?’

Flavia sighed. But her daughter deserved to know something, she supposed. ‘He used to read to me,’ she said. ‘Poetry.’

‘His own poetry?’ Tess’s eagerness as she turned to face her was a reproach. Once again, Flavia felt the weariness engulf her.

‘And other poets. He liked Byron and D.H. Lawrence.’ She smiled. Edward Westerman had told her about these writers and the young Flavia had listened with wonder. Edward clearly approved of Byron’s lifestyle. Ah yes, he had introduced Flavia to a world that was a million miles away from her life in Sicily. She paused, about to throw some sweet-scented basil into the pan, hearing again Edward Westerman’s melodic voice, quite low, intoning the words, half of which she hadn’t been able to understand. But the music of the words – that, she had understood.

‘He sounds interesting.’ Tess had retrieved the cheese from Flavia’s larder – fridges were too cold for certain foods, something some English people never seemed to understand – and was grating it into a small white dish. ‘Enough?’

‘Enough.’

Tess wrapped the Parmesan up again in its waxy paper and Flavia took the dish from her. She noted the dreamy look on her daughter’s face. ‘Well?’

Tess sat down and cradled the mug of tea in her hands. ‘I can just see you as a girl, that’s all.’ She didn’t add –
for the first
time
. But she put out a hand and Flavia felt her daughter’s soft touch on her arm. ‘It’s nice.’

Yes, yes. She knew and Lenny was always telling her:
It’s unfair not to talk to her about what happened. It’s your story, she’s your daughter. It’s all long past. Can’t you tell the story and let it go?
But Flavia wasn’t sure that she ever could tell the story. And how could she let it go?

Things became more complicated as you grew old. What was black and white acquired many shades of grey. She took a deep breath. ‘Edward helped me come to England,’ she said. ‘That may be why he has left you the house.’

Tess frowned at the contradiction. ‘To encourage
me
to
leave
England?’

Something inside Flavia dipped in panic as she took in the possibility. ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ She stared at her daughter.

‘No … oo.’ But Tess was looking out of the window into their small garden, complete with patio furniture and lawn, shrubs and annual planting that were all, Flavia had discovered a long time ago, prerequisites of an English garden. She didn’t mind – it was Lenny’s department; even now he was out there pottering around. The window was ajar and the breeze was fluttering the yellow curtain like a bird’s wing.

Flavia recognised her daughter’s look and she did not like it. She was far away – imagining being somewhere else. Why? Was she so unhappy here?

‘But … ’

‘But …?’ The aubergines had caramelised and were seconds away from being overcooked. On autopilot, Flavia whipped round, lifted them from the oil. No, they were fine. She tipped them on to kitchen paper to drain and tasted the bubbling tomato sauce. Flavia made all her sauces with fresh tomatoes; until she retired she had mostly grown her own – in two huge greenhouses rented from a nearby farmer. The quality of the tomatoes depended on the soil and the climate. At least here they were by the sea; the salt in the soil brought out the sweetness. And Flavia only used her tomatoes when they were as ripe as the setting sun. Ah. Her mother had taught her that good cuisine depended on two things – simplicity and using the best, freshest ingredients. She had never lost sight of that. Still … ‘But?’ she said again.

‘But I’d like to see the place,’ Tess said. ‘Obviously. Especially now that I own it.’ She turned to face Flavia. ‘And I’d like to see where you grew up, Muma.’

Furiously, Flavia stirred the sauce. The heat of it seemed to be on her face, in her blood. When she had been pregnant with Tess she had spent the morning before she went into labour making a huge pot of bolognese sauce. ‘Nesting instinct,’ the midwife had said, when she told her. Flavia didn’t know about that, but she thought that even when she died there would no doubt be a lump of dough wrapped on the side and waiting for rolling, some ripe tomatoes and basil halfway towards a pan …

‘I see.’ She tried not to sound clipped and brittle. As if her
heart wasn’t twisting inside. Why shouldn’t Tess visit the villa? What was Flavia so afraid of? That Sicily would stretch out a gigantic claw and drag her daughter into its cruel ebony centre? She was a foolish old woman, she decided.

‘Anyway, I have to go,’ Tess said. She seemed unaware of the effect her words were having.

‘Why?’ Flavia’s heart was thumping inside her chest. Her knees almost buckled and she held on to the side of the stove. Just for a second. She would be all right in a second. ‘Why do you have to go?’

‘It’s a condition of the bequest. I have to visit it, before I decide what to do with it.’

Before she decided what to do with it? The panic bloomed. Still Flavia continued to stir. The sauce was a good colour. All her life cooking had helped her, food had seen her through. The tomatoes had thickened, grown more pungent, the sweet aroma of tomato and chilli rising from the pan. ‘I see,’ she said softly. And she was beginning to.

‘I’ve looked the area up on Google Earth,’ Tess said matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about a day trip to Weymouth. ‘It’s beautiful. You never said how beautiful it was.’

Flavia grunted. She had never said exactly where it was either, had she? She dragged her baking dish out of the cupboard. She realised that somehow, sooner or later, she might have to say a whole lot more.

‘Isn’t it, Muma?’ Tess’s voice was pleading.

‘Yes, it is beautiful.’ She began with a layer of sauce, then
Parmesan, then aubergines. Sauce, Parmesan, aubergines …
Don’t go there … Don’t go there … Don’t go there
.

‘I’ll keep an eye on Ginny,’ Flavia heard herself say. ‘If you want to visit Villa Sirena,’ she paused, ‘before you put it up for sale.’
Sauce, Parmesan
…

‘Thanks, Muma.’ Tess’s voice was lighter now.

Because if your daughter is here, you will come back
. Flavia didn’t say it out loud though. She opened the oven door and slid the
melanzane alla parmigiana
inside.

After supper, and after Tess and Ginny had gone home, Flavia snuggled up in bed under their rose-pink quilt next to Lenny. During the evening they had all talked of other things, but half of Flavia’s mind had remained settled on the past.

Now, she recounted her earlier conversation with Tess to her husband.

‘Bugger me,’ he said with characteristic candour. ‘She’s just been left a house in Sicily and she never said a word until now?’

‘She hasn’t told Ginny yet, that’s why.’ Lenny’s body was warm and comforting. It always had been. Flavia wondered what would have become of her if she hadn’t met Lenny. He had always loved her, despite everything.

‘Why hasn’t she told her?’

‘I don’t know.’ Perhaps Tess had inherited her mother’s secretive streak. Flavia shivered and felt Lenny’s embrace tighten. At seventy-nine he was still a fit and healthy man –
thank God. ‘Perhaps she is waiting for the right time,’ she said.

‘Like you?’ It was the softest of murmurs, but Flavia recognised the words almost before they were out of his mouth.

‘I have had my reasons,’ she said.

‘And now?’

Flavia nestled closer into his shoulder. He was so comfortable; there was a place that felt snug and just right. And Lenny knew her so well. He had recognised instinctively that something had changed.

‘She is going there,’ she said. ‘I cannot stop her.’

Lenny was stroking her hair. It was snow-white now of course, not almost black as it had once been. ‘It doesn’t hold the same darkness for her as it does for you, poppet,’ he said. ‘It’s your past not Tessie’s. She just wants to see the place where you grew up. That’s normal enough.’

Flavia sighed. Put simply, that much was true. But something else was true. A place could hold you, it could change you, it could exert an influence on you. And the secrets of Sicily went back a long way. Ah, well … She was old. What did she know?

‘What are you so frightened of?’ Lenny persevered. ‘What on earth do you think could happen to her, my love?’

‘I don’t know.’ Flavia forced a laugh, though it sounded a touch hysterical.

‘Are you frightened for her?’ Lenny’s touch on her hair was soothing. She felt herself relax, felt her mind drift. ‘Or for yourself?’

And just before she slipped into sleep she realised the truth of his words.
For herself
… If she was going to do anything, she would have to do it soon. She was eighty-two years old. How long did she have left? She had to face it. Tess was going to Sicily. It was time.

Ginny had fallen in lust with her hairdresser. She’d even been sneaking in to have her fringe done for free between scheduled haircuts. She watched him in the mirror, as he lifted a strand of her dark hair and frowned.

‘What?’ she asked. He didn’t pluck his eyebrows, did he? She wouldn’t be surprised. They were perfect crescent moons.

‘Have you been deep conditioning, like I said?’ He rolled his eyes as he rubbed the lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger and she giggled.

He had wicked eyes. Wicked as in evil, that was. Almost navy. And almost-black hair. His fingernails, now strumming through her long crowning glory, were painted metallic green. It was such an awful waste that he was gay. All the best-looking boys were gay – it was a known fact. She and her best friend Becca were into the same style. They liked boys with dark hair and long fringes who wore vampy eyeliner, slightly smudged. And they liked boys who were tall.

Ginny was six foot in her trainers, Becca six foot two. This was no laughing matter. Until recently, Ginny had hunched her shoulders and worn flat pumps. But since she’d
discovered Becca at college, high-heeled shoes were the way to go – the spikier the better. Together, the two of them were a superior race. Warriors. Amazons.

‘Sounds cool,’ said Ginny. Ben was telling her about the night out he’d had at Barney’s on Friday. She felt a honey shiver every time he touched her hair.

At times like these, Ginny could almost forget about the Ball. Almost, but not quite. It was rolled up very tightly and was lodged below her throat and above her breastbone. Like matting. She wasn’t sure how long it had been there – maybe a year. Sometimes it seemed to shrink a little until it resembled indigestion and she almost thought a couple of Rennies might sort it. But other times it grew, rolling around inside her as if gathering moss or momentum, until she could hardly talk and barely breathe. That’s when it got scary.

She hadn’t told her mother about the Ball. She didn’t want to be dragged to the doctor to talk about periods or sex or something equally embarrassing. Her mother would assume she had bulimia or was on drugs (two of her pet subjects) or was just crazy. Ginny would be examined, maybe put on happy pills. No, she didn’t dare tell. If she closed her mind to it, really hard, it might roll away.

‘D’you ever go there?’ Ben asked. ‘To Barney’s?’

‘Nah. It’s a bit chavvy.’ Becca was still only seventeen and her fake ID wouldn’t get her into a place that was managed by a friend of her dad’s. And it
was
full of chavs. Boys in hoodies and overweight tattooed girls in microtops,
white flesh bulging. No class. No style. Very, very sad.

‘Yeah.’ Ben continued to chip and snip. ‘That’s true.’

It was a nice motion, Ginny thought to herself. Sweet.

She’d like to bump into Ben when she was out somewhere. In fact she fantasised about it regularly. In the fantasy she wore her black close-fitting minidress with the wide zip at the front that went from cleavage to hem and was perfect with her red stilettos. This was the dress that her mother described as ‘fun’, her expression dubious as she no doubt angsted about the number of men who might try and unzip her daughter that night. In the fantasy, Ben was amazed at her transformation from gawky college kid to red-hot girl about town.
You are so fit
, he murmured, as he bent closer.
So hot
… Oh yeah, and he wasn’t gay.

Yesss … But Ginny couldn’t go out very often right now, because she was supposed to be revising for her exams and Mum was being
sooo
boring about it.

She shifted minutely in the seat. Her legs were bare this afternoon (they were her best feature so she and Becca had decided on the high-cut denim shorts) and she didn’t want to stick to the black leather chair. She’d spent an hour shaving her legs until her skin felt raw, so she was pretty confident there were no visible prickles. Her underarms felt suspiciously damp though – she must remember not to lift her hands above her waist, just in case.