23
‘That was quick!’ Cate made to get up.
‘This isn’t our stop. This is Murano.’
Cate sat back down, shifting her legs to allow the family sitting opposite to get up in a kerfuffle of bags and dropped toys.
‘Do they really make animals out of glass here, Daddy? Can they make Peppa Pig?’
The child’s eager voice made Cate smile despite her worries. It hardly seemed any time had passed since Oli and Max were that age. How she’d treasured every milestone. But when she concealed a shiny pound coin from the tooth fairy under Oli’s pillow or lifted up Max to blow out his birthday cake candles – all of them in one go! – it had only made her wonder more how her own mother could have missed out on doing all those things with her.
Cate’s phone buzzed. A message from Phil. He’d already rung to tell her he’d had a decent cooked breakfast at the airport hotel, caught up on his work emails and started reading a thriller some previous guest had left behind.
I miss you. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I’ll be on that plane even if I have to fly it myself!
The boat set off again, the water becoming choppier as Murano faded away. Cate turned her face to the window. The lagoon was far bigger than she imagined, a vast lake of green water spiked by the wooden stakes that marked the navigation channels. Natalie sat beside her, looking at her phone, though Cate suspected Nat was only pretending to be busy so that Cate didn’t have to speak. She appreciated the kindness, but it didn’t stop her half-wishing they’d jumped off at the last stop. How much easier it would be to join a tour of one of the glass factories and leave with her own colourful souvenir than search for her mother’s house not knowing what, or who, she might find.
‘We can get off the stop before Burano at the island of Mazzorbo and walk across the wooden bridge that links the two,’ Natalie said. ‘I’ve been reading up; they say it’s lovely and peaceful there.’
‘Yes, sure.’ After all their time apart, it was extraordinary how Natalie could pick up on Cate’s mood without her saying a word.
The waterbus cruised on. Cate closed her eyes, listening to the rattle of the engine, feeling the vibrations through the thin soles of her sandals. Phil’s message had sounded perfectly normal. No hint that anything was wrong. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was troubling him.
‘It’s Mazzorbo; we’re here.’ Natalie’s voice cut through her thoughts.
Only a handful of other passengers disembarked with them. No mass of sightseers here: just people in ones and twos strolling at their own pace, strung out along the waterfront like struggling no-hopers at the tail end of a horse race. The absence of human voices and the tweet of the birds went some way to reducing the pounding in Cate’s head. She was glad Natalie didn’t bother her with comments or questions, just led the way, looping into a park past a small brick church along a path shaded by trees, heavy with leaves. Two women sat chatting on a lipstick-red bench, half keeping an eye on a little boy tottering on the grass brandishing a toy fire engine in the air. Another mum pushed a small girl back and forth on a swing, a white nappy sticking out below her cute pinafore dress.
Cate caught her breath. If Mum had taken her to Venice instead of leaving her with Dad, would she have played on those very swings or taken her first steps here on wobbly legs? Had Mum gone on to have other kids, sat on one of those benches gossiping with a friend, their pushchairs parked in the shade? She’d always thought of Mum as single, sad and lonely, missing her little Cathy, eating dinners for one in front of the TV. But maybe she’d built a whole new family, a house full of mess and laughter? Was baby Cathy just an unpleasant memory, an unfortunate consequence of a failed relationship she’d rather forget?
They exited the park. The lagoon was quiet, the peace disturbed only by the whirr of a single motorboat speeding by, a black and white dog balanced on the prow. Nat’s voice was saying something about the specialist artichokes grown on Mazzorbo and the Prosecco vineyard behind the tall brick wall. Ahead of them lay a narrow wooden bridge.
‘It will be okay,’ Natalie said.
Cate inhaled a huge lungful of fresh air. She followed Natalie over the bridge onto Burano. It was busier here, but with a happy, holiday vibe quite at odds with her own feeling of dread.
‘Ready?’ Natalie asked. ‘We’ll just walk around for a bit first, if you like.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ She’d put off searching for Mum for more than twenty years; another twenty minutes wouldn’t make a difference.
She walked slowly past the market stalls, examining the lace tablecloths, napkins, skirts and simple dresses, fully aware she wouldn’t buy any of them. Natalie let her dither for a while before leading her up a shopping street until they reached a narrow canal lined with boutiques and restaurants that forked off to the right and left. Cate had seen colourful buildings before, the vivid blue of Santorini, the pastel pinks and yellows of the street in West London where Evan and Lucy lived, but never colour combinations like this: brick red, primrose yellow, lime green and orange in one direction, vivid bluebell, apricot, terracotta and pink when she turned her head.
‘I can see why you’re planning to film here,’ she said.
‘It will make wonderful television. Mandy’s notes say we might all like to wear white, to contrast with this rainbow of colours but now I’m here, I’m thinking we should wear the brightest outfits we’ve got, go the whole hog. If we put some stills out on our social channels, the engagement will be off the scale!’
‘I knew I should have got that feathery cape.’ Cate surprised herself with a quip. It was impossible not to feel a little lighter on an island where the colour scheme looked like it had been dreamt up by the audience ofPanda’s Place.
‘We’ll walk down to Piazza Baldassarre Galuppi; that’s the main square. It must be this way,’ Natalie said.
Cate followed her along the towpath, ignoring the entreaties from a rather dashing waiter to sit at one of his tables. On any other day, his promise of fish caught straight from the lagoon would be enough to entice her. It was definitely lunchtime but she couldn’t face eating anything, not even the smallest cone from the gelateria on the corner.
The end of the canal met a wide piazza; it was clear this was the centre of the town. A rather plain brick church stood on one side, behind which a campanile rose at a decidedly odd angle. Not as dramatic as Pisa’s famous Leaning Tower but certainly no longer as straight as the original architect intended.
‘Look, that’s the sign for the lacemaking school.’ Natalie pointed to the other side of the square. ‘Now it’s just a museum but tourists used to be able to watch the women working away.’
‘There’s lots of lace for sale here.’ Cate surveyed the boutiques dotted around the square, several with racks of clothing shaded by cream-coloured awnings.
‘Most of it is machine-made nowadays with a hand finish; the real handmade lace is very rare. There are only a few people who still have the skills to keep their craft alive and they tend to be very elderly. We could go to the museum, if you like; they’re said to have a fascinating collection upstairs.’
