‘Maybe afterwards,’ Cate said, knowing that was exactly what Natalie knew she would say. ‘It’s time to go and find Mum’s home.’
‘I looked at a map on my phone on the waterbus. We’re only a few minutes away.’
‘It’s a tiny island; they say less than 3,000 people live here… Oh, Nat, do you think she’s still here?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready.’
‘You’ll never be ready,’ Natalie said.
‘You’re right.’ Cate wiped her hands on her skirt. A woman struggled past, a cotton shopping bag hooked over a cracked elbow, skinny, brown arms sticking out of her cheap, sleeveless dress. Her mother, Lina, wouldn’t be much older; at fifty-seven, could she look as downtrodden as this? Cate glanced down at the expensive-looking outfit she’d been wearing for the filming on the Rialto Bridge. Why hadn’t she gone back to the palazzo and changed into a casual, summery dress? Oh, why oh why was she doing this?
‘Cate.’ Natalie’s voice was as firm as Mrs Nickson’s had been when Cate had a wobble outside the exam room just before taking her History GCSE. Chastened, she followed Natalie down a narrow passageway and through a network of courtyards, each small house a cube of colour. Terracotta pots brimmed over with fuchsia flowers, red-and-white striped curtains shaded the doorway of a turquoise house, buttercup-yellow shutters enlivened another.
And it was so quiet, not a tourist in sight, no comings and goings, no footsteps to break the silence. A cat stretched out on a well-scrubbed doorstep, ginger and white fluffy belly turned upwards. She could almost imagine the place was long deserted if the fresh paintwork and well-stocked window boxes hadn’t demonstrated that a thriving neighbourhood existed behind the shuttered windows and closed front doors.
‘Which number is it?’ Natalie said.
‘It’s the orange one.’ Cate’s voice came out in a croak. She swallowed several times, trying to drum up some saliva. ‘Will you wait for me over there?’
‘Of course.’ Natalie wandered away.
The orange house didn’t appear to have a doorbell, just an iron knocker shaped like an upside-down horseshoe. Cate rapped the door twice and stepped back, looking up at the balcony running along the length of the upper floor, a checked tablecloth and striped towels pegged out to dry. A movement from behind a half-open shutter caught Cate’s eye. A patch of bright blue – a woman’s dress? It was hard to tell. Cate clasped her damp hands together, forced herself to be patient.
The front door slowly opened.
* * *
Natalie looked away. There was no point trying to read Cate’s body language and guess what was being said. And it was no hardship to wait; it was a lovely day to drift aimlessly around the courtyard drinking in every little detail of the colourful houses, trying to identify their proudly displayed pot plants. The quiet was broken only by a man’s voice reading the news – presumably on the radio – coming from an upstairs window. At this hottest time of the day, no one ventured out except for the tourists and those whose jobs depended upon them.
The cat that had been lying on its back padded past. Every so often, Natalie glanced towards the orange house, hoping that Cate was experiencing the happy reunion she’d dreamt of. It shocked her to realise just how much she cared.
24
A woman around ten years younger than Cate stood in the doorway to her mother’s house. An aroma of something baking drifted from the end of the narrow hall.
‘Buongiorno,’ Cate said. Or was it now good afternoon?
The woman’s eyes roamed over Cate’s attire, widening slightly as they alighted on her Gucci bag. Seemingly satisfied that Cate was unlikely to be attempting to break in or trying to flog unwanted household goods, she wiped her hands on her patterned apron.
‘Posso aiutarla?’ she said.
‘Sorry… do you speak English?’ Cate said.
‘No… my daughter… Pina,vieni,vieni!’
‘Subito!’ A young voice came from the same direction as the cooking smells. Pigtails flying, a girl of around seven or eight ran towards them, sending a pottery owl wobbling on the lace-topped console table.
‘Piano, piano!’ the woman admonished. She turned back to Cate. ‘Dimmi! Speak!’
Cate bent down slightly, trying to look friendly and relaxed, not panicky and on edge. ‘Hello, I’m Cate. Do you speak English?’
The girl glanced at her mother for reassurance. The woman made an impatient hand gesture.
‘Sì! I learn.’ Her shy smile revealed a set of braces.
‘I am looking for Lina; I think she is your grandmother?’
