‘No.’ The girl shook her head. She stared at Cate with big, brown eyes.
‘You have anonna? She lives here?’ Neither the woman nor the little girl were wearing the blue dress she was sure she’d seen through the upstairs window.
‘Sì.’ The little girl put her hands on her hips, twisting from side to side.
‘What is Nonna’s name? Is it Lina?’
‘No.’ The child, now bored, turned to go.
Cate’s heart sank but she knew she was at the correct address. Perhaps her mother went by a different name as she now did.
‘Has yournonnalived here a long time?’ She tried another tack.
‘Sì.’ The girl looked at her mother, asked something in Italian then counted out thirty years on her fingers.
‘I think yournonnais my mamma,’ Cate pressed on.
‘Nonna is mamma of Mamma.’ The little girl glared.
The woman’s eyes narrowed; perhaps she understood more English than she spoke.
‘Basta!’ She gestured with her thumb towards the door.
‘Please! Please tell Nonna I am here. Tell her Cathy is here.’ Cate tapped her chest. ‘Cathy.’
The woman hesitated, perhaps moved by the desperation in Cate’s voice. She raised her hand in a gesture that meant ‘wait’, took the child by the hand and climbed the stairs. Cate dared not move from her spot on the doormat. Her eyes searched the dingy space, scanning the glossy ceramic owl, the framed prints on the wall, the choice of tiles and rug, desperately hoping to find some hint of connection between her own life and the two Italians with whom she surely shared a common bond.
Voices drifted down. Every fibre in Cate’s body strained to bound up the stairs two at a time. She forced herself to study a framed photograph on the wall but the picture of the two individuals who had stood in the hall with her just moments before didn’t bring her any comfort. The woman’s pinched face and the child’s big, round eyes gave not the slightest suggestion that the three of them were related.
The child clattered down the stairs first, her mother following behind.
‘Mi dispiace. I am sorry,’ the woman said.
‘Nonna not know Cathy.’
‘If I could just see her. Please.’
‘Nonna è molto stanca.’ The daughter had exhausted her English vocabulary. She mimed a yawn.
‘Please, just for a moment.’ Cate moved towards the stairs.
The woman’s face changed, all trace of empathy gone. She uttered a curse in Italian, advancing on Cate with an expression half-fearful, half-menacing. Instinctively, Cate stepped backwards. The woman kept coming. Cate backed off, hands up. The woman wasn’t pacified. She shoved Cate in the chest; she staggered back onto the doorstep. Too late she tried to wedge her foot in the door. It slammed shut in her face. She reached for the horseshoe knocker, banged it hard against the wood, one, two, three times but the door stayed resolutely shut.
Cate stood rooted to the spot, her whole body trembling as though all the stress of the last few hours was trying to fight its way out. She looked up at the balcony. A flash of blue passed across the window as though the person upstairs had come to take another look at her before she walked away.
She felt, rather than saw, Natalie come and stand beside her. Without a word, her old friend pulled her into a hug. Cate buried her head into Natalie’s shoulder, sobbing ugly, noisy tears. Natalie said nothing. Just held her like she’d always be there.
25
Natalie wrapped her arms around Cate’s slender frame. There was no need to ask how the visit had gone; Cate’s eyes met hers with the glazed stare of an earthquake survivor.
‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Cate broke away. ‘I’m fine. Let’s get some lunch. I couldn’t eat a thing but you must be starving.’
Natalie didn’t move. ‘You’re not fine.’
‘Don’t tell me how I’m feeling! I’ve survived without Mum since I was six months old and I’ll keep on surviving. If she doesn’t want to see me, I’ll just have to respect that.’
