Natalie went to turn away but a movement from the balcony stopped her. The swing seat was now occupied. A woman sat bent over, her black hair caught up in a floral scarf. She was stitching something: a hem of a skirt, perhaps. Natalie craned her neck. The woman wore a red top paired with jeans, a younger look than the simple A-line smocks favoured by some of the island’s elderly. It was hard to tell but she could be in her late fifties: the same age as Cate’s mum.
‘Natalie?’ Eraldo was looking at her curiously.
‘Oh, sorry. Where shall we go now?’
‘Piazza Baldassarre Galuppi. We will get a good view of thecampanile. I am sure you noticed it before; it leans like the tower in Pisa.’
‘I did see it from a distance, with Cate.’ Natalie needed to focus on sightseeing with Eraldo, not fretting over her old school friend’s problems. But she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder as they walked away.
‘We can visit the church and the shops, if you like and after that, a nice lunch; the food on this island is legendary,’ Eraldo said. ‘And maybe then you will tell me what is really so interesting about that orange house.’
* * *
An elderly waiter cleared away their lunch plates, his sleeves rolled up, revealing a chunky, stainless-steel watch.
Natalie gasped. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been sitting here?’
Eraldo checked his own vintage timepiece. ‘Nearly two hours. That is the sign of a good lunch… and good company. And I am paying today, no arguments.’
‘Okay, thank you but next time, it’s on me.’
‘Even after two hours of talking with me, you will still want to do this again?’ His lips twitched.
‘I hope I did not bore you telling you about Cate. I can’t believe she will be going back to England without trying to see her mum again. But I know you’re right: I can’t interfere. It’s up to Cate to try again.’
‘All you can do is listen if she does want to talk, and be a good friend. Let us go; some people are waiting.’ He inclined his head towards a woman who was glaring in their direction.
Natalie caught the waiter’s eye. Eraldo took out his wallet.
The woman’s sour expression transformed. She elbowed her partner in the ribs as if to say,See? I told you we would find a seat.
‘Now, the Lace Museum. We cannot allow you to miss it again,’ Eraldo said.
Natalie picked up her handbag. ‘To the museum, third time lucky!’ She hoped it would be interesting enough to take her mind off the woman in the red blouse sitting stitching on her balcony.
* * *
Phil kept his eyes on the young woman pressing the tiny squares of gold-leafed glass into place. He’d adored the Titians and Tintorettos they’d seen that morning but it was a particular privilege to watch a twenty-first-century Venetian artist at work using techniques honed over centuries.
‘Such skill,’ Cate murmured.
Phil nodded. He wished he could concentrate on the woman’s skilful fingers but his thoughts kept straying to that other workshop more than twenty years before.
He stared into the glittering mosaic until he was almost dizzy trying to block out his memories, but it was no use. He’d never forget the wonder of silently watching the oar maker as he worked, the look of pure concentration on the man’s face, oblivious to Phil and Evan standing there. Phil could still smell the scent of fresh wood that filled the air, remembered the early-morning sun lighting the dust motes. He’d wished so many times he could go back and stop time, stay in that blissful moment, oblivious of what was to come. But no amount of wishful thinking could undo what he’d done.
36
‘Two tickets for the museum, please,’ Natalie said.
Eraldo pointed to a poster behind the counter. ‘Look, we are in luck; there is a live demonstration of Burano lacemaking today.’
The cashier handed over their two tickets. ‘Yes, youarein luck. Few people practise the craft today and most of them are too elderly to sit here for hours showing visitors the old ways but Signora Gherardini has kindly come today. She started learning at just six years old and attended the lacemaking school when it was here. Now she is eighty-six and she still creates the most intricate work just for pleasure.’
‘How lovely.’ A memory of Natalie’s grandmother embroidering pillow slips in her high-backed chair came out of nowhere. Sunday afternoons, the same every week: her mum clattering in the kitchen, waiting for Dad to come home from his shift; Grandad dozing in front of the racing, jolting awake with the roar of the crowd as the horses turned into the straight. She’d been so lucky without even realising. She couldn’t imagine Cate’s life: a mother who’d absconded, an awkward truce with a fast-fading father.
‘You will find Signora Gherardini sitting upstairs where many of our rarest pieces of lace are displayed. You are just in time; she is leaving soon,’ the cashier continued.
They found the old lady sitting on a rush-seated chair just like those in the black-and-white photographs displayed in the stairwell. A rectangle of white cotton was spread over a fabric bolster cushion resting on her lap. A glass of water and a wicker basket of sewing equipment rested on a nearby table. Her grey head was bent over her work, knobbly veined hands knotting fine white threads together with the ease of someone blessed with much younger fingers. There was something almost holy in the old lady’s silent devotion to her craft. Natalie stood quiet and still as though she were listening to a priest reciting the catechism.
