The road widened; holidaying couples wobbled along the adjacent cycle path. Ahead of her stood the little seafarers’ chapel her mum had recognised on the memory box postcard. The old stone structure sat on a high platform overlooking the sea covered by a shady roof positioned to take in the views from each of its open sides. Below the promontory the cliff fell away. A group of teenage boys sprawled across the rocks, their smooth torsos brown as conkers.
There weren’t many steps but Amy felt each one, the back of her newly purchased leather sandals rubbing against her heels. Thumping beats from some portable sound system accompanied her as she climbed. As she took the final step, a swift flitted inches from her ear, causing her to stumble and almost face plant the floor.
Another swift flew above her head through one open side of the chapel and out the other, launching itself into the blue. Another came, then another, perhaps a dozen flitting past, screeching. Nothing like the silence she’d expected. But when she looked out over the sea to the tiny snail-shaped island of Gallinara she felt strangely calm.
The board she’d seen near the entrance told her the chapel had been there since 1929.
‘Did you ever come here, Grandpa?’ Amy said.
But no answer came. Just the pounding boom, boom, bass from the boys down on the rocks.
9
The day was already warm, sun glittering on the surface of the swimming pool. Stella toyed with a slice of watermelon. The morning would be perfect if only her brain didn’t have the annoying habit of releasing memories she’d kept tidied away. Walking along the seafront with Joe brought back memories of lying on the sand with Gino. And passing the flower-bedecked roundabout where the fountain spurted up jets of water above the letters that spelled out SANREMO, it was impossible not to relive the thrill teenage Stella had felt when Gino rode his moped around it three times as if it would prove they were really there.
‘Enough breakfast, Stella?’
‘Yes… Of course.’ She quickly drained her orange juice.
In the lift, Joe was silent, a strange smile on his face. Stella swiped her key card and opened the door. The place looked so tidy she thought the cleaners had already been in until she noticed the rumpled bedsheet. Her suitcase lay on top of the covers. Then she noticed Joe’s own case standing on end by the wardrobe, its pull-along handle up, ready to wheel away.
‘Surprise!’ Joe said.
‘We’re leaving? But we’re not due in Portofino until tomorrow.’
‘That’s right, but we’re going somewhere else first. Go and brush your teeth then I’ll tell you.’ His grin was maddening.
She stepped quickly into the bathroom, wanting more than anything to be alone for a few minutes. She knew just where they were heading without him saying a word: Leto, the place where she’d spent her childhood. Of course, he’d think it a marvellous, nostalgic treat. He wasn’t to know.
She cleaned her teeth half-heartedly. Her eyes looked back at her from the mirror above the basin. She hoped they wouldn’t betray her. She inhaled deeply, stepped out of the bathroom, a happy smile pinned to her face.
‘So, where are we going?’ She held her breath, praying she’d got it wrong, that he’d chosen pretty Apricale, or Dolceacqua where they could see the bridge that Monet painted.
‘Your old village. The travel agent did wonders – she’s come up with a one-night stay in an apartment right on the main square. The hotel reception has arranged us a taxi at ten. I’m so excited to see where you grew up.’
‘We’ll be the talk of the village turning up in a taxi instead of taking the bus!’ She was conscious of her false, bright voice. A taxi was the last thing people would be talking about.
* * *
The taxi negotiated another hairpin bend. Beside her, Joe took a sharp intake of breath. Stella had warned him not to look down to where the hillside fell away but the sparkling sea below was hard to resist.
Anxiety knotted her gut.It’s only twenty-four hours, Stella, you can do this. She focused on the back of the driver’s neck, the dark hairs sprouting there. She put her hand to her forehead; the strong artificial, fruity scent coming from the air freshener, shaped like a bunch of cherries hanging from the driver’s mirror made her feel nauseous. A fluffy pompom, like the one that dangled from Carol’s designer bag, swung back and forth, knocking against a hologram of a cathedral, Milan’s, she thought.
They were passing through another village now, past a bar spilling onto the narrow pavement. The driver stopped to allow a woman with a pram to cross. Outside a general store, an elderly lady grimly clutching the arm of a young girl was examining a stand with rolls of patterned oilcloth. The windows were crammed: scales, crockery, pans and clocks, just like the shop Papà and Uncle Domenico had run. Her family’s shop was probably long gone. Neither Stella’s brother or sister had remained in the village and Domenico’s only child, Stella’s cousin Luisa, had left for the university of Pisa and better things. Mirtillo, the blue budgerigar that had chirped from the cage hanging outside the entrance, would have been entombed by the war memorial under cover of darkness where her uncle had made an unsanctioned grave for his pets.
‘Is it far now?’ Joe said.
‘Nearly there.’ She didn’t need to consult the blue and white road sign ahead.
The road turned again past the bus stop where no one ever got on or off. There’d been nothing at this bend in the road for decades but an overgrown mule track leading up to the woods, a tumbled downrusticothe only building in sight.
‘That looks abandoned, poor old place, it’s a shame no one lives there any more,’ Joe said.
‘Therusticiweren’t designed to be lived in all year round, they’re far too basic and cold,’ Stella said. ‘Places like that were mainly used for storage of farming equipment. Originally the farmers would stay there in the summer months to save walking to and from the fields but once the roads were developed and more people had motorised transport it was easier to come back to the village at night.’
‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to build their farmhouses on their own land?’
‘To live without close neighbours, that’s not the Ligurian way,’ Stella said. Foreigners sometimes moved into the old places and restored them. The idea was romantic but when the snow came they soon realised why the locals wanted to live somewhere where they could walk to the bar and the church.
