‘Nearly here.’ Their driver spoke for the first time. Stella could see the campanile of the big church of Sant’ Agata ahead. They reached the car park on the edge of the village. The driver pulled into the only free space. It was always hard to find one. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?
‘Driver, we’re staying on the main square,’ Joe said.
‘We park here.’ The driver opened his door, went round to the boot.
‘That’s a bit off,’ Joe said.
‘We can’t get much further. Even with the wing mirrors folded in you can’t get through thecaruggiin a great wide Mercedes. We may as well park where he can turn around easily,’ Stella said. She clambered out in a rather ungainly fashion, smoothing down her rucked-up dress. Joe climbed out, paying the man from a wodge of notes and waving away the change.
Stella took the handle of her case, checking carefully for traffic before leading the way up the main road towards the square where the war memorial stood. She was going to have to make quite a detour to avoid the main part of town where she might run into someone who recognised her. She took a right turn, past the house on the corner with a view across the valley where her best friend had lived, along a winding street, through an archway cutting across the small courtyard where Signora Togliatti had run the oldalimentari. The shop now stood deserted, the paintwork peeling. A faded sign readVendesi – For Sale. Judged by its state it had been pinned to the door for quite some time. Stella should have expected things to change but somehow she’d imagined the village would be no different from the day she’d left it.
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’ Joe sounded a little impatient.
‘Wait a moment.’ She peered through the smeared window. The old counter was still visible and the stool where Signora Togliatti sat. ‘We used to shop here…’
‘What! In that tiny place?’
‘There was a bigger minimart on the main street down from the bar, afruttivendoloand asalumeriatoo.’ But this was where her mamma sent her with an old string bag to collect the chestnut flour and the creamy round cheeses from the Togliatti family’s goats that the signora fetched up from the cool cantina below.
‘Now we need to go through here.’ She led him under a low archway into a stone passageway, a small shrine to the Madonna high up on the wall. Someone still polished the glass but the plastic flowers, once scarlet, had faded to palest pink. Below, the heavy doors of the carpentry workshop stood open, the scent of wood shavings in the air. A man in dusty blue overalls bent over what looked like an oldmadia– the traditional short-legged chest where flour was stored – she hadn’t seen one of those in years. The carpenter was probably the grandson of the family who had always run the old place. She turned away before he chanced to look up.
‘This is quite a walk. I’m sure we’ve gone around in a circle,’ Joe muttered.
She ignored his grumbling. ‘It’s just here, down the steps.’
They descended into the main square. She was relieved to see that Da Luca, the village’s one smart restaurant, was still open, the façade now a faded olive green. On the other side of the piazza, Sant’ Agata’s hadn’t changed at all, the old carved doors and golden decoration above the round window just as she remembered them.
There were two churches in the village, three if you counted the abandoned Old Chapel up past the vineyards, but Sant’ Agata’s was the one where she’d come to mass and dressed as a little bride for her first communion. Every Sunday and feast day she’d see Gino there, the two of them sharing glances across Fernanda’s bowed head. Church was the only place where their families came together. Stella couldn’t help but feel the tension when her parents crossed paths with Fernanda, Papà giving a curt nod when Mamma reminded him with a look that they were in God’s house, where judgement was the preserve of the Almighty.
‘Wow, what a beautiful church!’ Joe said. Stella felt a swell of pride. She quickly chided herself. This wasn’t her village any more.
‘There’s number four, isn’t that the property we’re staying in?’ She pointed at a yellow five-storey building, window boxes brimming over with white geraniums and pink petunias beneath each row of bottle-green shutters.
‘Yes, that must be it. At last!’ Joe wiped his brow.
‘I can’t wait to unpack, have a glass of water and freshen up.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ Joe grinned.
* * *
The oak wardrobe was vast but Stella only needed two hangers. There was no point unpacking her whole case for just one night’s stay. Joe sat on the edge of the bed, his empty water glass already in the sink, drumming his fingers on his thigh. She couldn’t expect him to understand why she wanted to linger, arranging her cosmetics and stripy washbag by the bathroom basin, putting off the moment when they left the safety of the apartment’s four walls. She was tempted to lie down, feigning a headache or some minor illness. It wouldn’t be a complete untruth; the tension was tightening around her skull. But she couldn’t face Joe’s smothering attention or worse, the thought that he might suggest that if she was too incapacitated, they should stay on for a second day.
Outside the apartment’s window a three-wheeled truck was pulling up. She hoped it was coming to clear away the pile of scaffolding at the far end of the piazza but its back was piled with wooden planks, on top of which was furled a long white banner: everything needed for a makeshift stage. A band must be playing in the village tonight. Joe couldn’t have picked a worse date for their visit; the inevitable summer festivities had begun. They lasted for weeks, the village playing host to visiting musicians, dance competitions, food festivals, not to mention their own brass band. She’d played the triangle (the limit of her musical talent), her cousin Luisa the French horn. Papà and Uncle Domenico sang folk songs with the other men, dancing with their arms aloft after too many tots ofAmaro. She’d been so embarrassed but now she’d give anything to see Papà dance again. The memory sweet and painful all at once like sugarycanestrellion sensitive teeth.
She took out her phone and started to compose a message to Lauren, careful not to reveal any misgivings about Joe’s change of plan.
‘Stella! What are you doing?’ Joe had given up drumming his leg and sighing. He stood by the door, his small nylon rucksack slung over one shoulder, gripping the door key’s acorn-shaped fob.
Stella stuffed her phone into her bag.
‘I’m ready,’ she said. As ready as she’d ever be.
10
Amy hadn’t planned to stop on her way back down the beach. It was only the leaping dolphins on the wooden sandwich board that had caught her eye. But now that she’d been ushered to one of the beach club’s white tables and a basket of bread placed by her elbow she realised how hungry she was.
She helped herself to another piece of bread. The American couple on the next table hadn’t touched theirs. They hadn’t picked up their menus either, their eyes and hands too busy exploring each other’s ears, noses, lips, the bar just another piece of shifting scenery, a backdrop for their love.
