‘It was nothing. Unfortunately, I cannot stay longer, I promised to meet my daughter when she finishes her work at the English Library. She’s helping there this week, the usual librarian is away holidaying in Spain.’ He stood up, Amy did likewise and followed him back down the stairs and out through the car park.
He paused by the red post box. ‘So, where will you go next? I’m sure you have already seen our famousmuretto– the wall covered in ceramic tiles. It is opposite the Caffè Roma, the coffee there is not to be missed.’
‘I haven’t gone to look at themurettoyet but I’ll make sure I do. Thank you again.’
‘My pleasure, signorina…’
‘It’s Amy.’
‘Amy, that is a lovely name. Enjoy your stay. And if you wish to return to the club, there is no problem. Just ask for me, Signor Perillo… Gino Perillo.’
11
‘I can’t imagine you living here,’ Joe said. ‘All these dank alleyways, funny little houses and uneven paving.’ He bent to rub the back of his ankle.
‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you,’ Stella said automatically. They were walking towards the edge of the village to admire the views across the hills.
‘Will you take me to where you used to live? I’d like to see your old house.’
She was about to protest but it gave her the perfect excuse to go the long way round, bypassing the end of the main street and the general store that Uncle Domenico had run alone after Papà’s death. She spoke very little as they made their way through small courtyards, and sloping streets with steps leading up to some houses and down to others, where layers of the hillside had been cut away to build the village long ago.
It didn’t take long to reach Stella’s family home. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sad to find it barely altered, even down to the little scroll carved into the lintel above the door. The new occupants had changed only the colour of the paintwork and put a few terracotta pots by the front steps. The shutters on her old bedroom window she had shared with her sister, Marta, were closed. She couldn’t see her parents’ room from here, that was on the other side looking over the hill. She used to sneak in there sometimes when Mamma was out, peeking in the wardrobe at Papà’s clothes still hanging there. Then she’d stand on tiptoes looking across the vineyards towards the place where Gino’s family’srusticostood, wishing senselessly that the two of them had braved the cuts and scrapes from the thick brambles and the climb in the heat to go there that day. Fernanda would never have found them then. One change of plan, one rev of a red moped and everything changed. She felt a lump in her throat, Joe’s arms around her.
‘Stella, you’re crying. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise bringing you here would upset you.’
‘It’s nothing, just feeling nostalgic, I suppose.’
He took her hand. ‘Let’s see if we can find somewhere we can have one of those nice Italian ice-creams.’
She smiled weakly. As if gelato would solve anything! But Joe was trying, bless him. She set off, trying to concentrate on the here and now. Before she knew it her feet had carried her the shortest way. They were back on the main street. Across the road stood Uncle Domenico’s old shop. A silver Magimix took pride of place in the window surrounded by boxes and cartons faded by the sun. Above the doorway, painted in green capital letters, was FERRANDO, her family name. She tried to turn her gasp into a cough.
Perhaps it was just a coincidence, there weren’t many different surnames in the village; most of the families had intermarried over the years. Or, she tried to tell herself, the shop had new owners who hadn’t yet bothered to paint over the sign. But a blue budgerigar chirped in the cage hanging by the entrance – one of a long line of replacements for the original Mirtillo.
‘What is it, Stella? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is that shop something to do with your family? That’s your surname above the window.’
She hesitated. She could fob Joe off but there was already too much she hadn’t told him.
‘My grandparents used to run that shop, then later my great-uncle, then my papà and his younger brother Domenico took it over. It looks like Domenico is still there. He and Papà had two elder brothers but they were both killed in the war and there was a sister who moved away. Nonno didn’t survive the war either. He wouldn’t have been conscripted, he was too old for that and anyway he had a dodgy leg and his eyesight wasn’t too good. I believe he was a civilian casualty but I don’t really know what happened. When you’re young you’re too wrapped up in yourself to be interested in what old people did.’ Stella stopped, suddenly exhausted. It was the most she’d spoken about her family in years.
‘Your uncle must be ancient. Surely he can’t still be working, that’s ridiculous!’
‘Domenico must be in his mid-to-late eighties but he probably thinks it’s more ridiculous to sit around at home. Growing up, the old folk around here worked until they dropped. It looks like he still opens the place five days a week.’ She gestured to the sign with clockfaces marking the opening and closing hours.
Joe peered in the window. ‘I can’t see anyone but it should be open. Shall we go in?’
‘Oh, no, let’s not bother. We don’t need anything.’
‘He’s your uncle, Stella.’ Joe sounded incredulous.
Stella searched for an excuse. But there was no time to ponder. A woman was walking along the narrow pavement straight towards them. Although she hadn’t set eyes on her for more than forty years, Stella recognised her at once.
Domenico’s daughter dropped her head, rummaging in her bag. If Stella moved quickly she could get away but her legs felt weak, as though if she moved she’d collapse in a heap.
Cousin Luisa looked up. She hurried towards them.
‘Oh my word, it’s you, Stella!’ Luisa gasped and raised her arms. For a moment Stella thought she was going to hit her but Luisa grabbed her by the shoulders, kissing her. ‘How incredible to see you. Whatever are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same, didn’t you move to Genoa after university?’
