Fernanda put the dictionary back, she couldn’t bear anything untidy or out of place. But her orderly kitchen didn’t put her mind at ease. She’d spent years convincing herself she’d done the right thing but the appearance of her son’s old girlfriend had flooded her mind with doubts as unstoppable as a landslip in the Alps. If only she had kept quiet that day, contented herself with punishing Gino for taking the moped without permission. Instead, she’d incurred Arturo’s wrath, wreaking havoc on his family and hers.
She’d tried to tell herself it was only natural that Gino would leave the village, move to a bigger place, find his own way. Wasn’t it a mother’s job to protect her young but also help them fly the nest? But Gino hadn’t flown, he’d hobbled away like a bird with a broken wing. If she’d sat back and let Stella and Gino’s relationship fizzle out of its own accord, the wretched girl would have become a fuzzy memory instead of a first love put on a pedestal, the one that got away. If Fernanda hadn’t destroyed their love affair, Gino might have stayed in the village and been close to his mother in her old age. He and his wife Gaia might have taken over his grandparents’ land when the farmer renting it came to the end of his lease. Her countryside-loving son could have grown his own olives, maybe even restored the old familyrustico. Instead, her precious boy was an infrequent visitor, a disembodied voice at the end of a phoneline.
Sometimes she allowed herself to believe she’d saved Gino from an inevitable heartbreak. Arturo would never have allowed Stella to marry him. Decades might have passed but the wound Fernanda’s family had inflicted on Domenico and Arturo had cut too deep. But heartbreak was part of life. Gino would have survived. She should have let things run according to God’s will. Instead, she’d driven away her only child.
19
The girl on the pink bicycle shot past, disappearing behind Sant’ Agata’s only to emerge again. Round and round she went, over the cobbles, disappearing and reappearing. A family clutching cones of gelati wandered by, the dad gripping the shoulder of one small child. The mother moved in a strange crablike fashion, trying to walk whilst simultaneously swiping a wet wipe across vanilla-tipped noses and chocolate moustaches.
It was Amy’s second morning in the village. She’d gone to the bar and eaten the delicious jam-filledgobelettifor breakfast again, kidding herself she wasn’t hoping that Leo would choose to do the same. But there was no sign of him and she had no plans other than wandering around hoping that some connection with her grandfather would mysteriously materialise.
She left the church behind and set off down the main street, past a pizzeria where the windows were shuttered and the chairs piled up under the outside awning. From there she took a winding street down into the shadier part of town, crossing through dim passages, up and down twisty lanes where even in her trainers she had to watch her footing.
Amidst the small houses an enterprising artist had set up a gallery. Amy browsed for a while amongst the bright brushstrokes and abstract art. A yearning to sit in Grandpa’s shed and do something creative seared through her. The yellows, greens and terracotta colours of the village houses and the vibrant pinks and reds of the cascading flowers had her longing to create some new designs for the pots she’d been planning to make. But Grandpa wouldn’t be there whilst she worked. When would the spikes of grief stop coming out of the blue like this? She’d thought she was okay.
Excusing herself from the gallery assistant’s concerned gaze she carried on walking, passing under a small lantern she assumed was lit up at dusk. There were a couple of bigger workshops ahead. What strength and sweat must have been used to carve them out of the rock with just mules to carry the building materials, the stones and the earth away.
Music drifted towards her. Oasis playing ‘Wonderwall’. A male voice sang along.How I feel about you now-ow!He dragged out the last word. The next verse started up, the voice continued, singing fractionally behind the lead vocal. She imagined whoever it was strumming an air guitar, swaggering like one of the Gallagher brothers. Biting her lip to stop herself from laughing aloud, she glanced through the workshop’s open door.
Through a haze of dust, a familiar figure bent over a stone plaque shaped like an arched window. She tried to shrink away, not wanting to be caught looking in, but it was too late.
‘Amy?’ Leo lowered his safety goggles.
‘Err, hi!’
He reached behind him to where a paint-splattered CD player sat on the floor-to-ceiling shelves and turned it off.
‘I haven’t seen one of those for years,’ Amy said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just everyone seems to stream their music these days.’
‘Good luck getting a signal through these rock walls! And anyway the fine stone dust causes havoc if it gets in your phone. It’s bad enough when it gets in your hair!’ He ran a hand through his, only succeeding in messing it up even more.
‘I didn’t mean to spy on you. I was just wandering around the village…’
‘Did you hear my singing and think, wow, who’s that?’ His lips twitched.
‘I’d stick to the day job,’ she quipped.
‘You haven’t seen my work yet. That might be equally talentless.’ He set down his chisel.
‘Fishing for compliments?’
‘No one apart from Father Filippo has seen this project yet. I am starting to convince myself it’s not good enough.’
She stepped nearer. ‘I can take a look but only if you’re sure.’
‘You will be honest? You were honest about my terrible singing. But I am nervous, this is an important commission.’
‘The commemorative plaque for the church?’
‘Yes, for the wartime massacre. You heard about that?’
Amy nodded. ‘I met Father Filippo when I looked round Sant’ Agata yesterday.’
‘Come round this side of the bench, otherwise you’ll be looking at it upside down.’
‘Sure.’ She squeezed past a headstone etched with a cross and a simple script.
There wasn’t much space between the workbench and the wall. Leo was so near their hips were almost touching. Her breath caught. She forced herself to concentrate hard on the plaque. She’d expected to find lettering, perhaps a list of names enlivened by a cursive script, not these plants, flowers and trees. Two doves perched on top, olive branches in their beaks; three-dimensional butterflies fluttered around the sides. At the base, crinkle-edged poppies seemed to burst from the solid stone. The detail took her breath away. A date was inscribed below the doves; at the bottom there were two lines in Italian.
