‘Brava, Fernanda! The step is spotless,grazie! But now you have done enough, lay down your broom.’ He raised a hand to silence her protest. ‘Even the good Lord knew the importance of rest. Please, join me for a coffee. I have something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Of course.’ She knew he had a penchant for the village bar’scavolini. Fernanda rarely allowed herself one of the fresh cream buns, but perhaps she would today. And it would be nice to sit at one of the bar’s shady tables knowing that thanks to her companion, she would receive only kindly looks.
Father Filippo led the way, down the passageway beside the church. He had to slow his steps right down to match hers, giving him the effect of having geisha’s shoes under his black cassock. A table on the pavement outside the bar was free. He pulled out a chair, making sure Fernanda was comfortable before he sat down.
‘Nice to see you, Father,’ the woman who ran the bar greeted him. She often left Fernanda sitting there for ages before she bothered to wander out, but this time she appeared almost at once and returned with their coffees andcavoliniin record time, flashing Fernanda a half-smile and a slightly shamefaced look. The woman was only in her thirties. Her family hadn’t even moved to the village until after the war, but Fernanda knew that she knew. Knew that she judged her.
Father Filippo shifted in his seat. He steadied his tiny espresso cup with the forefinger of his left hand as he brought it to his lips.
‘How are the preparations for the return of the bones of the unknown soldier, Father?’ Fernanda spared him the small talk.
‘Not so unknown.’ The priest smiled. ‘The lab results are finally back.’
‘It is Pietro Parodi?’ Pietro had fled the village the daythe German soldiers came searching for partisans and deserters. His mother and sister had always hoped he’d got away. Months and years had gone by with no letter, no contact. But the hope never went away.
‘Yes, it is Pietro, poor fellow.’ The priest closed his eyes for a moment, his hands clasped in silent prayer. Fernanda joined him, thinking of the young man she’d once known, reduced to bones, a bullet hole in the back of his skull. Pietro had got less than ten kilometres up the old mule tracks through the woods, his body unearthed on some farmland, buried in a shallow grave.
‘Will his sister come back here for the ceremony?’
‘Yes, she is the only one of the family left. And of course she will stay for the unveiling.’
‘Of the new memorial? My grandson has been working ever so hard.’
‘I called into Leo’s workshop a few days ago. God has given him a wonderful talent.’
It was the argument that had sealed the village committee’s decision, that had quietened the voices that muttered that employing a relative of Fernanda’s wasn’t right.
They talked of parish business for a while.
Father Filippo’s hands twisted together; his Adam’s apple rose up and down above his white priest’s collar. She knew he was churning over how best to broach the subject of the celebrations. She’d put him out of his misery.
‘I will come to the memorial service to see Pietro receive a proper Christian burial and I will make my special focaccia bread for thefesta. But I will sit at the back of the church and slip away before the unveiling and the dancing. I cannot cope with too many people. At my age I prefer to pay my respects and admire the memorial the next day without the noise and the bother.’
The priest’s face gave a peculiar twitch as he tried not to show how relieved he was. He swallowed the last bite of hiscavolino, wiping a blob of cream from his nose.
She used the edge of the table to help lever herself up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Father. Much appreciated.Buona giornata.’
‘Buona giornata, Fernanda.’
She walked home slowly, greeting everyone she passed, even the ones who replied with nothing but a curt nod. There were fewer of them nowadays; those who’d lived through the war slowly dying away. Fernanda kept her head up, meeting everyone’s eyes whether they were friendly or not.
4
Joe had told Stella to come and go as she pleased but even though they’d now been engaged for three whole weeks and she was officially moving in at the end of the month, she still felt awkward just waltzing through his front door without loudly announcing her arrival.
‘Hi, I’m here!’ she called, dropping her bag on the hall table and walking into the kitchen. The aroma of frying onions made her stomach rumble despite the substantial prawn and avocado salad she and her best friend Carol had eaten just a few hours earlier.
Joe turned away from the range cooker.
‘Hello, darling.’ He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Wine? I’m cooking my signature spaghetti so I’ve opened some red. Here you are, you go and sit down and relax.’
She kicked off her shoes and sat on the leather couch at the far end of the kitchen-diner, arranging the overstuffed cushions behind her. A wine merchant’s brochure lay on the coffee table. She’d left Joe to choose the drinks for the wedding.
Everything else for the big day was beginning to come together. Thanks to Carol’s gentle bullying, Stella had already sorted out a venue, a menu and a photographer. She’d even found her wedding outfit thanks to her daughter, Lauren, taking an unheard of day off and dragging Stella around the local boutiques. Lauren hadn’t exactly been over the moon about what she considered to be her mother’s all-too-hasty engagement but when it came to practical matters she was laser-focused.
The dress Stella had chosen was pale oyster, it seemed more appropriate at her age than traditional white and Lauren had promptly declared it ‘The One’ in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. Stella had worn a white dress to marry Ricky – a short satin number she’d plucked from a rack at the back of a second-hand shop. Ricky had worn his leathers. They’d had a quick registry office ceremony then all gone down to the local pub for sausages and mash. It hadn’t been the wedding she’d imagined, growing up. She’d dreamt of the church of Sant’ Agata, floor-length white lace, a bouquet of flowers gathered from the Ligurian hillside, her mother’s wedding veil. And Gino. She’d even imagined the suit he would wear. Her family and his would put aside their long-held hostility. The whole village would be there, even Fernanda.
‘Stella!’ Joe’s voice cut in. ‘Our food’s ready. I thought you were dropping off! Your eyes were closed.’
