Amy seemed to be studying the banner of the local communist party portraying a bright yellow hammer and sickle.
‘Some people might not approve of politics on a day like today,’ Stella said. ‘But Pietro’s beliefs contributed to his death and his sister wanted to acknowledge that.’
‘I think someone wants you,’ Gino said.
Stella felt a tap on her shoulder. She swung around to see a strangely familiar woman of about her own age. Stella blinked. The woman’s wavy chin-length bob and formal bottle-green dress disappeared, replaced by the long messy plait and a pair of blue jeans belonging to the tuba-playing teenager she’d once known.
Gino’s ex-wife smiled. ‘Stella! I so hoped I would see you today.’
‘Gaia, how long it’s been!’
‘Don’t look so concerned. I know you are seeing Gino and if you can make my grumpy ex-husband happy, you have my admiration. Besides, I have met someone myself recently.’
‘Who is he?’ Gino butted in. ‘And what do you mean by grumpy?’
Gaia laughed. ‘Never you mind. And you… you must be Amy. Leo has talked about you. Do you see that young woman in the striped dress with the clarinet over there? That’s his sister Isabella. I used to play the tuba but Isabella is the musician in the family now. She usually plays with an orchestra in Alassio but staying with her nonna so often, she sometimes plays with the village band.’
‘You heard I was staying with Fernanda?’
‘Yes. That must be interesting.’ Gaia raised her eyebrows.
‘I hope you’re not insulting my mother,’ Gino said but he had a smile in his voice.
Someone crashed two cymbals together; Stella almost jumped out of her skin. She must have been so distracted by the appearance of Gaia she’d missed Father Filippo giving the signal for the procession to begin.
The religious leaders began to move out of the car park followed by the children of the choir all dressed in white smocks, their faces scrubbed and hair brushed until it shone. One of the four pallbearers laid a spray of red and white flowers on Pietro’s casket before they carefully took it upon their shoulders. The liturgical banners swayed. Stella, Gino and Amy joined the straggling band of ordinary folk in their Sunday best bringing up the rear. Four young women wheeling pushchairs were the very last in line. The pizzeria owner stood in the middle of the road, arms akimbo, defying any vehicle to pass. A car hooted. Signora Togliatti, doused in lily-of-the-valley cologne, a boxy handbag dangling from her skinny elbow, adjusted her hat. They set off towards Sant’ Agata’s.
Stella walked by Gino’s side. The procession progressed slowly, hampered by the heat and by smart shoes that were better suited to a short walk from home to church. At last, they turned into the high street, the villagers streaming across the road to assemble by the war memorial and join those who by reason of age or infirmity were only able to follow the procession for its final leg. The traffic that crawled along behind them was waved ahead, receiving a chorus of toots and ironic cheers. Signora Togliatti sank onto a bench to rub her swollen ankles.
Stella searched the crowd for Domenico. He’d been wanting to walk the whole route, stopped only by her threat to stop baking his favourite treats. Eventually she spotted him, smart in a brass-buttoned blazer, standing right by the old memorial, examining a fresh wreath propped against its base. With him were her cousin Luisa, a man in his early sixties and three young children, one clutching a knitted rabbit.
‘My husband, Andrea,’ Luisa said.
‘How lovely to meet you.’
‘It is nice to support the village at a time like this, even though the grandchildren may not appreciate it.’ He prised a small boy from his trouser leg.
‘We are not the only ones to come back…’ Luisa hesitated.
Stella glanced at Domenico. His grin was as wide as a slice of watermelon. ‘I took the liberty of inviting some relatives.’
‘Who is it? Who’s here?’
‘Over there, by the fountain…’
But Stella wasn’t listening any more. She was pushing her way through the crowd with a ‘permesso’ here and a ‘scusi’ there to where her brother and sister were standing.
‘Stella, oh, Stella!’ Giovanni pulled her into a bear hug.
‘We didn’t think we’d ever see you again. We thought you didn’t want to know us any more,’ Marta sobbed.
All the words, all the apologies and explanations Stella had rehearsed over the years had deserted her. She just clung to them, drinking in their dear familiar faces.
* * *
Stella and Gino took their seats at the back of the church. She could hardly believe she’d followed the rest of the procession arm in arm with Giovanni and Marta. Now her brother and sister sat within touching distance, just in front of Fernanda who had taken a seat nearest to the aisle. Amy sat a little way in front, Leo by her side. He had changed into a long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers but there were traces of stone dust in his hair.
Pietro’s elderly sister sat in the front row, sobbing softly. Father Filippo gave the address. The service went on a long time, the way Stella remembered from her childhood when she’d itched to get away. Now, she didn’t mind at all. The bible verses had a soothing familiarity, the children in the choir sang prettily and the sermon on love and forgiveness felt as if it had been written just for her.
