* * *
Leo was surrounded by a bevy of admirers. Amy couldn’t follow much of what was being said but she understood by the tone and hand gestures that even those who had been confident that he’d create a fitting memorial hadn’t expected something quite as intricately executed. She’d tried to slip away and leave him to bask in their acclaim but he’d clasped her hand and every so often glanced her way with a look that told her that he wanted her by his side. And not just for this evening.
Amy’s phone vibrated in her bag; she ignored it. She didn’t want any messages from the outside world intruding on her evening. She couldn’t think about England, about going back home, applying for jobs, not seeing Leo again.
The band were playing ‘Bocca di rosa’. She’d heard them rehearsing it earlier in the day.
She drained her wine glass.
Leo smiled at her. ‘Would you like to dance?’
‘Yes,’ Amy said. ‘I want to dance all night.’
49
Fernanda settled into her armchair, cradling a glass of amaro. What a day it had been! The unveiling of the plaque had left her feeling quite drained. Gino and Leo had urged her to stay and enjoy the festa but she wanted nothing more than to be left alone with her thoughts.
Violetta’s old hat sat on the mantelpiece. It was the last piece of millinery her sister had ever crafted. Fernanda could still remember it sitting on Violetta’s workbench. If she closed her eyes, she could travel back there. Back to 1944.
* * *
The hat was so pretty, the prettiest one seven-year-old Fernanda had ever seen. The fabric was a pale leaf green, the silk violets two shades of purple. Each petal was attached with such delicate stitching, Fernanda would have believed the spray of flowers had been sewn by fairies, if she hadn’t seen Violetta wield her needle. Fernanda knew she wasn’t supposed to touch it. The only hat she was allowed to play with was an old misshapen one, but still her hand reached for her sister’s latest creation, her tummy tingling with longing.
Fernanda stole another glance at Violetta; her sister’s head was bent over her paperwork. Fernanda’s arm stretched as far as it could. Her fingers made contact with the soft felt. The three-legged stool slipped from under her, crashing to the floor. She fell heavily, too shocked even to cry.
Violetta was by her side in an instant. ‘Ferdi,carina! What happened? How did you fall?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her face heated as though the lie was a flame burning her skin from within.
‘Does it hurt?’ Violetta bent to examine the big graze on Fernanda’s knee.
Fernanda shook her head. It was good to be strong, like one of Mussolini’s brave soldiers.
‘There.’ Violetta planted a kiss by the broken skin, leaving a trace of plum-coloured lipstick. Then she noticed the hat, fallen on the floor. Her eyes flashed. ‘Did you touch this? After all I said?’
‘I know I shouldn’t have.’ Fernanda’s lip began to tremble.
‘Don’t ever touch that again.’ Her sister’s voice was harsh like the men shouting communist slogans outside the butcher’s shop.
Fernanda shrank back. She began to sob.
Violetta turned the hat upside down, prodding and peering at the lining. She exhaled loudly. Carefully, she set the hat back down. ‘It’s okay, Ferdi, don’t cry.’ Her voice was softer now. ‘I’m not going to tell you off again. You’ve hurt your poor knee, that’s enough punishment.’
‘It’s so nice. Who did you make it for?’
‘I’ve made this one for me.’
‘Is that why you put violets on it?’
Violetta didn’t reply; she looked as though her mind had wandered somewhere else. She was probably thinking about the hat or the accounts books she’d been poring over before Fernanda had caused such a commotion. Her sister’s eyes were tired; she worked so hard to look after them both.
Fernanda searched for a way to cheer her up. ‘Shall we sing a song?’
‘That’s a good idea.’ Violetta smiled but her eyes were still sad.
Fernanda launched into ‘Giovinezza’, the fascist anthem she knew so well, raising her arm and belting out the first words as if performing for Il Duce himself.
‘Not that one,’ Violetta interrupted. ‘Let’s sing “Chì bella nova”.’
