Coming of Age Page 9

  She sidles into the kitchen and looks round the door. Dad is hurling food from the freezer into a rubbish bag. All the meals Mum had cooked and put in there. Dad is flinging them away.

  He sees her come into the kitchen.

  He looks up at her.

  His face is black with rage.

  On Wednesday morning Amy woke with a resounding headache. Her temples throbbed, her body felt stiff and sore. In the shower, a blister on her heel cried with pain. She limped across to a café for a cappuccino and a crunchy sandwich. They gave her comfort. A farmacia sold her a packet of plasters. Once again she crossed the Ponte Vecchio and passed the long Uffizi galleries.

  An artist sat at the bottom of the narrow flight of steps, sketching the head of a girl. The model gazed solemnly at him, her dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. She looked so like Ruth that for an instant Amy’s heart leapt.

  Of course, it wasn’t Ruth. The girl’s face was fuller, her body smaller. Amy bit the inside of her lip and walked on, shaking with homesickness. She missed Ruth and Julian; she imagined Dad and Hannah walking hand in hand in the Welsh mountains; she wanted to hear Tyler’s welcoming bark. She longed for the sound of Chris’s voice, for the thrill of his touch – and wondered bitterly whether she’d ever feel it again.

  Despondently, feeling more alone than ever as the expectant queues for the Uffizi gathered like a swarm of bees, she walked towards the Duomo Santa Maria del Fiore. This time, she went in. Or rather, she felt sucked in, at last, to its gigantic heart.

  Inside the cathedral, the air is warm and grey. The scale of the place is monumental. Beneath the soaring heights of the cupola Amy feels like an inconsequential beetle. The swirling echoes of a million prayers murmur in her ears.

  A bell clangs through the quiet. Two priests in apple-green surplices begin a short service against one of the marble altars.

  Amy crouches on a polished wooden bench beside a massive wall. She stares up at the light filtering through the glow of a miraculous stained-glass window.

  She takes stock.

  I’m getting nowhere. I’m walking the skin off my feet for nothing. There must be a thousand Marcellos in Florence and not one of them is mine. He’s probably gone to some wonderful beach somewhere and even now he’s swimming in the sea.

  I wish I were in the sea. Or walking on Ludshott Common in the wind and rain. I wish I could feel cool again. I’m suffocating here, and it’s only Wednesday.

  Amy stands up. She moves restlessly round the cathedral, beneath the flicker of votive candles, into and out of the dimness, willing the sanctity of the place to give her inspiration. Instead, it makes her feel so insignificant that her courage seeps away.

  I could go to Paris and meet up with Ruth. I wonder whether I could catch a train from Florence that would take me straight there? That’s a brilliant idea. Mrs Baxter would welcome me with open arms, slot me straight back into her schedules.

  I need never tell her I’d been to Florence. I could pretend I’d recovered from gastric flu and decided to join them. It’d be so good to talk to Ruth again.

  Fighting against the knowledge that she is giving up the quest, that her plans have come to nothing, that she lacks grit and determination, despising herself, deflated, irritated, Amy pushes out, through the cathedral door and into the oven of heat.

  That’s what I’ll do. You’re safe, Marcello. You can rest in peace. Just like Mum.

  Halfway along the Via Panzani, on her way to the station to find out about trains to Paris, Amy stopped at a café. She sat with a glass of iced grapefruit juice, gulping at the liquid as if she had survived a week in the desert.

  At the next table, two Americans talked at the tops of their voices.

  “Yesterday was the best,” the woman said. “It was so great to escape the heat of this city. Mom warned us about coming in August.”

  “It sure was marvellous.” Her companion sipped his beer. “That Fiesole’s so green. It’s like it absorbs the sun.”

  “And that Maurizio, wasn’t he charming?”

  “You mean Marco?”

  “Do I? Marco doesn’t sound right. Wait a minute. What was his name? Mauro? Got it! Marcello, that’s his name.”

  “Great guy. And the work he’s done to that place!”

  “Took him years and it’s still not finished.”

  “Sure, but with a villa like that, the work’s never done. You just go on and on.”

  Amy could bear it no longer. Clutching the icy glass, she bent towards them. “Excuse me, I hope you don’t think I’m poking my nose in, but I couldn’t help overhearing . . . You’ve been to a villa in Fiesole?”

  “Sure we have, honey.” The woman’s pudgy fingers scrabbled in her bag, dragged out a postcard. “Here’s a photo. Take a look. Doesn’t do it justice.”

  Amy looked down at a dazzling hillside landscape. The back of the photo held the caption she’d been searching for: The Italian Gardens of the Villa Galanti, copyright Marcello Galanti.

  “Well worth a visit.” The man drained his beer. “Worth every cent.”

  “Keep the photo.” The woman hoisted herself out of her chair. “Phone number’s on the back.”

  Amy looked up at her. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re more than welcome. You have to book in advance. Their minibus collects you at the station. Like my hubby says, it ain’t cheap, but it’s worth every cent. Good luck, honey. Hope you get to see it. They’re rushed off their feet this time of year.”

  Amy pushed against the crowds back to her hotel, the photograph of the Villa Galanti slippery hot in her hand.

  In her room, panting, she picked up the phone.

  “Pronto? I would like to visit your gardens today, now, this afternoon, as soon as I can,” she jabbered to the cool voice at the end of the line. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine where the voice came from: an elegant air-conditioned office overlooking the hills, a small polished desk, a neat pile of letters.

  “I am sorry, signorina, but we are fully booked for the rest of August.” The voice crisply signed her off.

  Panic gripped Amy. “You can’t be.” She leaned against the wall. “I’ve come all the way from England to see you. It’s most important. I have to leave Florence on Saturday . . . Please.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps you could return next year? Our minibus, it collects our guests and it holds only twelve people. Strictly only six times a day. We have been fully booked since the end of June–”

  “There’s only one of me,” Amy cut in desperately. “Can’t you somehow squeeze me in? Please. I’ll do anything, pay you anything you want.”

  There was a short, rather hostile, pause. “One moment, signorina.”

  The line went dead. Amy shook the phone as if she were trying to revive a dying snake. The phone buzzed into life. Italian voices rattled to each other.

  “Pronto? Are you still there?”

  Amy’s knees gave way; she slumped on to the bed. “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “We have had a cancellation, signorina.” The voice warmed by a fraction. “Two of our guests, they telephone us just now, they are delayed in New York. They were booked for the third minibus tomorrow morning, at eleven-thirty. Is that convenient?”

  Through the shutters, a filter of golden light filled Amy’s shadowy room. “That’s fantastic.” She stared down at the photograph, startled to notice it lay crumpled in her fist. “Thank you so much.”

  “Prego, signorina. You will please pay our driver at the station.”

  “Of course.”

  “And now, may I have your name for our records?”

  “My name?”

  Amy thought fast. What if Marcello checked through the lists at the start of each day? It was essential she take him completely unawares.

  She said quietly into the mouth of the snake, “My name is Ruth Manning.”

  And she spelt out the surname, slowly and clearly, so there could be no possible misunderstand
ing.

  Eleven

  Amy is relieved when the sounds of dawn – the creak of plumbing, voices calling in the courtyard, birds testing their first tentative chirps – allow her to slither out of bed. She has hardly slept but she feels refreshed, almost feather-headed.

  She stands in the shower, washes her hair, dries and brushes it until it crackles beneath her hands. She pulls on a straight, white, sleeveless cotton dress, a white sunhat and her best sandals, praying their straps will leave the healing blister alone.

  She reaches the station early, paces among the crowds, finally spots a white minibus winding through the traffic. It is marked The Villa Galanti. The driver bows, murmurs his name, “Umberto”, ticks Ruth Manning off his list and takes her euros. He wears a pale suit and a handlebar moustache. He reminds Amy of a character from an old movie who has had a colourful past he would prefer to forget.

  The rest of the group – Americans and a young Japanese couple whose hands are glued together – arrive en masse. The minibus lurches forward, wins an argument with a coach and triumphantly swings on to the road: round the rusty curve of railway, past dour blocks of flats, out on to the wider, tree-lined streets.

  A signpost says FIESOLE. Amy squashes her face against the window. The landscape changes dramatically. The shops and town houses thin out and disappear. In their place stand large pink villas surrounded by lush gardens; groves of olive trees, their leaves a pale grey-green. They remind Amy of the colour of Mum’s eyes.

  The road begins to climb, steeply, and then steeper still. From any angle, through every crevice of tree and rock, the views are breathtaking.

  Amy climbs stiffly out of the minibus.

  Her legs shake, her lips feel cracked and dry. She hovers awkwardly at the edge of the group. Caught in its cosy bonding, it seems unaware of her.

  With a gasp of delight she absorbs her surroundings. To her left, stone walls are banked by deep-green cypresses, which point like giant fingers towards the great clear dome of sky. On her right, tiered gardens, shot with the brilliance of pink roses and orange geraniums, dip from stone terraces and fall, clinging, to the hillside, miraculously at one with it.

  Ahead of her the villa beckons, its façade bleached a pale yellow under the glare of the sun. On its wide sweep of porch, massive terracotta pots spill lavender-blue hydrangeas in extravagant disarray. They have been recently watered: shallow pools glitter on the tiled floor, the blooms wink in refreshment.

  A man appears at the centre of the arched doorway, lighting its darkness. He wears white trousers and, gently looped into them, an exquisite open-necked silk shirt, the colour of the midday sky. His straight jet-black hair is carefully combed on to his forehead, his face is neat, his body slender and compact.

  His hands gesture in welcome. “Ladies and gentlemen, buon giorno.”

  His voice is soft, lilting.

  “My name is Marcello Galanti.”

  I’ve found him!

  A thrill of relief surges through Amy’s heart. The relief turns to sour indignation and resentful anger – he is so alive, so normal, living through the routines of his life, while Mum lies cold and buried – then back again to a light-headed triumph at her own determination and success.

  She forces herself to listen to what Marcello is saying.

  “Welcome to my villa . . . Per favore . . . I ask you to walk into the shade for a few moments to recover from the heat of your journey.”

  The group murmurs appreciation. It moves towards him on to the porch. Amy lingers. She stands at the back, her head down, behind a tall American in a garish checked jacket that hangs from his broad shoulders like a weary tablecloth.

  “The Villa Galanti,” Marcello launches into what is obviously his much-practised introduction, “was originally a monastery, built, we believe, in the fourteenth century or even earlier. It has been restored and rebuilt several times. During the Second World War it was again damaged. Afterwards, my family bought it and once more attended to many restorations.”

  He flashes an easy smile at the group.

  “Twelve years ago, my father, he die, and the villa became my most treasured inheritance. I decide to renovate the interior completely and to begin work on all my surrounding land.

  “Before I took control, a thousand olive trees, they flourish here. Now, as you will see, I have created – sure, every day I continue to create – the most beautiful hanging gardens.”

  Amy grits her teeth. She takes off her sunglasses and pushes them into her bag, steeling her eyes against the sun’s glare. Beads of sweat slither down her back.

  “The gardens,” Marcello continues blithely, “although they are planned with great care and precision, I want them always to look natural, wild almost, absolutely without formal lines. They are intended to blend seamlessly with the magnificent hill of Fiesole.”

  Amy steps back, away from the group and to its left-hand side, so that Marcello can see her clearly. She pulls off her sunhat. Her hair falls, thick, ruffled, on to her shoulders. In the sunlight it glows a fiery copper.

  She looks directly into Marcello’s face.

  Their eyes meet. His are the blue-green of a peacock’s tail. A rainbow of recognition flashes between them and hangs suspended in the radiant air.

  Marcello’s olive skin pales.

  “To blend with the hill of Fiesole,” he repeats falteringly, as if reciting a prayer.

  He steps back, pulls from his pocket a dazzling white handkerchief. He holds the linen to his mouth and with it the scent of Blue Grass, as if the perfume alone gives his lungs freedom to breathe.

  Amy flinches at the scent. It is the one her mother always wore.

  Marcello’s eyes never leave her face.

  There is a moment of absolute silence. The group waits, curious, watchful. On the hillside, every leaf is still.

  Marcello flutters the handkerchief across his forehead. His fringe, which a minute ago lay flat and burnished, stands upright in startled spikes. He looks away from Amy and scans the faces of the group.

  “Scusi, ladies and gentlemen. I am very sorry. I feel suddenly most unwell.”

  He turns and beckons to a figure standing in the shadows of the hall. He mutters a few quiet words to her. She nods and moves towards him.

  “My secretary, Claudia –” Marcello’s voice sounds thick as clotted cream – “she will take care of you . . . Mi dispiace . . .”

  He swings away. He walks with quick, agitated strides, through an archway, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket. A heavy wooden door closes behind him.

  The group sighs.

  Without his presence, the hall is immediately a darker place.

  Amy stands on the topmost terrace. One hand clutches her hat and bag, the other the burning stone of the balcony. The sun beats on to her bare neck like a drum.

  The group flap and twitter beneath her, in among the gardens with Claudia, exclaiming their enchantment. Wisps of voices, fragments of words, float upward and evaporate. Far below – it is as if Amy stands on top of the world – the terracotta roofs and yellow walls of Florence sprawl like pebbles on an enormous beach. The Duomo bulges its benign hat above it, a calm and watchful lighthouse.

  A bird pipes insistently into the still air: “Have you been to Urbino, Urbino?”

  I’m going to stand here, exactly where I am, looking at that valley, until Marcello comes out to me. I’m not getting back in that minibus for love or money.

  The minutes throb silently away.

  If I get any hotter, I shall dissolve. All he will find of me will be a dress and a hat.

  Out of nowhere a few huge globs of rain begin to fall. Amy stares in disbelief at the dark polka dots on the balcony, the shiny beads of moisture on her arms. She tips her face at the sky, feeling on her cheeks a few scattered drops. They dry almost immediately and stop. The leaves on the trees bend and rustle, then they burn again in stillness.

  Where is he? What’s he doing? He knows I’m here. Why doesn�
��t he come?

  She hears a faint rustle behind her. It gets louder. Footsteps crunch across the path, slowly at first. Then they come closer, moving to a faster beat. They do not quite break into a run.

  Amy’s heart clenches in fright. She dares not look round.

  If he killed my mother, perhaps he’ll kill me too. Trap me in the villa, throw my body down the hillside. I shouldn’t be here. Jules warned me. I’m playing with fire.

  She tries to straighten her trembling knees, clutching the warmth of the balcony more firmly than it has ever been held before.

  Directly behind her, the footsteps stop.

  “Tell me I am not mistaken.” The voice falters and chokes. “That I am not in a dream. You are Lauren’s daughter?”

  A hand brushes her arm, grasps her shoulder, swings her round to face him.

  “You are the image of your mother.”

  He backs away, his eyes glittering with pain.

  “You can only be Amy Grant.”

  Amy nods, pressing her lips together. If she tries to speak, she knows the tears behind her eyes will spurt in floods and drown the words away.

  “Your father, does he know you are here?”

  Amy shakes her head.

  “And your brother?”

  Amy finds her voice. “No.” She wills herself to steady it. “Nobody else knows.”

  “But your brother, he tell you where I am?”

  “Julian refused to tell me anything about you.”

  “Then . . .” Marcello looks bewildered. “How you find me?”

  Amy fumbles in her bag, pulls out of it the battered postcard. Wordlessly, she pushes it into Marcello’s hands.

  “Dio!” His fingers tremble, smooth their tips over it. “Your mother gave you this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how?”

  “I found it.” Amy’s answers come in staccato bursts. “By accident. On the floor.”