Late Season Page 2

  By Martin’s side stood Dido, drooping a little, swaying almost imperceptibly with tiredness, her smooth dark head resting against her father’s shoulder and her face blank with the need to sleep. Almost as tall as me now, thought Justine. And suddenly she remembered her visit to that London maternity ward fourteen years earlier: the dusty, unwashed windows, the black eyes in the sallow, exquisite newborn’s face. Dido staring up at her from out of a cotton hospital blanket, cradled in her mother’s lap and, shining like a lighthouse above Dido, her mother’s face, beatific with happiness. Evie’s face.

  ‘You’ve got to do it, Just,’ she had said, glowing with life and with the urgency of her message, happy like Justine had never seen her. ‘It’s the best thing.’

  Oh, Evie, thought Justine. Where are you now?

  Behind her a cork popped as Lucien opened one of the dozens of bottles they’d bought at the supermarket on a dismal trading estate outside Florence. Their trolley, comically overloaded with alcohol, had seemed to Justine to mark them out as foreigners, or more precisely as British, as the sprinkling of Dutch, German and French shoppers also cruising the aisles didn’t seem to have the same priorities; the proportion of groceries to wine in their baskets seemed something like three to one. Their own was roughly the inverse. Justine was not, however, embarrassed enough to suggest that any of it should be put back; she thought they would probably need the lot, and more.

  At the sound of the cork popping Justine saw Tom’s head jerk up from his examination of the table, his eyes coming into focus. Louisa’s lips were compressed with the beginnings of disapproval, and behind her Martin, his arm around his daughter, seemed to relax at last although his expression was, to Justine, as opaque as ever. Justine had never known Martin very well; her connection with him had always been through Evie, really. And, after all, she thought, looking around, how long is it since any of us were really friends? Fifteen years? And for a moment her heart dipped. What are we all doing here? she wondered.

  2

  It was late by the time he phoned but, as he had almost certainly known, Anna was not in bed yet. The older she got the harder she found it to settle, to decide to go to bed. Although, if she was honest, it had been like this since she had been alone again.

  Anna ate modestly and early these days: a salad with chicory from the garden, perhaps a little piece of meat if she was feeling the need, or some peperonata with a slice or two of hard Tuscan bread. And always a glass of wine on the terrace, just one, to iron out any lingering anxieties the day might have brought her, to allow her to daydream, to permit her to count her blessings. Anna liked food well enough; loved cooking, when there was someone to cook for, but she couldn’t rid herself of the idea that eating alone was a waste of a meal. So she got it out of the way by seven, then she would light a fire, and curl up on the old divan in her little drawing room to do a bit of sewing, embroidery, knitting – something to calm her and give her a sense of purpose. She liked embroidery, particularly, because napkins, pillowcases, with an initial or a posy of flowers in the corner, were always useful and could be given away at random for weddings, christenings or birthdays. Knitting was not so neutral; it had a physical body in mind, and always reminded her that her son was too old to want her loopy sweaters any more, and there was no grandchild.

  By eleven Anna’s eyes would be too tired to go on with close work. So she would leave the fire to die down and wander through the few but comfortable rooms of her house, straightening and patting and putting things away: a velvet cushion, her solitary knife and fork and plate by now quite dry on the draining board, a rug askew on the sofa. The house had two good-sized rooms downstairs, with a broad stone staircase leading upstairs between them, and the kitchen, which led out on to the terrace. The old kitchen door, with its thick distorting glass, now stood closed against the night. There were two bedrooms above, one of which was Anna’s, with a small stone balcony where she could step out and feel the cool morning air on her soft ageing skin. Both rooms were square and solid with chestnut beams overhead and undulating cotto floors thick with the red lead of centuries. Both looked out across the valley to the west, to the grey hills that rose and fell, one behind the other in darkening shades as they receded.

  Sometimes Anna asked herself why she had come back here after all those years in the city. Her friends in Rome thought she was mad, certainly, to give up the city’s comfort and friendly chaos and her little flat nestled between the roofs in Trastevere, with her view of a belltower and a green sliver of the Tiber, and a glimpse across the rooftops to the Villa Borghese from the bathroom window. Anna knew why, of course. Not that she was sure she would know how to explain it to them, and after all she had not burnt her boats completely. The terms of her lease on the flat permitted her to transfer it to her son, and now Paolo lived there. Although it saddened her to think how little her flat – hard-won and precious as a jewel to her once – resembled a home these days.

  When the phone had rung, at just before midnight, Anna was on her balcony in her nightdress and woollen shawl, standing under a sky speckled with stars and looking down in the direction of Il Vignacce. She was wondering about the English, who had arrived in their dusty cars when she had thought the season was over – the pale, serious faces she had glimpsed through the hedgerow. There had been children, she was sure. Perhaps September is not so late for them, she thought: they’re from the north, after all, and, besides, the sun this year had continued to shine throughout the harvest, making the faint, misty chill that had begun to creep in morning and evening seem benign, clearing the air and sharpening the colours of the leaves as they began to turn.

  Anna pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders all the same, as she thought of Il Vignacce beside the dark, silent river so far below her in the woods, hidden by the deep folds in the mountain, the slabs of limestone pushed up millions of years ago, and the miles of undulating birch and ash and oak. She had heard the ring of the telephone downstairs, and hurried inside, grateful for the warmth that greeted her.

  ‘Mamma.’ Anna’s heart lifted and she smiled at the sound of her son’s voice, forgave him the almost imperceptible impatience perhaps only she would have heard in his voice, forgave him the lateness of his call and the gruffness that could not entirely disguise his affection.

  ‘Caro,’ she said. She could hear the unmistakable back ground noises of the hospital, an urgent, distant siren, the squeak of a trolley, and a conversation, the raised voice of a parent in distress and a surgeon’s soothing reply. She could picture Paolo exactly, standing in the cold concrete lobby where the lifts arrived, between his ward and the operating theatre. Orthopaedics. Broken bones. Trauma. He was smoking a cigarette, she could tell from the sound of his breathing, and using his mobile, standing beneath the sign that prohibited both activities. She could tell, too, that he was frowning, his high forehead almost permanently furrowed these days, since Olivia left him, or he left her, whatever the truth of it was.

  ‘Don’t smoke, caro. It’s not good for you.’ She heard him sigh. ‘So what about tomorrow? Are you just beginning your shift, or are you going home now?’

  ‘Just beginning. Well, an hour or so ago. I just did a broken elbow, a little English boy on holiday fell in the street, but that went well, he did just what I told him, tough little kid. He liked watching me put the bones together on the screen. Looks like it might be a quiet night, fingers crossed. I might even get some sleep.’

  Anna found herself nodding, feeling a flush of pride as she thought of her son patiently mending the broken bone, maybe talking haltingly in his broken English to reassure the child. Her pride mixed with anxiety as she registered the weariness in his voice.

  ‘Don’t come if you haven’t slept, darling,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘It won’t be safe. And the roads are terrible back into Rome on a Sunday evening. But –’ she stopped.

  ‘Look, Mamma,’ Paolo said gently, I’ll come if I feel rested enough. Like I said, it looks like it might b
e a quiet night. And I’ve got a few days off, so I won’t have to rush back. Now I’ve got to go. A kiss for you, OK? Maybe see you tomorrow.’

  Softly Anna put the phone down and climbed back up the stairs to her room, where she closed the long window on to her balcony, climbed gratefully into her soft old bed and fell asleep, at last, to dream of things that happened long ago, things that, waking, she would no longer remember.

  Justine lay in the dark, Lucien beside her breathing evenly. It had been one of the things that Justine had first found irresistible about Lucien six, seven years ago: his knack of instant, tranquil sleep, his breath as regular as a metronome, his certainty. She had felt safe, sleeping alongside such a healthy, untroubled physicality, like a child’s body next to hers.

  Justine had opened the window and pushed back the metal shutters to let in some air and the deep black of the clear night sky. Why did the shutters have to be so heavy, she wondered? They seemed to be made of solid steel. Perhaps because the place was shut up all winter, and, after all, you wouldn’t want to be making that trip down to check on things too often. A sensible precaution, then.

  It was the children who voiced the feelings the adults had not expressed upon their arrival at Il Vignacce. Not Dido, who had remained silent throughout the meal, and who perhaps no longer counted as a child, all things considered, but Louisa’s two boys: Sam, the eleven year old, a large, fair, open-faced boy with Tom’s amiable smile, and his smaller, fiercer, darker brother Angus. They had taken the opportunity while Lucien made his risotto to investigate the house, flinging open cupboard doors and wrestling on the beds; they even appropriated the key to the smaller half of the farmhouse where Justine and Lucien and Martin and Dido would be staying, and rushed out into the darkness whooping and squealing to see whether it contained any more useful surprises than their own accommodation. Hoping for a television.

  ‘It’s a bit spooky, isn’t it, Mummy?’ Sam said, uncertainly, his exuberance distinctly muted as he came in out of the darkness. ‘I mean, it took ages to get here from the road, and there aren’t any lights or anything. It’s like – you know, a story or something. Like – Hansel and Gretel, that kind of story. And it’s very quiet. You can hear stuff in the woods, noises and stuff.’ He looked at them earnestly.

  The adults sitting around the table all smiled at him, at least partly in recognition of the fact that, to all of them, the lonely house in the dark woods recalled the same stories. But by now they were in a mood to be indulgent about superstitious associations; the table had been laid and a second bottle of wine had been opened. Each adult face seemed softened, the lines expressing weariness and tension and anxiety ironed out by alcohol. Even Louisa looked a little flushed in the kitchen’s warmth, and kinder; beside her Tom sat with his arm around her shoulders and looked up with fondness at his son.

  Martin and Dido were at the table, at least showing some willingness to be included in the party. Dido had been given her own glass of wine, and she sat with her hand cupped around it as though it was warming her. Justine had watched the girl as she looked around the table, the simulacrum of a feast, the illusion of a happy extended family united, and saw loneliness in the girl’s dark eyes.

  Then Lucien had brought the risotto to the table, pale yellow and scented, and a salad full of the different coloured leaves he had rhapsodized over in the supermarket when he’d seen them stacked in bunches in their wooden trays, some shavings of parmesan, some grilled aubergines. A creamy, custard-yellow tart dusted with pine nuts and icing sugar sat on the side in its plastic box, testimony to the fact that Lucien always thought of everything.

  Martin gave a little sigh, although Justine couldn’t have said whether of satisfaction or resignation; Tom and Louisa murmured something complimentary, backing each other up with enthusiasm. Sam and Angus, however, wrinkled their noses at the approach of the plate of pale, steaming rice and hunched their shoulders in silent refusal. Louisa sighed, stood up and went to the elderly fridge, which shuddered as she opened it, and brought them back bread and salami and triangles of processed cheese. This started Lucien off on one of his riffs about modern eating habits and the state of the nation and Justine could have kicked him this time as she watched Louisa struggle to justify her capitulation without starting an argument. Tom sighed and buried his nose in his wine glass.

  ‘Come on, Lucien.’ Everyone looked at Martin, who had barely spoken until now, his voice a little hoarse, as though rusty with underuse, but mild. ‘Wait till you’ve got children of your own. It’s not that easy’

  Lucien opened his mouth, but perhaps he realized for himself that the first night of their stay was not the right time to get started on the junk-food conversation, because he just shrugged and smiled.

  ‘Yeah, right. So, who wants risotto, who wants Dairylea triangles?’

  Suddenly everyone seemed to be united in hunger. The long plate of risotto was handed up and down the long table and the boys busied themselves stacking up meat and cheese into toppling sandwiches they could hardly get into their mouths. The air drifting through the window was still warm and smelled sweet and foreign, the smell of acres and acres of uninhabited forest, some rich melange of wildflowers, decaying leaves, ripening fruit and river water. In the trees all around them the insects sang while they ate, steadily and happily. At the table Lucien put his arm around Justine and she leaned in against him gratefully.

  ‘How’s that?’ he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘Better?’

  Justine nodded, and looked up at him, feeling herself soften and relax, tucked in beneath his arm. Across the table Louisa smiled fondly at them and although the smile creased and wrinkled the skin, just growing papery now, around her eyes she looked younger to Justine, more vulnerable. Perhaps it was the food, or the wine, but it felt as though this was really a holiday after all.

  ‘Good risotto, Lucien,’ said Tom. ‘Very good.’ He stuck his thumb up cheerfully and planted a kiss on Louisa’s cheek. She blushed and smiled. ‘What’s for pudding?’ Everyone laughed, and Justine experienced such sudden affection for all of them, from the squabbling boys with their cheeks shiny with grease, to Martin who had been unable to stop himself smiling at Tom’s indefatigable good nature, that she could feel it welling up behind her eyes.

  On that point, somehow, the evening turned; it was as though, under the influence of wine and food and even perhaps an awareness that they were so far from anywhere, they had decided the holiday was going to work after all. Lucien, who had spotted the pizza oven on one side of the farmhouse and registered the ample supply of firewood littering the forest floor, began talking about self-sufficiency with an enthusiasm that seemed to communicate itself to the others.

  It grew late, past eleven, and the boys were sent to bed, to dream of fishing in the river and lighting fires in the woods. Justine washed up in the big stone sink; Dido offered to dry but Martin shook his head at her as she yawned.

  ‘Go to bed, sweetie,’ he said gently, and took her next door to the smaller half of the farmhouse which they were to share with Justine and Lucien. They had hardly looked inside when they arrived, Justine thought, just dumped their bags and gravitated here for a drink and some food. Justine felt reluctant to move out of the warm bright kitchen to go next door; it seemed extraordinarily dark outside now, an inky, velvety black beyond the small circle of light cast through the open door. When he came back Martin took her place beside Justine, silently and carefully drying and sorting and putting away.

  ‘How was your flight?’ he asked, for something to say perhaps, but his tone was friendly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Justine, surprised, ‘all right. You know’ Lucien hated flying, hated everything about it: the stewards, the food, the other people. It brought out his most fastidious side, and made him irritable. She said nothing more, and for a moment or two they continued in silence, the shrilling of the insects saturating the darkness beyond the window.

  This can’t go on though, thought Justine, with dete
rmination. We’re all going to have to talk, sometime.

  She glanced over her shoulder into the room at the others, smiling and chatting in the glow around the table. She took a breath.

  ‘How is Dido, Martin?’ she asked, tentatively. ‘She seems so – grown up. And worn out.’

  Martin looked down at the tea towel in his hands. I don’t know,’ he said briefly, and fell silent. Mechanically Justine continued to hand him the dripping crockery. Then he spoke again, and this time he looked at her.

  ‘I’ve never been – very good at talking about things,’ he said. ‘I didn’t need to, with Evie. I thought I didn’t. I never expected –’ He broke off, looking down again.

  ‘No,’ said Justine, as gently as she could. ‘None of us did. It’s not your fault.’

  Although of course she didn’t know if it was Martin’s fault, or not; although they’d known each other for fifteen years, spotted each other at parties, had dinner at each other’s houses. Martin had always remained on the edge of things, uncommunicative, mysterious, reliant on Evie, as he said, to do his talking for him. None of them had ever got to know much more about him other than the fact that he was very good at making money, and that once, at a party early on in their relationship, he had broken a drunken guest’s nose when he’d said something that upset Evie. That had left him with something of a reputation, but it hadn’t encouraged intimacy.